Echoes of Darkness

IZZY LLEWELLYN SMALL TOWN SUSPENSE SERIES

BOOK TWO

ZARA EVANS

Chapter

One

Izzy Llewellyn balanced the egg carton against her hip, fumbling one-handed with the refrigerator door, her shoulder throbbing. The morning sun filtered through Joe’s kitchen window, highlighting scuff marks on the worn linoleum floor.

Her patrol vehicle sat in the driveway, taunting her. The white and green SUV with its gold star emblems might as well have been a thousand miles away. Cole had been adamant—no driving, no work, not until he cleared her. The memory of his stern doctor face almost made her smile.

Almost.

Her uniform shirt hung drying in the kitchen. Dark stains marred the fabric where her blood had soaked through it less than two weeks ago. She should have thrown it away, but something made her keep it, and she washed it three times in an attempt to remove the stains that would never be gone. The sight of it yanked her back to that day—the crack of gunfire, the burning impact in her shoulder, the metallic taste of fear.

Izzy turned her back on it, focusing on the task at hand.

“Let me help with that, maitia.” Joe’s voice carried from the doorway.

“I’ve got it, Aitona.” The carton wobbled as she set it on the counter. “You always burn the eggs.”

“Ah, just like your mother. So stubborn.” He settled into his usual chair at the kitchen table, adjusting his beret.

Izzy cracked an egg against the counter edge, but the shell splintered wrong, dropping fragments into the bowl. She fished them out with her good hand, jaw clenched against the frustration of such a simple task turned difficult.

“Remember when you were little?” Joe’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’d stand on that stool there, insisting you could make breakfast all by yourself.”

“And you’d hover behind me, ready to catch anything I dropped.” The memory softened her voice. She managed another egg, cleaner this time.

The butter in the pan sizzled. Izzy whisked the eggs awkwardly, her movements clumsy and restricted. Each morning brought the same battle between independence and reality.

Her phone buzzed. Another text from Undersheriff Hawkins: “Just handling some scheduling. Nothing urgent.”

“Nothing urgent, my ass,” she growled. She’d bet her badge Hawkins was letting the old guard consolidate their position while she was sidelined.

“The coffee’s ready.” Joe pushed back his chair.

“Sit. I can pour it.”

He ignored her, moving to grab their usual mugs—his chipped sheepherding competition cup from ‘82, her I Heart NYC mug that Mark had given her as a joke. The clink of ceramic against ceramic mixed with the sound of eggs cooking.

“Two sugars?” he asked, though her answer hadn’t changed in twenty years.

“And a splash of cream.” Izzy nudged the eggs with the spatula.

Joe poured himself a coffee with sugar and cream and then one straight black for Izzy. He set their coffee on the table, then pulled bread from the drawer. “I’ll start the toast.”

“Aitona—”

“An old man can’t make toast for his favorite granddaughter?” He raised his eyebrows. “Your amona would rise from her grave to scold me if I just sat here.”

She had moved in with her grandfather on return to her old hometown, and he claimed he needed the company. But Izzy knew he was watching her like a hawk, ready to rat her out to Cole if she pushed too hard.

Izzy concentrated on the eggs, hiding her smile. The toast popped up just as she slid their breakfast onto plates with one hand, putting the spatula down as she reached for the butter dish.

“Careful there.” Joe’s hand steadied the dish before it could slip. “No need to rush.”

They settled into their morning routine—Joe spreading butter on toast while Izzy eased into her chair. Her grandfather combing through the stories in the Sierra Tribune that he collected from the distribution bins at Donnelly’s Market every week. The rhythm of breakfast together eased some of her restlessness.

“You’re favoring that shoulder.” Joe’s observation cut through the comfortable silence.

“It’s fine.”

“Hmm.” He took a slow sip of coffee. “That’s why you winced, reaching for the salt?”

“Just stiff from sleeping wrong.” Izzy focused on her plate, avoiding his knowing look.

“Your amona used to say that too. Right before she’d end up in bed for days from overdoing it.”

“I’m being careful.”

“Are you?” Joe’s voice gentled. “Or are you pushing yourself to prove something?”

Izzy set down her fork. “I’m not proving anything. I just need to get back to work.”

“The town won’t fall apart without you for a few weeks.”

“You don’t know that.” The words came out sharper than intended. “Sorry, I just . . . I hate feeling useless.”

“Healing isn’t useless, maitia.” Joe reached across the table, squeezing her good hand.

Izzy squeezed back, reminded of how precious these quiet moments were.

As they ate, Izzy’s mind drifted to another time of enforced rest. Not healing then—just surviving. The apartment in New York had been seven hundred forty-two square feet of pristine hell. She’d measured every inch of it during those thirty days, counting steps between the front door and bedroom window, bedroom to bathroom, kitchen to living room. Creating patterns, trying to find order in chaos.

The memory of that sterile space hit her with physical force. White walls, white tile, white carpet that showed every speck of dirt. She’d scrubbed those floors, desperate to erase any trace of what had happened. But it wasn’t the floors that haunted her—it was her hands.

Her right hand clenched involuntarily. Even now, she could feel the sticky warmth of Mark’s blood beneath her fingernails. She’d stood at that apartment’s bathroom sink for what felt like hours, but the industrial soap from the hospital hadn’t been enough. She’d scraped and scrubbed until her nail beds were raw but still felt contaminated.

“Compassionate leave,” they’d called it. Thirty days of hell while the Office of Professional Responsibility did its first investigation. Thirty days of jumping at every sound, of replaying the moment over and over. The weight of her service weapon, the look in Mark’s eyes when he’d realized she wouldn’t back down, the spray of red across the warehouse floor.

Her shoulder throbbed, yanking her back to the present. This recovery leave was different. Had to be different. The pain was clean this time—a through-and-through from a close-up shot. Betrayal, yes, but no morally gray areas. Just the job.

After breakfast, she insisted on helping clear the table. Each dish became a careful negotiation between determination and pain. Joe dried while she washed, their comfortable silence broken only by the splash of water and clink of plates.

“You dropped some egg.” Joe pointed to a spot she’d missed.

“I see it.” Izzy stretched to reach the yellow smear, her arm screaming in protest. The sponge slipped from her fingers, splashing water across her shirt.

“Here, let me⁠—”

“I can do it.” The words came out through gritted teeth. She retrieved the sponge, ignoring how the movement pulled at her damaged muscles.

Frustration rose as anger, pushing back against the tide of memories. Different town. Different injury. Different Izzy. She wasn’t that shattered FBI agent anymore, scrubbing imagined blood from her hands in a too-white bathroom. She was Sheriff Izar Llewellyn, and this setback was temporary.

Joe watched her struggle for a moment before speaking softly in Basque. “Strength isn’t always about doing everything alone.”

“I know.” Izzy leaned against the counter, suddenly tired. “I just need to feel normal again.”

“Normal will come.” He took the sponge from her hand. “But for now, let your old aitona help with the dishes.”

The kitchen phone’s shrill ring shattered the peaceful morning routine. Izzy’s hand jerked toward her absent holster—a reflex that hadn’t faded despite weeks of leave.

Joe grabbed the receiver. “Etxebarria residence.” His expression shifted. “Yes, she’s here. One moment.” He held out the phone, concern etching deeper lines around his eyes. “It’s Tamara.”

Izzy took the receiver, tucking it against her ear. “Tam?”

“Izzy.” Her best friend’s voice trembled. “I need you to come to the school library.”

The tension in her friend’s words triggered Izzy’s instincts. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a—” Tam’s breath hitched. “I found a body. In the reading room.”

Izzy stiffened, her shoulder forgotten. “Are you safe?”

“Yes. I came in early to grade some papers.” Tam’s voice steadied slightly. “I’m in the hallway now. The door’s locked. I haven’t touched anything.”

“Good. Stay there.” Izzy was already moving toward the door, muscle memory reaching for a badge that wasn’t there. “Have you called dispatch?”

“No, I called you first. I just . . . I’m sorry.”

“You’re doing great, Tam. I’m going to hang up and call this in. Don’t let anyone in that room.”

“Okay.” Tam took a shaky breath. “Hurry?”

“I’m coming.”

Izzy ended the call and immediately dialed the sheriff’s office. The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered.

“Mirage County Sheriff’s Office, Adrianne speaking.”

“Adrianne, it’s Sheriff Llewellyn. We have a 10–54 at Darkness Elementary, library reading room.” Izzy said. “I need units dispatched immediately.”

“Copy that, Sheriff.” Adrianne’s tone shifted to match Izzy’s. “Do you need medical response?”

“Let’s always assume we can save someone unless we know otherwise.” Izzy glanced at Joe, who gave her nothing but concern in return. “Have them secure the scene. I’m en route.”

“Sheriff, you’re still on medical leave⁠—”

“Just dispatch the units, Adrianne. I’ll deal with the paperwork later.”

A brief pause. “Yes, ma’am. Units are rolling.”

Izzy hung up, already heading for her grandmother’s old sewing room that had become her bedroom.

Izzy stared at her uniform hanging in the closet. The crisp khaki shirts and pressed tactical pants mocked her with their complicated buttons and zippers. Even the thought of maneuvering her injured arm through the sleeve made her shoulder throb.

“You don’t have to do this.” Joe lingered in the doorway. “Let your deputies handle it.”

“Someone’s dead in our elementary school, Aitona.” Izzy pulled her gun belt from its hook, the familiar weight grounding her. “I need to be there.”

She glanced at her reflection in the mirror—faded jeans and an old Georgetown T-shirt. Not exactly sheriff material, but changing would waste precious minutes. The sling caught on her holster as she tried to thread the belt through her jean loops one-handed.

“Here, let me—” Joe stepped forward.

“I’ve got it.” Izzy took a steadying breath, focusing on the mechanical process of securing her belt. She unlocked her gun case, removed her service weapon, and slipped it into place with thanks that it was her left arm that wasn’t working and not her right.

Izzy stood over the case and considered her backup piece. Being shot brought into relief the need for it, but the ankle holster wasn’t going to work under her jeans, so she locked the case and closed the closet.

Her badge sat heavy in its leather case on the dresser. She fumbled with the clip, nearly dropping it before managing to attach it to her belt. The golden star caught the morning light, a reminder of everything that her life had become.

“At least let me help with your coat.” Joe held up her sheriff’s office jacket.

Izzy winced as she slipped her good arm through the sleeve. The other side proved more challenging. She considered zipping the jacket over the sling, but that would leave her left arm completely useless, and that would draw more attention. Joe undid the Velcro and removed the sling, then he guided the jacket over her injured arm with gentle movements. Even that light touch sent sparks of pain through her body.

“The sling needs adjusting.” Joe reached for the strap crossing her back.

Izzy gritted her teeth. “I gotta go.”

“Maitia—”

“I know what you’re going to say.” She checked her look one final time, muscle memory fighting against restricted movement as she pulled on an MCSO ball cap. “But I can’t sit here while someone’s dead in my town.”

Joe’s weathered hands settled on her shoulders, careful of her injury. “Your father was the same way. Always putting the badge before himself.”

“Did you try to stop him too?”

“Your mother did. Every time.” A sad smile crossed his face. “Never worked then either.”

Izzy squeezed his hand, then headed for the door. Her keys jingled in her pocket—another small victory of independence.

“At least take some ibuprofen first,” Joe called after her.

She paused in the hallway, knowing he was right. The morning’s activities had already aggravated her injury. One-handed, she shook out two pills from the bottle on the kitchen counter and swallowed them dry.

“I’ll call you later,” she promised.

“Be careful, maitia.” Joe’s voice followed her onto the porch. “And tell that doctor of yours I tried to stop you.”

Chapter

Two

The SUV’s steering wheel fought against Izzy’s one-handed grip as she navigated the short drive toward Darkness Elementary School. Each turn sent fresh waves of pain through her shoulder. She’d forgotten how much driving involved the left arm—over the years her process had become to steer with the left while the right rested on the gear shifter—even with an automatic transition. Now the right had to do everything, and it all felt unnatural.

A line of minivans and SUVs clogged the school entrance, parents dropping off children for the day. The elementary school only had sixty-nine students, but they all arrived at the same time, right after the older kids who were headed for the bus to the high school in the county seat of Harris. Izzy tapped her horn, flashing her lights. The morning traffic inched forward with agonizing slowness. A yellow bus blocked the main access, its stop sign extended while the high school kids filed aboard.

Through the windshield, she counted three patrol vehicles parked haphazardly near the library entrance, their lights painting the brick walls in alternating red and blue. Parents craned their necks as they drove past, already spreading gossip about the sheriff’s presence at the school.

Izzy pulled up behind the last sheriff’s office unit, grimacing as she shifted into park. The dashboard clock read 7:47—prime drop-off time. Perfect.

Dale Hawkins stood by the library steps, arms crossed over his perfectly pressed uniform. His mustache twitched as she approached, taking in her casual clothes and obvious injury.

“Sheriff.” He managed to make her title sound like an insult. “Aren’t you supposed to be on medical leave?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be securing the scene?” Izzy gestured at the growing crowd of onlookers with her good hand. “Where’s the crime scene tape? Why aren’t we redirecting traffic?”

“These people will be gone in ten minutes.”

“Unless they hang around to watch. Get someone to move them along.”

“I have this under control.”

“All evidence to the contrary, Undersheriff Hawkins.” She kept her voice level but firm.

His jaw clenched. “With all due respect, ma’am, you’re not cleared for duty. Doctor’s orders.”

“Consider me a concerned citizen, then. One who happens to be your boss. Now get that perimeter established before the whole town shows up for story time.”

Hawkins’s face reddened, but he turned to bark orders at the deputies milling by their vehicles. Yellow tape appeared, creating a barrier between curious parents and the library entrance.

“Ms. Ramos is inside,” Hawkins said stiffly. “Should I tell her you’ll be leaving this to qualified personnel?”

“I’ll let her know the qualified personnel have just arrived.” Izzy started up the steps, each movement carefully orchestrated. “Get that traffic situation under control.”

She felt his glare on her back as she headed for the library door. Her badge caught the morning sun, a reminder that casual clothes didn’t change who she was. Deputy Wilson stood sentry, and he held the door open, offering her a concerned, “Ma’am.”

“Morning, Deputy.”

A familiar tension settled over her as she crossed the threshold, pushing aside the pain and Hawkins’s attitude. Someone was dead in her town’s library. That was all that mattered right now.

The library’s main room stood empty and silent, morning light filtering through tall windows highlighting the colored reading mats on the floor. Tam paced near the circulation desk, arms wrapped around herself. She ran forward when she saw Izzy.

“Thank God you’re here.” Tam’s voice trembled. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“You did the right thing.” Izzy scanned the room, noting the closed door at the far end. “Is anyone else here?”

“Just Deputy Wahlberg. He’s guarding the room.” Tam hugged herself tighter. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Izzy put her right hand on Tam’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Walk me through it. How did you find him?”

“I came in early to grade papers. The reading room door was unlocked, which was strange because I always lock up after public library.” Tam’s words tumbled out. “I thought maybe I’d forgotten yesterday, so I went to check and . . .” She trailed off, face pale.

“What’s public library?”

“You remember. This is the only library in town, so we open twice a week and some Saturdays for locals.”

“So, there were other people here last night?”

“Yes. Well, not many. And I knew them all.”

Izzy frowned. “Anyone use the reading room?”

“The chess club, but it was clear when I locked up. I’m sure of it.”

Izzy squeezed her friend’s arm with her good hand. “Okay. That’s enough for now. Deputy Wilson is outside. He’ll take your full statement. I just need to go and take a look.”

The short corridor from the main library space to the reading room felt longer than usual. Wahlberg stood at attention beside the door, his young face serious.

“Sheriff.” He nodded. “Scene’s untouched since Ms. Ramos found it.”

“Good work.” Izzy reached for the door handle, then paused. “Go tell Wilson to get Ms. Ramos’s statement, then he should take her home.” Wahlberg nodded and strode away.

The reading room’s climate control hit Izzy as she entered—a contrast to the library’s morning warmth. It wasn’t as cold as outside, but the space definitely wasn’t heated. The system hummed steadily, maintaining the regulated humidity needed to preserve the historical documents. Sunlight streamed through high windows, dust motes dancing in the beams.

At the right end of the room, a man hung from one of the exposed ceiling beams, his work boots dangling a few feet above the floor. The morning light caught his face, highlighting the purple-blue discoloration. His hands hung loosely at his sides, fingers slightly curled. The plaid shirt looked like something worn by working men across the county.

A wooden chair lay on its side beneath him. The room’s collection of historical texts and maps stood in silent witness, preserved behind their glass cabinets.

Izzy moved around the large wooden table that took up most of the cozy space toward the stacks on the opposite side. Two rows of steel shelves, one of which was used as the anchor for the rope. She studied the rope—quarter-inch nylon, a quality item, not the kind sold at any hardware store. The rope had been threaded around the end of the shelving unit and tied in a solid knot. Nothing fancy, but enough to do the job. Then it was thrown over the rafter from which the man hung. Izzy ran her hand along the taut rope and felt something on it, like a wax coating.

She circled the body slowly, cataloging details. The man had tied off the rope and then arranged himself on the chair, then probably with a sideways kick, he had done the deed. The chair’s position matched that theory.

She stepped back, taking in the whole scene again. Izzy had attended this school before she left town, but she had not spent much time in the reading room. It was an anomaly in an elementary school, a space designed for and used by adults and the occasional high school student. But her overriding memory was that the room had always felt peaceful before, with its cathedral ceiling and carefully preserved history. Now it felt like a tomb, the temperature-controlled air preserving one final, tragic moment.

Izzy glanced back toward the door. “Wahlberg, you back?”

The young deputy appeared in the doorway, his face pale. “Yes, Sheriff.”

“You know this guy?”

“I’m not sure.” Wahlberg’s eyes kept darting to the body, then away.

Izzy understood that her deputy probably hadn’t seen too many bodies in this position. “It’s fine.”

Hawkins appeared in the doorway. “We need to get him down.”

“We need photos first.” Izzy gestured at the scene with her good hand. “Full documentation before anything gets moved.”

“This isn’t New York City,” Hawkins said. “We don’t leave people hanging like this.”

“That’s why we need to get this done, Dab.” Izzy kept her voice level. “Get Martinez in here. He’s got the steadiest hands for crime scene photos.”

Hawkins harrumphed. “With all due respect⁠—”

“Whose respect, Undersheriff? Yours? If you’re uncomfortable, you can leave. But we show respect by not cutting corners, and by not standing around having unnecessary debates while victims hang from the rafters.” Izzy met his gaze. “We document everything exactly as found. No rushed photos, no missed angles.”

“You’re not even supposed to be here.”

“And yet here I am.” She turned back to the scene, effectively dismissing him. “Make sure Martinez brings the good camera, not the backup.”

Heavy footsteps retreated down the hallway. Izzy circled the body again, noting details. The rope’s position around the beam, the knocked-over chair. It was obvious what had happened, but everything needed to be captured exactly as they found it so they could provide the man’s family, if he had any, with solace that his demise had been taken seriously.

Deputy Martinez appeared in the doorway minutes later, camera in hand. “Wilson got Ms. Ramos home safe, Sheriff. Her mother’s with her.”

“Good.” Izzy pointed to the far corner. “Start wide, get the whole room. Then work your way in. I want every angle.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Martinez raised the camera.

“Make sure you get clear shots of his hands,” Izzy added. “And the knots in the rope.”

The camera’s shutter clicked steadily as Martinez worked. Izzy supervised his progress, occasionally directing him to specific details she wanted documented.

Izzy heard footsteps approach from the corridor again, but kept her attention on Martinez.

“We need to move this along,” Hawkins said. “People are starting to ask questions.”

“I thought I asked you to move people away?” Izzy watched Martinez capture another angle of the large table in the center of the space and the victim behind it.

“I can handle this from here, Sheriff.” Hawkins’s tone carried that edge of condescension she’d grown used to in the short time she had been back in town. “You should be resting that shoulder.”

“I’ll finish supervising the scene documentation.” Izzy turned to face him, keeping her expression neutral. “You should head back to the office. Make sure we don’t drop the ball on anything else happening this shift. Who’s on at the fire department?”

“Zac and Briar.”

“Ask them to bring the van. We’ll need to move the body.”

Hawkins’s jaw worked for a moment before he gave a curt nod. “I’ll make the call.”

“Thank you.” Izzy turned back to Martinez.

The camera clicked as Hawkins’s footsteps withdrew down the hallway, and Izzy considered the next steps.

It was a bureaucratic anomaly that the county coroner was a role handed to the elected—or in her case, appointed—sheriff, despite the lack of medical training. It was a cost-saving exercise as much as anything—small counties didn’t have city levels of crime or budgets—but it meant that Izzy had the legal right to pronounce death in cases where she believed it to be self-explanatory. But she preferred to dot the I’s and have a medical professional handle the formality. And that meant the assistant coroner.

Izzy rolled her good shoulder, trying to ease some of the tension. The morning’s activity had definitely exceeded her doctor’s recommendations, and she knew she was soon going to hear all about that as she stepped outside to call Cole.

Dr. Cole Barrow pulled his Dodge Ram into the elementary school parking lot, easing behind the row of patrol cars with their lights doused. Crime scene tape stretched between two trees, yellow plastic rippling in the winter breeze.

He killed the engine and grabbed his medical bag from the passenger seat. Serena’s message had been brief, just the basics about a body found in the library. She’d caught him between patients, her usual cheerful tone subdued.

A small crowd remained near the entrance—perhaps concerned parents or just locals with nothing better to do than rubberneck. Their hushed whispers carried across the lot. Such was life in a small town.

The crowd parted as he approached, a few familiar faces nodding in recognition. Someone’s toddler pointed and whispered, “That’s Dr. Barrow.”

He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though there was nothing reassuring about being called to pronounce a death at an elementary school.

Two deputies stood guard at the main entrance, their faces grim. Deputy Wahlberg met him and ushered him inside, through the main library building, and down the corridor.

Cole froze in the doorway to the reading room, his medical bag suddenly heavy in his hand. Izzy stood beneath the hanging body, her left arm tucked close to her side, studying something on the rope.

He forced himself to look away from her and take in the scene with clinical detachment. The cathedral ceiling drew the morning heat upward, leaving the room several degrees cooler than the hallway. The body hung from an exposed beam, suspended by rope that had been threaded through the metal shelving unit. Yellow evidence markers dotted the floor around an overturned wooden chair. The victim’s work boots cast a swaying shadow.

“Dr. Barrow.” Undersheriff Hawkins’s voice cut through Cole’s observations. “We need you to pronounce.”

Cole set his bag down and pulled on latex gloves, hyperaware of Izzy’s presence as she stepped back to give him room. Her movements were stiff, betraying the pain she tried to hide.

“Time of discovery?” Cole asked.

“Approximately seven-thirty this morning,” Izzy answered, her own tone equally clinical.

“Can we get him down now?” asked Cole.

“Of course,” said Izzy. She directed Wilson to cut the rope while the volunteer paramedics took the body’s weight. When the rope gave way, the two men grunted at the mass, then they gently laid him on a plastic sheet they had spread out on the floor.

Cole knelt beside the body. The reading room’s precise climate control would affect his time of death estimate. He noted the ambient temperature—sixty degrees Fahrenheit.

He pressed two fingers against the man’s neck, confirming what was already evident. The skin felt cool and waxy beneath his latex gloves. The face showed typical signs of hanging—congested features, protruding tongue, petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. The rope had left ligature marks across the neck, rising toward the knot beneath the left ear.

Cole’s mind flashed to Jessup, a medic in his unit who’d hanged himself two weeks after returning to Afghanistan for their second deployment. The scenes were eerily similar, down to the upturned chair.

“No defensive wounds or signs of struggle on the hands,” Cole reported, examining the victim’s palms and fingers. The nails were dirty, cuticles intact. Working man’s hands, calloused but well-maintained.

The technical inspection helped Cole maintain his composure, but he couldn’t completely suppress memories of other bodies he’d examined in far worse conditions. At least this one was intact, unlike the IED victims he’d treated. Still, suicide always hit harder than combat deaths. The sense of waste, of preventable loss.

“I’ll need to do a visual examination at the clinic,” Cole said, standing carefully to avoid disturbing any evidence. “But preliminary findings are consistent with suicide by hanging. I pronounce this person deceased.”

He peeled off his gloves. The paramedics would handle transportation of the body once the scene was fully documented. Cole’s part was done for now, though the real work would begin at the clinic.

His eyes found Izzy again. She stood near the shelving unit, her good hand resting on the metal frame as she studied the body. The morning light caught her profile, highlighting the tension in her jaw. She was hurting, pushing herself too hard too soon.

But he knew better than to say anything here, in front of her deputies. Instead, he focused on packing away his equipment. The routine helped settle the unease that always accompanied death scenes, especially suicides.

Izzy asked the paramedics to wait, then she patted down the corpse as if looking for a weapon on a criminal. When she was done, she looked up at Wahlberg.

“No ID,” she said. “But you don’t recognize him?”

“I feel like I do, boss, but I can’t say for sure. He looks, you know, different.”

“How about you, Wilson?”

“Same, ma’am. I feel like I’ve seen him around town, but I couldn’t tell you who or where.”

Izzy glanced at the two paramedics. “You boys?”

Both paramedics shook their heads.

“Okay.” Izzy used her good arm to push up from her crouch. “Wahlberg, can you take a look outside? See if there are any vehicles that don’t belong.”

“Yes, boss.”

Cole watched the paramedics wheel their gurney into the room, the squeak of rubber wheels echoing off the walls. He shifted his medical bag to his other hand, searching for a way to get Izzy alone without drawing attention.

“Sheriff.” He kept his voice neutral. “I need to discuss the preliminary findings before they transport.”

Izzy’s eyes met his, a flash of understanding crossing her face. “Main library.”

Cole nodded and headed for the library, hearing Izzy’s footsteps behind him. The room was incongruent, all bright colors and children’s books. Motivational posters lined the walls, their cheerful messages at odds with the morning’s events.

He set his bag on the scratched circulation desk and turned to face her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Cole—”

“Your shoulder needs time to heal. You know that.”

“Someone died in our elementary school.” Izzy leaned against the stack beside the desk, her good arm braced against the shelf. “I can’t just sit at home.”

Cole stepped closer, fighting the urge to reach for her. “As your doctor⁠—”

“Don’t.” Her voice hardened. “Don’t pull the doctor card.”

“Then how about as someone who cares about you?” He softened his tone. “You’re in pain. I can see it in how you’re holding yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Cole ran a hand through his hair. “But I know telling you to go home won’t work.”

A hint of a smile touched her lips. “Getting to know me pretty well, aren’t you?”

“Well enough to know you’ll push yourself too hard.” He moved to stand beside her, close enough to feel her warmth but not touching. “So, let’s compromise.”

Izzy turned to face him, wariness in her expression. “What kind of compromise?”

“You go back to work but delegate the physical stuff. No climbing around crime scenes or chasing bad guys.” Cole watched her face, gauging her reaction. “And you let me examine that shoulder tonight.”

“I have deputies for the physical stuff.” Izzy’s admission came reluctantly.

“And the injury check?”

She sighed. “Fine. But not because you’re my doctor.”

“No,” Cole agreed softly. “Not because I’m your doctor.”

The moment stretched between them, heavy with things unsaid. Cole wanted to pull her close, to feel her relax against him. Instead, he kept his distance, too aware of their location and the deputies waiting outside.

“I should get back.” Izzy straightened, wincing at the movement. “Gotta let the people know it’s safe.”

“Take it easy.” Cole picked up his bag. “I mean it, Izzy. Don’t make me pull rank as your physician.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She headed for the door, then paused. “You going to examine the body?”

“As soon as I clear my appointments.”

“Do you mind if I observe?”

Cole frowned. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Professional curiosity. Since I’m coroner, I’d like to know as much as I can about what I might find myself looking at.”

“Come by at noon.”

Izzy nodded and slipped out, leaving Cole alone with the smell of books and his worries about her pushing too hard, too fast. He’d have to find the balance between supporting her determination and protecting her recovery. It wasn’t going to be easy, but then, nothing about caring for Izzy Llewellyn was.

Chapter

Three

Izzy climbed the stairs to her office, the morning sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her desk, painting the high desert landscape beyond in shades of gold.

The spare uniform hung in the corner cabinet, pristine and waiting. She’d started keeping extra clothes back in the Bureau after one too many messy crime scenes had left her looking unprofessional. This morning’s casual attire wouldn’t do for what the rest of the day was likely to hold.

The women’s locker room waited downstairs, a space designed for multiple female deputies that had never seen more than one occupant. Row after row of empty metal lockers lined the walls. The solitude bothered her when she first took the job. Now she appreciated the privacy, especially on days like today when every movement brought fresh pain.

Izzy set her clean uniform on the bench and began the careful process of undressing. Her T-shirt posed the first challenge. Lifting her left arm above shoulder height sent sharp protests through the joint. She bit back a curse, adjusting her approach to work around the limitation.

The uniform shirt proved even more difficult. Each button required precise finger coordination while keeping her left arm relatively still. Even her hair fought her attempts at a regulation-appropriate bun, the simple act of raising both arms becoming an exercise in pain management. She gave up and went with a ponytail that was only marginally easier to do.

She caught her reflection in the locker room mirror—sheriff’s star gleaming on her chest, name tag perfectly aligned with her breast pocket, every detail regulation-perfect except for the way she held her left arm slightly away from her body, the sling discarded on the bench seat. The image of authority she needed to project was there, but the cost of maintaining it was written in the tension around her eyes.

The empty locker room stood as a reminder of her unique position—the only female in a department of twenty sworn officers. It wasn’t just about being the only woman using this space. It was about being the one everyone looked to for leadership, even when she wasn’t at her best. Especially then.

Izzy returned to her office and sank into her desk chair, already missing the comfort of her casual clothes. The formal uniform constrained her movements in a way she wasn’t yet used to. She pulled the keyboard closer with her good hand, logging into the system with single-finger pecks.

A knock interrupted her thoughts.

“Come in.”

Wahlberg entered, notepad in hand. His usual eager energy seemed subdued. He stood at attention across from her desk.

“Got that vehicle information you asked for, boss.” He flipped open his notepad. “Found a 1998 Chevy Silverado on the street behind the school. Dark blue, looks well-maintained. No other vehicles that didn’t belong.”

“Registration?”

“Ran the plates. Registered to a Gary Chávez.” Wahlberg consulted his notes. “Thirty years old. Found his ID in the console, along with some work receipts and maintenance records.”

Izzy leaned forward. “Local?”

“Yes, ma’am, it looks that way. Did a preliminary background check—clean record, not even a parking ticket.” He turned the page. “Vehicle registration address matches his license—247 Cottonwood Lane. Verified through county records. It’s his parents’ place.”

“So the ID? It’s him?”

Wahlberg handed a plastic bag with a California driver’s license in it. Izzy looked at the photo and nodded.

“Okay, it’s him. Good work.” Izzy shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t aggravate her arm. “What else did you find in the vehicle?”

“Just standard work gear—tools, some safety equipment. Everything looked organized, well kept.” Wahlberg hesitated. “The load bed was scratched up like he hauls rocks or something.”

Izzy nodded, then she stood. “The parents need to be notified.”

Wahlberg’s face dropped. “Boss?”

“You’ve never done it, huh?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, it’s not something we do alone if it can be avoided. You never know how people might react. I’ll handle it personally.” The weight of that duty settled heavily. Another aspect of small-town law enforcement—delivering bad news to people you would often see again.

Izzy stepped around the desk and grabbed her coat. “You can drive.”

The Explorer wound through Darkness’s quiet streets, past the feed store and a closed coffee shop. Wahlberg kept both hands on the wheel, his usual chatter absent. Izzy watched familiar landmarks slide by—the hardware store where her father bought supplies, the park where neighborhood kids still played softball on warm evenings.

They turned onto Cottonwood Lane, modest homes lining both sides of the street. Most dated back to the fifties when the GI bill was in full swing, built to house aqueduct workers and their families. The houses had aged but retained their dignity through careful maintenance and personal touches.

Number 247 sat back from the street—a cinderblock ranch painted a warm terracotta. Desert landscaping filled the front yard—carefully arranged rocks surrounding drought-resistant plants and cacti. Someone had created an artful arrangement of agave and barrel cactus near the driveway, their shapes complementing rather than competing.

Bright ceramic pots lined the concrete path to the front door, filled with succulents in various shades of green and purple. Traditional Mexican wind chimes hung from the covered porch, their gentle music carrying on the morning breeze. The decorations spoke of pride and permanence, of a family that had put down roots in this harsh landscape.

Izzy noted the worn welcome mat, the swept porch, the fresh paint around the window frames. Everything about the property suggested people who took care of what was theirs. The kind of home where bad news would shatter a carefully maintained peace.

She touched her badge, a habit formed over years of delivering difficult messages. The metal felt cool against her fingers, focusing her on her duty.

Izzy pressed the doorbell, hearing it ring inside. Wahlberg shifted behind her, keeping a respectful distance.

The door opened to reveal a woman in her early fifties, wearing faded jeans and a loose cotton shirt smudged with dirt. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, and fresh soil clung to her hands and forearms. She carried the scent of earth and growing things.

“Can I help you?” The woman’s warm brown eyes took in Izzy’s uniform, then darted to Wahlberg and the patrol vehicle.

“Mrs. Chávez?” Izzy kept her voice gentle but official. “I’m Sheriff Llewellyn. This is Deputy Wahlberg. May we come in?”

Mrs. Chávez wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving dark streaks. “Of course, please.” She stepped back, gesturing them inside. “I’m sorry for the mess. I was just working in my garden.”

The entry opened into a living room where sunlight streamed through lace curtains. Religious icons adorned the walls—crosses, images of saints, and a particularly beautiful painting of the Virgin Mary. Family photos covered every available surface, tracking the growth of children through the years. A teenage boy’s baseball photo sat prominently on the mantel.

“Please, sit.” Mrs. Chávez indicated the sofa, its cushions protected by crocheted doilies. “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee?”

“No, thank you.” Izzy chose a seat where she could face Mrs. Chávez directly. “Are you home alone?”

“Yes, my husband is at work. What is this about?”

“We need to speak with you about your son, Gary.”

Mrs. Chávez sank into an armchair, her gardening-roughened hands clasping in her lap. “Gary? Has something happened?” Her eyes flicked between Izzy and Wahlberg. “Is he in trouble?”

“Mrs. Chávez . . .” Izzy leaned forward, keeping eye contact. No matter how many times she’d done this, it never got easier.

Mrs. Chávez’s hands tightened, soil still dark beneath her nails. A silver crucifix gleamed at her throat, catching the morning light that filtered through those delicate curtains. Behind her, generations of family photos witnessed this moment, smiling faces unaware of the news about to shatter their world.

“Mrs. Chávez, I’m very sorry to tell you that we found your son Gary this morning at the elementary school library. I’m afraid he’s dead.” The word dead seemed so harsh, but it was trained into Izzy to be compassionate but clear. Euphemisms were to be avoided in the first instance to ensure there was no mixed messaging.

The words hung in the sunlit room. Mrs. Chávez’s hand flew to her chest, fingers clutching the silver crucifix. Her head moved side to side in small, jerky motions.

“No. No, there must be some mistake.” Her voice came out thin and strained. “Gary was fine yesterday. He stopped by to help me with the garden. He can’t be⁠—”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Izzy kept her tone gentle but firm. “We found his truck parked nearby with his identification inside.”

Mrs. Chávez’s breath hitched. The color drained from her face as she gripped the arms of her chair. “How? What happened to my boy?”

Izzy kept the older woman’s eye despite the urge to look away. “The evidence suggests that Gary took his own life.”

“No.” Her denial came sharp and immediate. “No, that’s impossible. Gary wasn’t depressed. He was a happy boy. He was talking about buying his own place.” Her tone rose with each statement. “He helped me prepare the beds for new roses the day before yesterday. We made plans for Sunday dinner.”

Izzy had heard similar protests countless times—parents listing recent achievements, planned activities, anything that contradicted the devastating reality before them.

“He was doing well at work.” Mrs. Chávez’s words tumbled out faster. “His boss said he was crucial. And he just started teaching Sunday school at church. Father Muñoz said he was wonderful with the children.”

Izzy let her speak, knowing Mrs. Chávez needed to voice these memories, these proofs of life that seemed to argue against its sudden end.

“Is there someone we can call for you? Family or friends who could come stay with you?”

“My sister.” Mrs. Chávez’s fingers worked at her crucifix chain.

“Let’s call her. And we can call your husband.”

“No, I need to tell David myself. He should hear it from me.” The quiet dignity in her voice struck Izzy. Here was a woman whose world had just shattered, yet she preserved her composure, already thinking of how to care for others.

Wahlberg found Mrs. Chávez’s phone, and she called her sister. She conveyed the news in a matter-of-fact way. Her sister arrived within ten minutes. Izzy repeated the basic details and then asked again if they could call Mr. Chávez. Mrs. Chávez thanked her with another definitive no.

“This is my card.” Izzy pulled it from her pocket with her good hand, placing it on the coffee table. “It has my cell phone number. Call me any time, day or night, if you need anything.” She paused, choosing her next words carefully. “If you have any questions, please call me anytime. When we release Gary’s body, we can help coordinate with the funeral home.”

Mrs. Chávez nodded, her eyes fixed on the business card. “Thank you, Sheriff.” Her voice wavered but didn’t break. “I should . . . I should start making calls.”

They rose together, Mrs. Chávez’s movements mechanical but determined. She walked them to the door, one hand trailing along the wall as if to steady herself. The morning sun still painted the desert garden in cheerful colors, oblivious to the grief now dwelling within these walls.

At the threshold, Mrs. Chávez paused. “Gary was a good boy, Sheriff. Whatever happened . . . he was a good boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Izzy met her gaze. “I can see that.”

Mrs. Chávez closed the door with a quiet finality. Through the window, Izzy watched her sink onto the sofa beside her sister, spine straight, chin high. Then she collapsed into her sister’s arms, her body convulsing as the tears came.

The Explorer’s heat hit Izzy’s face as she settled into the passenger seat. She stared through the windshield at the tended garden, thinking of Mrs. Chávez’s soil-stained hands and the way she’d clutched that crucifix. Such strength in the face of devastating loss. Such dignity. Such a complete and utter waste.

“You okay, boss?” Wahlberg’s tone was soft.

Izzy drew a deep breath. “Drive.”

Chapter

Four

Cole pushed through the procedure room door, pausing at the threshold. Serena had transformed his usual exam space into something closer to a morgue. The padding from the examination table had been removed, its stainless steel surface gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. She’d arranged his instruments with military precision—recorder, notebooks, scissors, thermometer, and collection containers lined up like soldiers awaiting orders. The gurney holding the body sat alongside.

His gaze lingered on the empty steel surface of the exam table. Usually, this room held living patients—kids with broken arms, ranch hands needing stitches, the occasional emergency procedure when the hospital in Harris was too far away. The familiar space felt foreign in this context, repurposed for an examination that would yield no healing.

The chemical smell of disinfectant hung sharp in the air, masking the musty scent that had followed the body from the library. Death had its own particular odor, one that clung to clothes and skin long after exposure. Cole had encountered it often enough in the army, but here in his clinic, it felt like an intrusion.

The door opened behind him, and Izzy stepped in carrying evidence bags. The sheriff’s uniform lent her an air of official authority, but Cole caught the tension in her jaw, the slight furrow between her brows.

“You changed.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“Couldn’t exactly notify the family looking like I’d just rolled out of bed.” Izzy set the evidence bags on his instrument tray. Her tone carried the weight of that conversation, though her expression remained neutral.

“And you lost the sling.”

She responded with a faux grin that he let slide.

Cole reached for the digital recorder, checking the battery indicator before pressing record. His voice filled the sterile space.

“Preliminary examination of deceased. December fifteenth, twelve twenty-seven p.m. Location: Darkness Medical Clinic, Procedure Room One. Present are myself, Dr. Cole Barrow, and Sheriff Izar Llewellyn. Subject is identified as Gary Chávez, male, thirty years old.”

He paused the recording, glancing at Izzy. “You shouldn’t be doing this. I can get Serena in.”

“I’ll be fine. Let’s just get it done.” She positioned herself at the foot of the gurney.

Cole pressed record again. “Beginning external examination of body bag before transfer.” He ran his gloved hands along the zipper seam, checking for any loose fibers or debris. “No visible marks on the bag, consistent with flooring at scene.”

The zipper’s metallic rasp echoed through the room as Cole opened the bag. Working with Izzy, they transferred the body using the sheet from transport. Cole noted how she gritted her teeth during the lift, but said nothing.

“Subject is dressed in work clothing—blue denim jeans, brown steel-toed boots, plaid cotton button-down shirt.” Cole’s hands moved methodically over the clothing, checking seams and pockets. “Nothing found in pockets.”

Cole noted details that spoke of a life suddenly ended—the cracks in the leather belt from years of opening and closing the buckle, work boots broken in but well-maintained.

“Proceeding to check body bag interior.” Cole lifted the empty bag, turning it inside out. “No deposits consistent with scene location. Several dark fibers adhering to interior—appear synthetic, possibly from subject’s clothing. Will collect for analysis.”

He used tweezers to transfer the fibers to a sealed container, labeling it with precise lettering. Izzy’s pen scratched steadily across her notebook, documenting each step.

“Beginning external examination of clothing.” Cole’s hands moved systematically from collar to cuffs. “Shirt shows signs of regular wear but is clean and recently laundered. No apparent tears or damage except . . .” He leaned closer, examining the collar. “Slight distortion to shirt collar, consistent with reported manner of death.”

Cole felt the weight of what they were doing. This wasn’t evidence collection—it was documenting the last moments of someone’s son, someone who’d gotten dressed in the morning, never planning to return home.

Cole crouched to examine the work boots more closely. The leather showed signs of regular upkeep—cleaned and polished despite their daily use. He grasped the heel of the right boot, working it free.

Something shifted inside. A soft rustle that shouldn’t have been there.

“Wait.” He held up his hand, halting his recorded narrative. “There’s something in here.”

Cole tilted the boot, and two items slid out onto the steel table. A beige card, its edges worn soft, and a folded document, faded to the color of tea by age.

“A note?” Izzy asked.

Cole shrugged. “I need to stop the examination,” he said, reaching for the recorder. “Evidence collection required.”

Izzy moved forward, evidence bags ready. She photographed and placed each item in a bag before securing them. The beige card looked like it belonged in an old library card catalog, complete with two lines of reference numbers, one typed, one hand-scrawled.

She opened the folded document with gloved hands, careful not to disturb any fibers or prints. As the paper expanded, Cole recognized the careful lines of a hand-drawn map. The detail work was impressive—a three-dimensional rendering, natural features sketched with an artist’s eye for detail.

Their eyes met across the examination table. Cole saw his own questions reflected in Izzy’s expression—why would Gary Chávez hide these items in his boot? What significance did they hold?

Izzy studied the map, her brow furrowed. “This is local terrain. See here?” She traced a ridgeline with her gloved finger. “That’s the western edge of the valley. And this matches the creek that runs down off the Sierras up near Harris.”

“But no labels?” Cole leaned closer, noting the map’s stark simplicity.

“No markers, no legend, nothing to indicate what’s being mapped.” Izzy tilted the paper, examining it from different angles. “Just like an artist’s sketch. But whoever drew this knew the land, that’s for sure.”

The map lay between them on the steel table, its purpose as mysterious as the circumstances that had brought its owner to the library that morning.

Cole pressed record. “Resuming examination after evidence collection. Two items discovered in right work boot—one library reference card and one hand-drawn map. Items have been photographed in place and collected by Sheriff Llewellyn.” He returned his attention to the body. “Beginning removal of clothing. Starting with shirt.”

Using medical scissors, Cole carefully cut along the sleeve seams. The fabric parted cleanly, revealing pale skin underneath. He worked methodically, documenting each step as he passed the cut sections to Izzy for bagging.

“Shirt removal complete. Moving to pants.” The denim proved more resistant, but Cole kept steady pressure with the scissors. “Jeans show signs of regular wear, particularly at knees and hem. No unusual staining or damage noted.”

As each piece of clothing came away, Cole’s trained eye cataloged the body’s condition. “Rigor mortis fully developed throughout major muscle groups,” he said into the recorder. “Jaw and neck muscles rigid, limbs fixed in position noted at scene.” He tested the arm joints, meeting the expected resistance. “Maximum rigor consistent with twelve to sixteen hours post-mortem.”

The lividity patterns told their own story. Dark purple staining marked the hands and feet. The posterior surfaces showed similar fixed lividity except where the rope had compressed the tissue.

“Livor mortis fully fixed, non-blanching on dependent surfaces.” Cole photographed the distinct boundaries. “Color distribution indicates body remained in hanging position for a minimum of eight hours post-mortem. No signs of primary lividity in alternate positions.”

He examined the fingertips, noting the dusky blue coloration extending to the nail beds. “Peripheral lividity pronounced in distal extremities, consistent with prolonged vertical suspension.”

The timeline aligned with the early-morning discovery—death likely occurred the previous evening, with the body hanging undisturbed through the night.

“Based on rigor and livor mortis patterns, estimated time of death between eight p.m. and midnight last night.” Cole’s latex-covered fingers probed carefully at the muscles of the upper arms. “Noting bilateral bruising patterns on biceps. Left arm shows two distinct contusions, measuring approximately one to two centimeters each. Similar pattern on right biceps with three contusions of matching size.”

He photographed each mark, including a measuring tape in the frame for scale. “Bruising appears antemortem or perimortem, with moderate tissue reaction.” Working down the body, Cole documented every detail: old scars, recent scrapes, the calluses on hands that spoke of manual labor. “Small linear abrasion noted on right palm, approximately one centimeter in length. Edges show early healing response, suggesting injury occurred twenty-four to forty-eight hours prior to death.” Izzy photographed the mark. “Several similar abrasions noted on knuckles of both hands, consistent with regular manual work.”

Cole shifted his attention to the neck area, examining the ligature marks. Something about the pattern caught his eye. He leaned closer, adjusting the overhead light for better visibility.

“Hold on.” He clicked off the recorder. “Come look at this.”

Izzy moved to his side as he pointed out two distinct bands of bruising around the neck.

“See these marks?” Cole traced the air above the lighter bruising. “This is what we’d expect from hanging—a single upward-angled ligature mark. But there’s a second pattern underneath.” He indicated the darker bruising that formed a more horizontal line. “This bruising occurred before the hanging.”

“What does that mean?”

Cole pulled the magnifying lens closer. “The lighter bruising shows the rope mark from the hanging itself. But this second mark—” He gestured to the darker pattern. “This suggests someone strangled him from behind with the rope before hanging him.”

“You’re sure?”

“The angle is different.” Cole demonstrated with his hands. “When someone hangs, the rope pulls up at roughly forty-five degrees. But this second mark is almost perfectly horizontal—classic pattern for strangulation from behind.” He examined the bruising more closely. “The tissue response also shows two distinct timeframes. The horizontal marks formed before death, but contusions from the hanging are perimortem—just after death. The body doesn’t bruise the same way because there’s no blood pressure. These contusions are caused by residual blood.”

Izzy’s notebook lay forgotten at her side. “So someone attacked him first?”

“Wait.” Cole returned to the bruising on the biceps, his mind racing as he pieced together the sequence. “These marks on his arms—I initially thought they were work injuries, but look at the pattern.” He positioned his hands to demonstrate. “If someone wrapped the rope around his torso and arms first, pinning them to his sides, then pulled it up—” Cole mimicked the motion. “The rope would leave exactly these kinds of marks before sliding up to his neck.”

“They restrained him first.” Izzy’s voice had gone flat.

“Exactly. Wrapped the rope around his chest and arms, then pulled it up from behind.” Cole’s clinical detachment wavered as he visualized the attack. “The horizontal neck bruising happened during the initial struggle. Then they hoisted him up to stage the hanging.”

The sterile room felt colder as the implications settled over them.

“Time of death still holds,” Cole said. “But this wasn’t suicide.”

Izzy stared at the body, her expression hardening. “This was murder.”

Cole reached for the recorder, choosing his words with care. “Based on examination of ligature marks and associated tissue damage, findings are inconsistent with self-inflicted injury. Note presence of dual bruising patterns on neck—secondary ligature mark showing upward angle consistent with suspension, but primary horizontal bruising pattern indicating prior strangulation attempt. Additional contusions on bilateral biceps suggest restraint antemortem.”

He paused. “Given these findings, coupled with evidence of struggle, full forensic autopsy at Harris Regional Pathology is recommended. Case warrants complete toxicology panel and detailed examination by forensic pathologist.”

Cole clicked off the recorder, watching Izzy pull out her phone. Her movements were sharp, controlled, betraying none of the pain he knew her shoulder must be causing.

“Wahlberg.” Her voice carried the edge of command. “I need you to secure the library immediately. Full crime scene protocol.” She listened briefly. “No, seal the entire building. Nobody in or out until further notice.”

Cole began preparing the body for transport while Izzy issued rapid-fire instructions. The clinical detachment that had carried him through the examination started to fade, replaced by a growing awareness of what they’d uncovered. Someone had murdered Gary Chávez in their little town and staged it to look like a suicide.

“I’ll have the transport team from Harris here in an hour or so,” Cole said as Izzy ended her call.

She nodded, already focused on her next steps. “I need your full report as soon as possible. Every detail matters now.”

“You’ll have it before they arrive.” He met her gaze across the examination table. “What about his parents?”

“Let me handle that.” Izzy’s expression hardened. “They deserve to know the truth, but we need to control how this information gets out.”

Cole recognized the shift in her demeanor. He’d seen it before, this transformation from Izzy to Sheriff Llewellyn, and understood its necessity.

“I’ll call you when the forensics team arrives,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

“Thanks.” She paused at the door, her hand on the frame. “For being so thorough.” She smiled. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“Just doing my job, Sheriff.”

She gave him a quick nod and was gone, leaving Cole alone with the evidence of violence that had been hidden beneath a staged suicide. He turned back to his instruments, preparing his detailed notes. Someone had taken great care to conceal a murder. Now it was his job to help uncover the truth, one clinical observation at a time.

Chapter

Five

Izzy slumped in her office chair, her exhaustion a reminder of her earlier disregard for Cole’s orders. The pain medication had worn off hours ago, and she gulped a couple more ibuprofen. Cole had offered her something stronger, but she couldn’t bring herself to take it. She needed clarity, needed her mind sharp.

Files spread across her desk in organized chaos—crime scene images, preliminary reports, witness statements. Gary Chávez’s face stared up at her from his driver’s license photo, his expression neutral, unknowing of what lay ahead.

She shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t send shooting pain down her arm. The movement knocked a stack of papers, scattering them across the floor. Izzy cursed under her breath, the sound echoing in the empty office.

The evidence bags from Cole’s examination lay sealed on her desk. The library card and map seemed to mock her. Why would a small town blue-collar guy hide a hand-drawn topographical map in his boot? The level of detail suggested someone intimately familiar with the terrain, but the feel of the paper suggested the map outdated Gary Chávez.

Her cell phone buzzed. Another message from Wahlberg about the scene containment. She’d need to get back there, do a more thorough sweep now that they knew what they were looking for. But first⁠—

Izzy pulled up the preliminary notification report she’d started. The cursor blinked accusingly at her. She needed to update the Chávez family, tell them their son hadn’t taken his own life. But revealing that information now could compromise the investigation. If word got out too soon, their killer might destroy evidence, create alibis, vanish into the vast expanse of desert that surrounded them. If they hadn’t already. But she couldn’t delay the investigation—timing was critical in murder investigations. The first forty-eight hours could make or break a case. And once they started asking questions, the reasons would find their way to the Chávez home, eventually.

Mrs. Chávez’s face flashed in her memory—the raw grief, the confusion over why her son would do this. Izzy’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. The woman deserved to know the truth about her son.

Her office phone rang, startling her from her thoughts. Wilson’s voice came through, tight with urgency.

“Sheriff, there’s a forensics team from Harris at Dr. Barrow’s clinic.”

“I know,” she said. “How do you know?”

“I think that cat might be out of the bag.”

Izzy rolled her eyes at small-town grapevines.

“And Mrs. Chávez’s sister called, asking about funeral arrangements.”

Of course, the family would want to start planning. They thought this was a suicide, an open-and-shut case. Instead, their son’s body would be transported to Harris for a full autopsy, the truth of his death locked away in medical examiner reports and evidence logs.

“I’ll handle it,” Izzy said, ending the call.

She pulled Gary’s file closer, studying the initial photos from the scene. The knocked-over chair. The precise arrangement of the rope. Everything staged to tell one story while hiding another.

Her shoulder screamed as she reached for another file. The pain kept her focused on the tasks ahead. Review the scene. Process the evidence. Protect the investigation.

The weight of Mrs. Chávez’s grief pressed against her conscience. Izzy knew the agony of unanswered questions, the torture of not knowing the full truth about a loved one’s death. Mark’s face rose unbidden in her mind—the last time she’d seen him, the secrets he’d taken to his grave.

She pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the crime scene photos spread before her. The evidence would tell its story. She just had to make sure she was listening to the right version.

The ibuprofen hadn’t kicked in yet when Hawkins burst through her office door without knocking. The door slammed against the wall, making Izzy’s head throb.

“What’s this about a forensics team?” Hawkins planted his hands on her desk, looming over the scattered files. The anger was radiating off him.

Izzy kept her expression neutral, refusing to be intimidated by his posturing. “I’ve arranged for the body to be transported to Harris Regional for further examination.”

“For what possible reason?” His eyes narrowed. “This is a simple suicide. We were all there. We saw it.”

“I’m following standard protocol for an unattended death.” She kept his gaze, though her fingers curled into fists beneath the desk.

He barked out a laugh. “We don’t leave families waiting like this. We take care of business, Sheriff.”

His dismissive tone made her jaw clench. “This is my business, Undersheriff. I’m handling it according to proper procedure.”

“Proper procedure?” Hawkins frowned, adjusting his belt. “Proper procedure would’ve been consulting with me before calling in outsiders. This isn’t the FBI anymore. You can’t just throw around federal authority whenever you feel like it.”

Izzy tensed. “I don’t need federal authority to make decisions about my investigation.”

“Your investigation?” His words dripped with condescension. “The boy killed himself. Why drag this out? Let these people bury their son in peace.”

Her anger flared, but she kept her speech level. “Because it’s my job to be thorough.”

“Your job is to serve this community.” Hawkins gestured toward the window. “These people don’t need some big-city investigation. They need closure.”

“And they’ll get it,” Izzy said. “After a proper examination.”

“This isn’t how we do things here.”

“Then it’s time things changed.”

Hawkins’s face reddened. “You think because Daddy was sheriff, you can just waltz in here and remake everything in your image? This county ran just fine before you came back.”

The mention of her father sent a fresh surge of anger through her, but Izzy held her composure. “Your county was becoming the meth capital of the state on your watch.”

It was a cheap shot, the kind of thing she had promised herself she wouldn’t say about how things used to be handled.

Izzy took a breath. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Your job is to work with your team, not go over our heads.”

“My job is to investigate suspicious deaths thoroughly.”

“Suspicious?” Hawkins scoffed. “What’s suspicious about a man hanging himself in an empty building?”

Izzy studied him, weighing her options. The evidence of murder was preliminary. If word got out too soon, their chances of catching the killer would plummet. And Hawkins’s attitude made it clear where any leaked information would originate.

“Standard procedure requires ruling out foul play,” she said carefully. “The forensics team will help us do that.”

“We don’t need outsiders telling us what happened in our own town.”

“They aren’t outsiders—they’re county contractors. And this isn’t up for debate, Dab.” Izzy let steel enter her voice. “The transport team is already en route back to Harris. The examination will proceed as planned.”

Hawkins straightened, his expression hardening. “The county board won’t like this. Spending resources on unnecessary procedures.”

“Then they can take it up with me directly.” Izzy met his glare. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

He lingered, clearly wanting to say more, but Izzy had already returned her attention to the files on her desk. After a long moment, he turned and stalked out, leaving the door open behind him.

Izzy released a slow breath, uncurling her fingers beneath the desk. She couldn’t afford to show weakness. Not with Hawkins looking for any excuse to undermine her authority.

She glanced at the evidence bags containing the map and library card. Whatever had happened to Gary Chávez, she’d find the truth—with or without her undersheriff’s support.

Izzy massaged her temples, trying to focus. The afternoon descended into a parade of sideways glances and hushed conversations. Every time she stepped out of her office, another deputy would avert their eyes, suddenly absorbed in paperwork or their phone.

She watched Hawthorn and Thompson huddled near the coffee maker, their heads bent close together. As soon as she walked toward the pot, they scattered like startled birds, avoiding eye contact as they retreated to their desks. Even Wahlberg seemed affected by the mood, his usual eager updates now delivered with hesitation, as if he feared being seen talking to her too long.

Her cell phone rang again—the third call in twenty minutes. She let it go to voicemail, already knowing it would be another county supervisor just checking in about the forensics expenses. The constant interruptions made it impossible to concentrate on the evidence in front of her.

She was walking back across the lobby when she heard a phone ring again. This time, Hawkins’s voice carried from his office as he answered his extension.

“No, ma’am, I understand your concerns completely.” His tone dripped with sympathy. “I assure you, the traditional way of handling these matters was much more . . . considerate of the family’s feelings.”

Izzy’s jaw clenched. She strode back to the stairs, but Hawkins’s words rang in her ears. As she sat behind her desk, her eyes kept drifting to the evidence bags containing the map and library card. The items should have been telling her something, but exhaustion clouded her thoughts. The lack of sleep, the constant pain, the pressure of knowing every decision was being questioned—it all pressed down on her.

Mrs. Chávez’s face swam into her mind again. Izzy pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to push the image away. But it merged with another memory—sitting across from an Office of Professional Responsibility panel, trying to explain Mark’s actions, the same confusion and denial clouding her judgment. She’d missed the signs then, hadn’t wanted to see the truth about her husband until it was too late.

The parallel made her stomach churn. Was she overcompensating now? Seeing murder where there was only tragedy because she couldn’t bear to miss something again?

No. The evidence was there. The dual ligature marks, the signs of struggle—Cole’s examination had raised the questions, not her. This wasn’t about her past or her fears. This was about finding justice for Gary Chávez and his family.

She straightened in her chair, ignoring the protest from her shoulder. The whispers and sideways glances didn’t matter. The political maneuvering and budget concerns could wait. What mattered was uncovering the truth, no matter how uncomfortable that truth might be for some people in Darkness. But if Cole’s suspicions proved wrong, then things were going to get complicated.

Movement caught her attention—Cole’s broad frame filling her doorway, still dressed in his clinic attire.

Her heart skipped, but she kept her expression neutral. “I thought you’d be busy with the forensics team.”

“They’re gone.” He stepped into her office, closing the door behind him. His eyes swept over her, cataloging details with that precision she both appreciated and resented. “You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine.” She shuffled papers, avoiding his gaze. “Just reviewing the scene photos.”

“Your arm’s bothering you.”

It wasn’t a question. She hated how easily he read her pain, how his presence made her want to drop her guard.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” She reached for another file, wincing as the movement sent a fresh spike of pain down her arm.

Cole moved closer, his stance shifting from concerned friend to physician. “You’re done for the day.”

“I have work to do.”

“And it’ll be there tomorrow.” He gestured at the scattered files. “When you’re rested.”

Izzy bristled at his tone. “I don’t need⁠—”

“Sheriff.” The title carried weight, reminding her of their agreement: she’d accept his medical authority when she let him treat her. “You’re compromising your recovery.”

“This is a murder investigation.” She met his eye, challenging him. “I can’t just walk away because I’m tired.”

“You can’t investigate effectively if you’re fatigued.” His voice softened. “The evidence isn’t going anywhere. And the pathologist will tell you how to proceed. But if you push too hard now, you risk setting back your recovery both physically and mentally and that compromises any investigation.”

She wanted to argue, to assert her authority as sheriff. But exhaustion dragged at her limbs.

“Fine.” She started gathering files, movements sharp with frustration. “But I’m taking these home to review.”

“Izzy.” Just her name, but loaded with concern.

“Don’t.” She stood, swaying as fatigue hit her. “I’ll rest. But I need to stay on it.”

Cole watched her struggle one-handed with her jacket, not offering help. He knew better than to push that boundary. “I’ll follow you home.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Humor me.” His smile held a hint of challenge. “Unless you want me pulling rank as your doctor.”

She shot him a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Professional privilege.” He held the door for her, careful not to hover as she passed.

The drive home felt longer than usual, Cole’s headlights steady in her rearview mirror. He kept his truck at a respectful distance, but its presence reminded her of all the ways he watched out for her, even when she resisted.

Izzy pulled into her driveway, killing the engine. She waited, expecting Cole to park behind her. Instead, his truck idled at the curb. When she looked back, his headlights were turning away.

Something hollow opened in her stomach as his taillights disappeared around the corner. She hadn’t realized she’d been hoping he’d stay until the moment he left.

Izzy pushed through Joe’s front door, her files wedged against her chest. The scent of his house wrapped around her—old wood, wool blankets, and the lingering aroma of morning coffee. The TV droned from the living room, its blue glow spilling into the hallway.

She dropped her keys on the entry table, shifting the files to her good arm.

Joe sat in his usual spot, settled deep in his worn leather recliner. Some nature documentary played on the screen—bears fishing for salmon in an Alaskan stream. He glanced up as she entered, but didn’t comment on what he saw.

Izzy sank into the sofa, letting the files slide onto the coffee table. The cushions seemed to swallow her, and she didn’t fight it. Her whole body felt heavy, like she’d been running for days instead of just pushing through paperwork.

The documentary’s narrator droned on about migration patterns. Joe adjusted in his seat but otherwise remained still, his presence solid and uncomplicated in the growing darkness.

She should get up, should think about dinner. The kitchen was only steps away, but even lifting her head felt like too much effort. Her eyes drifted closed despite her determination to stay awake and review the case files.

Joe’s quiet breathing mixed with the TV’s soft murmur. The familiar rhythm of his home settled over her, making it harder to remember why she needed to keep working. Her muscles unclenched, the tension draining away as exhaustion claimed its victory.

The last thing she registered was Joe clicking the TV volume down a notch.

A deep rumble penetrated Izzy’s sleep—the distinctive sound of Cole’s truck. Before she could fully process it, Nanook’s excited barking jolted her upright. Pain shot through her shoulder.

“Sounds like you have a visitor.” Joe’s words carried quiet amusement from his chair.

Izzy blinked, trying to orient herself. The room had grown darker, the TV’s glow the only light. Her files remained untouched on the coffee table where she’d dropped them.

The front door opened, and Nanook bounded in, making a beeline straight for her. His tail wagged with such force his whole body shook. He pressed his cold nose against her hand, demanding attention.

“Traitor,” Cole called from the doorway.

But Nanook was already settling at Izzy’s feet, his chin resting on her knee. His brown eyes gazed up at her with complete devotion.

Joe’s soft chuckle filled the room. “That dog’s got good taste in people.”

Izzy scratched behind Nanook’s ears, earning a contented sigh from the massive malamute. Despite her drowsiness, she couldn’t help smiling at his obvious pleasure in her attention.

“He just knows who keeps treats in their desk drawer,” she said, but her fingers continued their gentle stroking of his thick fur.

“Dining table,” Cole said. He set his medical bag on the wooden surface, the snap of latches echoing in the quiet house.

She followed him, grateful for Nanook’s steady presence at her side. The dog’s fur brushed against her leg with each step.

She sat as Cole turned on a light and laid out supplies. Gauze, antiseptic, fresh bandages—the routine was familiar now, but something felt different tonight. Maybe it was the fatigue wearing down her defenses, or the way Cole’s presence seemed to fill the entire room.

“Shirt needs to come off,” he said, voice gentle.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her uniform shirt.

“Let me.” Cole leaned closer, his hands replacing hers on the buttons. The brush of his knuckles against her chest sent warmth spreading through her despite the clinical nature of his movements.

He eased the shirt off her good shoulder first, then carefully worked it down her injured one. Izzy’s skin tingled wherever his fingers made contact.

The sports bra presented more of a challenge. Cole’s hands hesitated at the edge of the fabric.

“This needs to move,” he said. “Just enough to check the wound.”

Izzy nodded, not trusting herself to speak. His fingers slid beneath the strap, easing it down carefully to the point of her breast, preserving a whisper of modesty while exposing the bandaged wound.

Cole’s breath warmed her skin as he examined the injury. His fingers probed around the edges of the bandage, professional yet intimate in their exploration.

“Inflammation’s down,” he murmured, more to himself than her. The antiseptic’s sharp scent filled the air as he cleaned around the wound. “But you’ve been pushing too hard.”

As he applied fresh bandages, Izzy couldn’t ignore the heat radiating from his proximity. Every brush of his fingers sent awareness skittering across her nerve endings. When he was done, he eased the sports bra back into place.

“Stay here,” Cole said, securing the last piece of tape. He disappeared toward her bedroom, leaving Izzy acutely conscious of her half-dressed state.

He returned carrying one of her soft sleep shirts. Instead of handing it to her, he gathered the fabric in his hands.

“Left arm out a touch,” he instructed.

Izzy complied, letting him guide the shirt up her arm and over her head. Then he held the arm hole open so she could raise her right arm through it. Although capable of doing the rest, she let him pull the T-shirt over her. His knuckles grazed her ribs as he worked the fabric down, each touch sending little sparks of electricity through her tired body.

The shirt settled into place, and Cole’s hands fell away, but the ghost of his touch lingered on her skin.

Cole closed up his bag and stepped into the kitchen, telling Izzy to stay right where she was. She watched him move through Joe’s kitchen, pulling ingredients from cabinets as if he’d always known their location. The sounds of chopping and sizzling filled the space, along with the rich aroma of garlic and ginger hitting hot oil.

Joe shuffled to his usual spot at the head of the table, his eyes tracking Cole’s movements with a mix of appreciation and wariness.

“You seem comfortable in my kitchen, Doctor,” Joe said.

Cole didn’t pause in his preparation of the vegetables. “Good kitchen layout. Reminds me of my grandmother’s.”

Nanook sprawled across Izzy’s feet under the table. The big malamute’s eyes followed Cole’s movements, particularly when he started browning strips of beef in the well-seasoned fry pan. The rich scent of black bean sauce filled the kitchen as Cole added it to the pan, setting aside a portion of plain cooked beef for Nanook. The dog’s tail thumped against the floor in anticipation.

“Spoiling my dog,” Cole said, but his tone held affection rather than criticism.

“He deserves it.” Izzy reached down to pat the dog.

The domestic scene felt surreal after the day’s events—Cole cooking in Joe’s kitchen while her grandfather watched with suspicion, eyeing the strange smells and ingredients, and a borrowed dog treating her like his favorite person. Yet somehow it worked, the four of them settling into an oddly comfortable dynamic despite the underlying tension of their various relationships.

The dining room filled with comfortable silence as they ate, broken only by the soft clink of utensils against plates. Joe’s initial wariness of foreign food had given way to grudging appreciation—though he’d never admit it aloud. He’d already gone back for seconds, muttering something about “waste not, want not” that made Cole smile with amusement.

Izzy pushed the remaining vegetables around her plate, torn between the warmth of this makeshift family dinner and the gnawing unease that refused to leave her. Gary Chávez’s death weighed on her thoughts, along with his mother’s devastated face and the questions that kept multiplying.

Beyond the kitchen windows, darkness pressed against the glass. Somewhere out there, a killer walked free, perhaps watching, perhaps planning. The comfort of this moment felt like a thin blanket against a bitter wind—temporary protection from harsh reality.

Cole gathered the plates, and Joe excused himself to his chair in the living room, leaving them alone in the kitchen. The sound of running water and gentle dish-clinking permeated the space between them.

When Cole finished, he dried his hands and collected his medical bag. “Time for us to head home.”

At the door, Nanook pressed against Izzy’s legs one last time before padding out to Cole’s truck. Cole lingered in the doorway, his expression softening as he looked at her.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips against hers. The kiss was gentle, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure of his welcome.

Izzy caught his shirt before he could pull away, holding him there for a moment longer. His warmth seeped into her, a brief respite from the chill of her thoughts.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she whispered against his mouth.

“All part of the service.” He touched her cheek once, then stepped back. “Try to actually rest this time.”

Chapter

Six

Izzy stalked the length of the conference room, the sound of her boots muffled by industrial carpet. The morning sun cast long shadows through the blinds, striping the walls like prison bars. Her shoulder ached less today, but nervous energy thrummed through her body, making it impossible to sit still.

The initial autopsy report wouldn’t come until late in the day, at best. Opening up the can of worms that would come with a murder investigation before cause of death was officially confirmed was a risk. It would set the small town buzzing in a way Izzy couldn’t control and didn’t like, and it would create torment for the family that couldn’t be put back in the box—if it turned out to be wrong. But Cole’s findings kept replaying in her mind—the dual ligature marks on Gary’s arms, the signs of struggle hidden beneath staged suicide. She wasn’t a medical professional, but she had seen enough death, and she trusted Cole’s judgment and conclusions.

She paused at the window, watching deputies arrive for the morning shift. Hawkins’s SUV pulled into his reserved spot, and her jaw clenched. His questioning of her decisions yesterday had spread like poison through the department. She couldn’t afford to wait for bureaucratic confirmation while evidence grew cold and witnesses’ memories faded.

The morning briefing would start soon. Deputies would file in expecting routine assignments—traffic patrol, following up on petty theft reports, usual small-town police work. Some would be sent off on patrol, while others launched a murder investigation that would shake their comfortable assumptions about what happened in their quiet corner of the county. She would have to choose wisely who did what.

Wahlberg’s appearance interrupted her thoughts. Izzy pulled down an outdated shift roster from the conference room’s whiteboard, replacing it with an enlarged photo of Gary Chávez. His driver’s license photo stared back at her—alive, unaware of what awaited him.

“Put the scene photos here.” She gestured to the left side of the board. “Sequential order, starting with the parking lot.”

Wahlberg nodded eagerly, already sorting through the stack of photographs. His enthusiasm reminded her of herself during her first big case at the Bureau. She pushed the memory aside, focusing on the task at hand.

“Yes, boss.” He placed each photo with a magnet, creating a visual pathway into the library. “Should we include the preliminary measurements?”

“Add them beneath each shot.” Izzy uncapped a marker and faced the whiteboard. She drew a straight line across the top, marking increments for the timeline.

The squeak of the marker filled the room as she noted the key points they knew for certain. “Body discovered—7:30 a.m..” She moved left along the line. “Assistant coroner estimate puts time of death between 8:00 p.m. and midnight previous evening.”

Wahlberg finished with the crime scene photos and moved to help her. “I have more shots of his truck interior in the system.”

Izzy told him they could look at them on screen, then stepped back to study their work. The photos traced Gary’s final moments—his truck in the street behind the school, the library’s back door, the reading room where he died. The conference room was now an incident room.

“How did he get inside? We need to check the locks at the library,” she said. “And confirm if any of the security cameras in town caught his movements before he reached the library.”

“On it.” Wahlberg pulled out his notebook, but hesitated. “Should we add the evidence photos from Dr. Barrow’s examination?”

Izzy glanced at the sealed envelope containing those photos. They would tell a different story than the staged scene—one of struggle rather than surrender. “Not yet. Let’s wait for the official report.”

Wahlberg glanced at his watch. “Shift briefing.”

Izzy nodded and followed him out.

She slipped into the back of the squad room as Hawkins began the morning briefing. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and watched him work the room with the ease of decades of practice.

“Drunk and disorderly at the Horseshoe last night. Thompson handled it.” Hawkins flipped through his notes. “Break-in reported at the Mini-Mart. Martinez is following up on security footage.”

He continued down his list of overnight incidents, deliberately skipping over the death at the library. The omission hung in the air like smoke, impossible to ignore. Deputies shifted in their seats, shooting glances at each other and occasionally back at Izzy.

When Hawkins finished assigning patrol routes, Izzy stepped forward. “One more item. Yesterday morning we had an unattended death at the Darkness Elementary library.”

The room stilled. Every eye fixed on her.

“The victim has been identified as Gary Chávez, age thirty. The investigation is ongoing, and the scene remains closed. Deputy Wahlberg is point on this. Any questions about the case go through him or directly to me.”

Rodriguez’s hand shot up. “What about the family? They’re going to want to make arrangements.”

“The medical examiner in Harris will complete their examination first.”

Mutters rippled through the room. Hawthorne shook his head, whispering something to Lee that made them both frown. Lawson and Johnson exchanged knowing looks. But Wilson and Martinez remained attentive, their expressions neutral.

Hawkins cleared his throat. “If there’s nothing else, dismissed.”

Deputies filed out, their usual morning chatter subdued. Izzy mentally cataloged their reactions, noting who seemed most troubled by her update. The divide in her department was becoming clearer—those who accepted change, and those who resisted it.

Back in the incident room, Izzy stood before the photo array. Something about the scene kept pulling at her attention, like a splinter under her skin. She traced Gary’s position with her eyes, following the rope’s path from his neck to the beam.

The knocked-over chair bothered her. She moved closer to the photos, studying the scene’s various angles.

The longer she stared at the evidence board, the louder her instincts screamed that the scene was wrong. Her gaze returned to Gary’s face in his license photo. What had he seen in those final moments?

Izzy needed to inspect the room again.

She watched the town blur past through the passenger window of Wahlberg’s patrol car. The morning sun glinted off storefronts, already busy with locals starting their day.

“Something specific you’re looking for at the scene?” Wahlberg glanced at her before returning his attention to the road.

“The chair.” Izzy shifted in her seat. “It’s bothering me.”

“The knocked-over one?”

“Among other things.” She studied his profile, noting the earnest curiosity in his expression. “You’ve noticed the office dynamics since my arrival?”

Wahlberg’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Hard to miss.”

“And where do you stand?”

“With you, boss.” He said it without hesitation. “Some of the old guard, they’re set in their ways. But change isn’t always bad.”

Izzy nodded, appreciating his directness. “I’m going to share something with you, Elliot. It needs to stay between us for now. Dr. Barrow found marks on Gary’s arms. Defensive wounds, possibly. And other signs that suggest this wasn’t suicide.”

“That’s why you sent the body to Harris.” Understanding dawned on his face.

“Evidence drives the investigation, not assumptions or convenience.”

“Like at the FBI?” There was no judgment in his tone, just genuine interest.

“Like any proper law enforcement.” Izzy watched his reaction. “We owe it to Gary and his family to be thorough. Taking our time seems cruel, but making mistakes is worse.”

“Makes sense.” Wahlberg turned onto the street leading to the rear of the library. “That’s why you’re keeping the circle small right now?”

“Evidence collection is critical in the first days. We can’t afford leaks or contamination.”

“Understood.” He pulled into the teacher parking lot. There were four cars there already. Izzy noted that Tam’s was one of them.

Izzy stepped out of the Explorer and glanced around. Crime scene tape still fluttered across the library’s rear entrance, yellow against the weathered brick. A small group of parents huddled in the school parking lot, their voices carrying across the morning air.

“Sheriff!” A woman broke away from the group, marching toward them. Izzy recognized her—Ruth Monahan, mother of two elementary students. “This is completely unacceptable.”

“Mrs. Monahan.”

“My daughter had nightmares last night. She saw that tape and started crying about monsters in the library.” Sarah’s face flushed with anger. “These are children. They shouldn’t have to see this.”

Izzy glanced at the other parents watching from a distance, then back to Ruth. “I understand your concern.”

“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, you’re traumatizing an entire school just to make some kind of point.”

“Mrs. Monahan.” Izzy stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I know this is disruptive. But that tape isn’t just about procedure—it’s protecting evidence in an active investigation. Would you rather we pretend nothing happened here?”

Ruth faltered. “Of course not, but⁠—”

“The tape will come down as soon as we’ve done what we need to do. In the meantime, we’re working with the teachers to route students through the school’s front entrance only.” Izzy gestured to where Tam stood in the doorway, greeting the arriving children with her usual warm smile. “Ms. Ramos has been wonderful about helping make this transition easier for the kids.”

Some of the fight left Ruth’s shoulders. “I just . . . We’re not used to this sort of thing here.”

“I know.” Izzy touched Ruth’s arm lightly. “And I promise we’re working to minimize the impact on the children while still doing our job thoroughly. Can you help us with that? Maybe talk to the other parents about keeping the conversations age-appropriate?”

Ruth nodded slowly. “I suppose we could do that.”

Izzy watched Ruth return to the group of parents, already speaking in hushed tones about either age-appropriate discussions or the uncooperative new sheriff. Izzy hoped that the fire was temporarily contained. She turned back to the SUV where Wahlberg stood waiting.

“Nicely handled,” he said.

“Sometimes you have to redirect the fear into something productive.” Izzy nodded to Tam, who waved from her position by the front door. “Let’s get inside.”

The reading room felt different, and it was more than the lack of a hanging body. Light streamed through the high windows, catching on the exposed rafters where the rope had been. The bookcases stood like silent sentinels, their contents safely locked behind glass.

Izzy pulled the crime scene photos from her bag and spread them across the heavy wooden table. “Look at these. What do you see?”

Wahlberg studied the images. “Victim hanging from the beam. Chair knocked over. Pretty straightforward suicide scene.”

“That’s what the two-dimensional evidence shows.” Izzy moved to where Gary’s body had been found. “But being in the actual space triggers different neural pathways. We process spatial relationships differently when we’re physically present. But our thoughts are also tainted by our preconceptions. Yesterday we saw a suicide because part of our brains told us that was what we should be thinking. Today we know something new, so our understanding is different.”

She walked the scene, touching nothing but gesturing as she went. “The rope was secured here, around the end of this shelving unit. Then up over that beam, down to where Gary hung.”

Wahlberg followed her movements. “Okay.”

“Now look at the chair.” Izzy crouched beside it. “In the photos, it looks like it was kicked sideways by Gary. But from here . . .”

She straightened and moved to the table. “Help me measure something. Stand where Gary was hanging.”

Wahlberg positioned himself under the beam. Izzy fished around the photos on the table and showed Wahlberg a photo of Gary’s suspended body.

“His feet were about here.” She held her hand at the height shown in the image. “Now look at the desk height, and then the chair.”

Wahlberg’s brow furrowed as he compared the measurements. His eyes moved from the photo to the actual furniture, then back again. His chin dropped.

“Wait.” He stepped closer to the desk. “If his feet were that high . . .” He looked at the overturned chair. “There’s no way he could have stood on that chair to reach the rope. The heights don’t match.”

“Exactly.” Izzy laid the photos on the table again. “The physical evidence tells us one story. But the spatial reality tells us something else entirely.”

“Gary couldn’t have hung himself,” Wahlberg said. “He was already dead when someone strung him up.”

“And positioned everything to look like suicide.” Izzy gathered the photos. “Good work, Deputy. Sometimes you have to be in the space to see what’s really there.”

She glanced at the photos as she collected them, each image now telling a different story. Not of despair and surrender, but of violence and calculation. But now there were more questions than answers: why this room? Was it premeditated? What was the motive?

“We start fresh,” she said. “Everything we thought we knew about this case just changed.”

Wahlberg nodded, his young face set with determination. “What about the parents? Mrs. Chávez deserves to know.”

“Yes.” Izzy touched the driver’s license photo, studying Gary’s face. His mother’s words echoed in her mind: My Gary would never . . . . She had known something wasn’t right about this.

“Want me to call her?”

“No.” Izzy slipped the photos back into their folder. “This news needs to come from me.”

“What about the pathologist’s confirmation?”

“That no longer tells us if it’s murder. We already know that. The forensics will now be about helping build a case.”

“And how do we do that, boss?”

“We start from the beginning.” Izzy moved toward the door, already cataloging their next steps. “Timeline, CCTV, background. I want to know every minute of Gary’s last day. And that starts with his family.”

Chapter

Seven

The Chávez home felt different with David’s truck in the driveway. The warmth and serenity Izzy had sensed on her first visit dissolved under a heavy blanket of tension. Even the wind chimes hung silent in the still morning air.

Wahlberg shifted his weight beside her, his uniform creaking. Izzy studied the worn welcome mat beneath her boots. The last time she stood here, she’d delivered news of a suicide to Mrs. Chávez. Now she had to tell both parents their son’s death wasn’t his choice at all. Her fingers brushed the manila folder tucked under her arm.

She reached for the doorbell, but before she could press it, the door swung open. David Chávez filled the frame, his stocky build casting a shadow across the threshold. The morning light caught the gray threading through his dark hair, aging him beyond his years. His eyes, nearly black like his son’s had been, fixed on Izzy with a hardness that made her earlier interaction with his wife feel like a casual chat.

“Sheriff.” He didn’t step aside to let them in.

“Mr. Chávez,” Izzy said. “We need to discuss some new information about Gary. May we come in?”

His jaw tightened. “You just need to let us know when we can have our son back. What else is there?”

“David?” Mrs. Chávez appeared behind him. “Let them in. Please.”

The touch seemed to deflate him. He stepped back, allowing them to enter the living room, where sunlight still filtered through those delicate lace curtains. But now the warmth felt like a mockery of the conversation to come.

Mrs. Chávez gestured to the sofa. “Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Chávez.” Izzy remained standing, Wahlberg a silent presence at her shoulder.

“My name is Elena.”

“Yes, ma’am. We won’t take much of your time.”

David planted himself in an armchair, arms crossed. “Then say what you came to say.”

Izzy drew in a breath, centering herself. She’d done this countless times before—delivered bad news, shattered lives with careful words. But something about the Chávez home, about the photos of Gary’s bright smile on the mantel, made this moment feel heavier. She watched David Chávez’s eyes track her every movement. Elena lay her hand on his shoulder, her touch anchoring him to the chair.

“Mr. and Mrs. Chávez, I need to inform you about a delay in returning Gary to you.” Izzy spoke softly. “The forensic pathologist in Harris requires additional time to complete his examination.”

Elena’s fingers tightened. “How long?”

“We don’t have an exact timeline yet. But I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

David surged forward in his chair. “What’s there to examine? You already told my wife it was suicide.”

“That information may not be accurate.” Izzy held his gaze.

“Because you don’t know what you’re doing.” David shrugged off his wife’s touch. “Just like your father.”

Beside her, Wahlberg stiffened. Izzy gave a slight shake of her head, a signal for him to stay quiet.

“David, please.” Elena’s voice carried a tremor. “Let her speak.”

Izzy shifted her weight, maintaining eye contact with David. “We’ve uncovered evidence that suggests Gary’s death was not suicide.”

The silence that followed pressed against her eardrums. Elena sank onto the arm of David’s chair, her hand covering her mouth. David’s face darkened.

“What evidence?” His words came out sharp enough to cut.

“I can’t share specifics during an active investigation. But I want you to know we’re pursuing every lead.” Izzy watched Elena reach for her husband’s hand. “We’re treating this with the utmost seriousness.”

“Seriousness?” David stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “My son is dead, and you’re playing detective instead of letting us bury him?”

“Mr. Chávez⁠—”

“No.” He jabbed a finger in her direction. “Your father did nothing when he had the chance. And now you’re here, making up stories instead of admitting you can’t handle the job.”

“David! Stop it.”

Izzy held her ground, feeling Wahlberg tense beside her. She’d prepared him for this, explained how grief could turn to anger in an instant. How they needed to absorb it, not react.

“I understand you’re frustrated.” Izzy kept her tone level. “But I promise you, everything we’re doing is to uncover the truth about what happened to Gary.”

“The truth?” David’s laugh held no humor. “The truth is, my son is dead, and you’re keeping him from us.”

Elena stood, placing herself between her husband and Izzy. “How certain are you? About it not being . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Certain enough to investigate thoroughly.” Izzy softened her tone for Elena. “I know this delays your ability to properly mourn Gary. But if someone is responsible for his death, don’t you want them held accountable?”

Elena nodded, tears spilling onto her cheeks. Behind her, David’s anger seemed to deflate, replaced by something rawer—fear, perhaps, or the weight of possibility crushing his certainty.

“How long?” His voice had lost its edge. “How long until we can bring him home?”

“I’m pushing for answers as quickly as possible. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.” Izzy glanced at Elena. “Day or night, you can call me directly.”

Elena wiped her eyes. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

David said nothing, but his silence felt less hostile. He sank back into his chair, looking older, more worn. Elena sat on the chair’s arm, their hands finding each other in shared grief.

Izzy settled onto the sofa, her muscles protesting the movement. Wahlberg perched next to her, notebook ready. The living room felt smaller now, crowded with unspoken fears and fresh grief.

“Elena, I need to ask you both some questions about Gary’s routine, his work.” Izzy said. “Anything that might help us understand what happened.”

Elena nodded, her fingers still intertwined with David’s. “Of course.”

Izzy glanced at Wahlberg, who had his notebook ready. “Where did Gary work?”

“Muller’s Machinery and Repair,” Elena said. “He’s been there more than ten years now. Started right after high school.”

David shifted in his chair. “Should’ve gone to college instead of wasting time fixing other people’s junk.”

“He was good at his job, David.” Elena squeezed his hand. “Mr. Muller trusted him with everything.”

“Where did Gary live?” Izzy asked.

“He had this camper attached to his truck.” Elena’s eyes drifted to a photo on the wall—Gary standing proudly next to his vehicle. “Said it gave him freedom, but I think he just liked saving money.”

“Couldn’t even afford a real place to live,” David muttered.

Izzy noted the past tense in their descriptions. “The camper wasn’t at the library. When was the last time you saw it attached to his truck?”

Elena’s brow furrowed. “Sometimes he left it at a farm he was working on. He repaired the farm machines. Sometimes that took time, days or even a week. The farmers were usually okay with it because it got the job done quicker. But lately, I don’t know.”

Elena glanced at David as if he might have more information, but he shook his head.

“What was his schedule like at Muller’s?” Izzy asked.

“Monday through Saturday, if he was in the workshop. Eight to six, sometimes later if there was a big job. But like I said, if he was on a property, he might stay out there until the job was done.” Elena’s voice steadied as she shared these details. “He’d come by for dinner most Sundays.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“The day before he passed.” Elena pressed her lips together. “He seemed normal. Happy even. He’d just been to San Francisco the weekend before, saw the 49ers play.”

David’s head snapped up. “Waste of money, that trip.”

“It made him happy,” Elena countered. “He’d been a fan since he was little. First time he could afford to see them in person.”

“And the day he passed?” Izzy pressed. “Did you see him then?”

Elena shook her head. “No, but he would have gone to work. That was Gary. He was reliable.”

“Never missed a day,” David added, his criticism falling flat, replaced by something that sounded like pride.

“Did he mention any problems at work?” asked Izzy. “Any conflicts?”

“No.” Elena’s voice cracked. “Everything was normal. That’s what I don’t understand.”

Izzy glanced at Wahlberg scribbling notes, then back at the grieving parents. “Tell me more about this 49ers game. Was he alone?”

“Yes.” Elena dabbed at her eyes. “He said he picked up a cheap ticket, maybe on the internet. He seemed happy when he got back. They won, you see.”

David’s shoulders slumped. “Should’ve saved that money for a real house instead of sleeping in that damn camper.”

The silence that followed felt heavy with regret. Izzy watched David’s hands tremble as he gripped the armrest, his earlier anger dissolving into something more vulnerable.

Elena filled the quiet. “He loved that camper. Said it let him take his home anywhere.”

Izzy closed her notebook, every muscle in her body taut with tension. The living room’s warmth had become stifling, but she kept her posture, kept her expression neutral. Years of FBI training hadn’t prepared her for the weight of small-town connections, where every case threaded through generations of history.

“I know this is difficult,” she said, meeting Elena’s tear-filled eyes. “But it would help our investigation if you could keep this development private for now.”

Elena nodded, her fingers still intertwined with David’s. “Of course. We understand.”

“Do we?” David’s tone cut through the air. “You want us to keep quiet so you can do nothing like your father?”

The accusation landed hard. She knew coming back to Darkness would bring on the comparisons to her father, both good and bad. Those who loved him and believed she could never measure up, and those who believed he did them wrong, so she would too. The weight of his badge, his decisions, pressed down on her shoulders alongside her own. She didn’t know what David’s problem with her father was, but this was not the time to engage with it.

“David, please. She’s trying to help.”

“Sir, I understand your frustration,” said Izzy. “But when we are searching for the perpetrator of a crime, it usually helps if they’re not aware of what we know.”

David shifted in his chair but said nothing more.

Elena stood, her small frame somehow filling the space between them. “Sheriff.” Her voice carried a quiet strength that cut through David’s anger. “Find who did this to my son. Please.”

The simplicity of her plea stripped away the layers of history and hurt. Izzy met Elena’s gaze, saw the raw need for truth in her eyes.

“I will do my best, Mrs. Chávez.” Izzy said. “You have my word.”

“Your word?” David’s laugh held no humor. “A Llewellyn’s word means nothing in this house.”

Izzy stood. She’d been trained to absorb verbal attacks, to keep composure under pressure. But something about David’s words, about the weight of both family legacies pressing down in this small room, turned the knot in her stomach tighter.

“We’ll be in touch as soon as we have more information.” Izzy nodded to Wahlberg, who moved toward the door. “Thank you for your time.”

“Sheriff?” Elena’s words stopped her at the threshold. “Whatever you find . . . we need to know the truth. All of it.”

Izzy turned back, saw the mixture of hope and fear in Elena’s eyes, the barely contained grief in David’s rigid posture.

But she wasn’t going to make a promise she couldn’t keep. Perhaps that had been her father’s mistake. Izzy knew that sometimes they didn’t discover the truth. She had promised to try as hard as she could, and that was all she could offer, so she gave Mrs. Chávez a nod.

“Ma’am. Sir. I’ll be in touch.”

The winter air hit Izzy’s face as she stepped onto the Chávezes’s porch, her boots crunching on the thin layer of frost. She pulled her jacket tighter, watching her breath form clouds in the cold morning light. Behind her, the door closed with a soft click.

They walked in silence to Wahlberg’s SUV, their footsteps echoing across the empty street. The image of Gary’s truck in the street behind the library flashed through her mind—the dark blue Silverado sitting alone, no camper in sight. Something about that detail nagged at her.

“Elliot, Gary’s truck.” Izzy glanced at the deputy. “We moved it to the maintenance shed, right?”

Wahlberg nodded as he unlocked the vehicle. “Yes, ma’am.”

Izzy slid into the passenger seat, her mind piecing together what she knew. A man who lived in his camper. Who needed it for work. Who’d just returned from San Francisco. Yet his truck sat in that parking lot without it.

“Let’s swing by Muller’s before heading back.”

Wahlberg guided the SUV through Darkness’s quiet streets. Peak Street emerged ahead, the industrial section where Muller’s Machinery and Repair took up nearly half a block. The building’s weathered facade loomed dark and silent, heavy chains securing the roll-up doors. No vehicles in the lot, no signs of activity.

“When’s the last time you saw this place open?” Izzy studied the padlocked entrance.

“Can’t say I’ve noticed, boss.” Wahlberg slowed the SUV. “But there’s always farm machinery that needs fixing.”

The empty parking lot felt wrong. No customer vehicles waiting for repair. No staff cars. Just dead leaves skittering across cracked concrete.

“Something’s not adding up.” Izzy straightened in her seat. “Let’s get back to the office. I want you to go over Gary’s truck again—every inch. Find out where that camper might be.”

“You think it’s connected?”

“A man who lives in his camper shows up without it? It’s an unanswered question, and I don’t like those.”

Chapter

Eight

Cole leaned over his desk and squinted at the patient’s blood pressure readings in front of him. The numbers weren’t trending in the right direction. He scribbled a note detailing her adjusted medication regime.

Movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention to the doorway. Izzy stood there, her frame rigid with tension. Her fingers drummed against the doorframe, and her eyes darted around his office like she was cataloging escape routes.

“Hey.” He set down his pen. “Everything okay?”

She stepped inside but didn’t sit, pacing instead near his desk. The stiff way she held her left shoulder made him frown.

“Is it giving you trouble?” He stood, reaching for her. “Let me take a look⁠—”

“No.” She waved off his concern. “The shoulder’s fine.”

The dismissal didn’t ease the worry lines forming between his brows. Something had her wound tight as a spring, and experience told him it wasn’t physical pain driving her restlessness.

“Sit down at least?” He gestured to the chair where patients normally sat.

She shook her head, continuing her path across his office floor.

Cole watched Izzy pace. The way her fingers tapped against her leg. The slight furrow between her brows.

“What did the pathologist say?” Her words came out clipped.

He drew in a slow breath, choosing his next words carefully. “They’re backed up. And an autopsy needs full attention⁠—”

“How long?” She stopped pacing, fixing him with that intense stare that made most people squirm.

“Tomorrow at the earliest,” he said. “Maybe the day after.”

Her jaw clenched. She resumed pacing, each step more deliberate than the last. Cole recognized the signs of her trying to keep control—the measured breathing, the way she flexed her fingers at her sides.

“That’s not good enough.” She spun to face him. “I’ve got parents who deserve answers. A town full of rumors. And Hawkins—” She cut herself off, running a hand over her hair and along her ponytail.

“I know.” He resisted the urge to reach for her, to try to still her restlessness. She wouldn’t welcome the touch right now.

Cole leaned back in his chair, maintaining his calm demeanor despite Izzy’s agitation. Her energy filled his office, a sharp contrast to the peaceful morning light filtering through his window.

“Dr. Pickett has to balance multiple responsibilities at Harris Regional,” he explained. “He handles clinical pathology for the hospital alongside his forensic work.”

“That’s not my problem.” Izzy glanced out the window. “I need answers now.”

“The hospital contracts his services. They get priority on his lab time,” Cole said. “He runs blood work, tissue samples, everything that keeps the hospital functioning.”

“And Gary Chávez?” Her voice held a tone that put Cole on edge. “Where does he fit into those priorities?”

Cole recognized the mounting tension in her, the way she held herself like she might snap, when the weight of responsibility pressed too hard. “Autopsies require focus, and Dylan’s thorough. He won’t rush and risk missing something crucial.”

Her pacing quickened. “While evidence goes cold and rumors spread.”

“The scene’s secured. Evidence is preserved.”

Izzy stopped at his window, staring out at nothing. The light caught the shadows under her eyes, reminding Cole how little she must have slept. Her fingers pressed against the glass, leaving marks that reflected her contained frustration.

“It’s not good enough,” she said again. Her words came out barely above a whisper.

Cole noted the slight tremor in her hands, the rigid set of her jaw. The doctor in him saw exhaustion. The man who cared for her saw something deeper.

“There has to be something you can do.” She turned from the window, her gaze boring into him. “Call Pickett. Push him to prioritize this.”

“I can’t do that, Izzy.” He held his easy tone despite her intensity. “Dylan answers to the county board and hospital administration, not to me.”

“But you know him. He respects your opinion.”

“Which is exactly why I can’t abuse that relationship.” Cole leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “It would be unprofessional to demand special treatment.”

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. “This isn’t about special treatment. It’s about justice.”

“And Dylan will ensure that justice is served through proper procedure. But he will tell me the same thing I would say in his place: in triage, the most urgent patient goes first, and a live patient will always take precedence over a deceased one.”

“And evidence gets colder every hour we wait.” She resumed her pacing, each step more aggressive than the last. The old floor creaked beneath her boots.

Cole’s neck muscles tensed as he tracked her movement. “I understand your frustration⁠—”

“Do you?” She whirled to face him, color high in her cheeks. “Because from where I’m standing, you seem perfectly content to let bureaucracy dictate the pace while a family suffers.”

The accusation stung, but Cole kept his expression neutral. “Following proper procedure protects everyone involved, including Gary’s family.”

“If it were your kid lying in that morgue, would you still hide behind procedure?”

Cole’s breath caught in his throat as he gripped the edge of his desk. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of her words. Izzy’s eyes widened as she realized what she’d said, the anger draining from her face.

“Cole, I⁠—”

He held up a hand, needing a moment to steady himself. The office felt too small. Years of medical training helped him keep his external calm, but inside, old wounds tore open fresh.

Izzy’s shoulders slumped, the fight leaving her body. The space between them felt vast and treacherous, filled with unspoken hurts and regrets.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” Her voice had lost its edge, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. “I’m sorry.”

Cole nodded, still working to find his equilibrium. He saw now how deeply this case had gotten under her skin, how desperately she needed to make things right.

“If it were my kid,” he said finally, each word carefully chosen, “I’d want everything done immediately. But that’s why families don’t get to make these decisions. Because our job is also to consider the kid who is lying in a hospital bed, one whose life we can still save.”

Izzy nodded as his words sunk in. “I’m sorry. I just . . .”

“You want to ease the family’s pain. But the thing is, they’re going to feel the pain, anyway. That’s grief, and it won’t matter what you do; they have to go through it. We’ll find them answers, Izzy, and then you’ll get to the bottom of this. I know you will.”

She was clenching her jaw, and Cole could see the muscles working into knots.

“I’ll drop by tonight and check on your shoulder.”

“It’s fine.”

“Then I’ll just drop by to see you.”

Izzy’s spine snapped into a military posture as she turned toward the door. “Okay.” Her movements carried the same quality he recognized from his own time in service—a defense mechanism when emotions threatened to overwhelm.

Her gait betrayed the physical toll of the past few days. The slight hitch in her step spoke of exhaustion settling into muscle and bone. Her left arm stayed close to her body, protecting the healing wound that he knew must be screaming from the tension she carried.

Izzy’s boots struck the old Victorian hardwood. Each footfall echoed through the high-ceilinged office, marking time like a metronome. The sound bounced off the white walls, amplifying the weight of their unfinished conversation.

She paused at the threshold, her hand resting on the doorframe. For a moment, Cole thought she might turn back, might bridge the gulf their words had carved between them. But her fingers merely tightened on the worn wood before she stepped through, leaving the doorway empty.

The space she’d occupied seemed to vibrate with all they’d left unsaid. Cole stared at the empty doorway, cataloging Izzy’s symptoms. The rigid posture, hypervigilance, and psychological volatility all pointed to post-traumatic stress manifesting after her shooting. Her body was still healing, but her mind was fighting its own battles.

He’d seen similar patterns in soldiers fresh from combat zones—the restless energy, the need to maintain control, the drive to prove themselves capable despite injury. The way she’d paced his office reminded him of countless veterans who couldn’t sit still, their bodies humming with unexpressed tension.

He rubbed his hand across his stubbled chin as he recalled their earlier interactions. The quiet vulnerability when he’d changed her dressings at Joe’s house. The way she’d let him care for her, if only briefly, before rebuilding her walls. Now she was retreating into isolation, falling back on old patterns he recognized from his own past.

Mark’s betrayal had left deeper scars than the physical wounds she carried. Cole had seen it in the way she second-guessed her instincts, but was reluctant to trust anyone’s judgment but her own. The need to solve Gary’s case quickly wasn’t just about justice—it was about proving herself right, proving she hadn’t lost her edge, showing her worth to a town still doubting her.

His own marriage had crumbled under similar pressure. While deployed, he had worked with local Afghan communities and seen children who were the innocent victims of war. Some had died in his arms. He’d shut down emotionally, believing he was protecting Amber by keeping his experiences to himself. By the time he recognized his mistake, the damage was done. Now he watched Izzy walking the same path, throwing herself into work rather than facing her trauma.

He needed to monitor her more closely, but without triggering her defenses. Push too hard, and she’d shut down completely. Not hard enough, and she’d work herself to exhaustion.

His eyes drifted to his phone. Despite his earlier stance, he could call Dylan. Not to demand priority, but to offer assistance. His presence in Harris might speed things along naturally, and it would satisfy his own curiosity that he had been correct in his determinations.

Cole weighed his options. Izzy needed support, but she also needed to feel in control. His involvement had to thread that needle carefully—present enough to help, distant enough to respect her independence.

Their growing connection complicated things. The distance he usually kept with patients had eroded, leaving him more invested in her well-being than he cared to admit.

He’d drive to Harris tomorrow, offer Dylan his assistance with the autopsy. It wasn’t special treatment. Just one doctor helping another during a busy time. If that happened to serve multiple purposes, well, that was just efficient medicine.

Chapter

Nine

Cole thumbed through the last patient charts of the day, updating treatment notes and medication adjustments. The old Victorian building creaked and settled around him as evening descended. Outside his window, winter darkness crept in early, turning the glass into a mirror that reflected his office’s warm lighting. His computer screen cast a blue glow across the scattered papers and coffee mug rings staining his desk calendar.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension of the day. The quiet felt oppressive after a day filled with patient consultations and phone calls. His earlier conversation with Izzy echoed in his mind, her words still sharp enough to make him wince.

A gentle knock drew his attention. Serena stood in his doorway, her purse already slung over her shoulder. “Heading out, Dr. Barrow. Need anything before I go?”

“No, thanks. Get home safe.” He managed a tired smile. “And Serena? Good work today. This is always a busy time.”

Her face brightened at the praise. “Thanks. Don’t stay too long.”

“I won’t.”

Cole listened to her footsteps fade, followed by the distant click of the back door and the beep of the security system engaging. He walked into the dark procedure room and noted that Serena had replaced the padding that hid the cold steel underneath.

Through the window, he watched Serena walk to her car, fishing keys from her purse. The lot’s security lights cast pools of yellow in air that seemed heavy and likely to snow. Serena’s car started with a muffled rumble, headlights cutting through the darkness as she backed out. Cole’s Ram remained, but he had no plans to use it. Not yet.

He returned to his office and opened the bottom drawer of his file cabinet, where he pulled out an unmarked black backpack. Unlike his regular doctor’s bag, with its organized compartments and professional appearance, this one was deliberately nondescript. He methodically checked his supplies—gauze, medical tape, antibiotic ointment, and a fresh suture kit. His fingers brushed against the prescription pad, but he left it behind.

Cole slipped the stethoscope from around his neck, and dropped it into the bag, then he added a blood pressure cuff. He clicked his penlight on and off, then zipped the bag closed. He slipped off his doctor’s coat and hung it on the rack by the door, pristine white against the dark wood jamb. Cole replaced the coat with his tan Carhartt jacket lined with sheep’s wool. The heavy fabric settled across his shoulders as he shrugged it on, comfortable and inconspicuous.

The back entrance still bore traces of its history as a funeral home—wide double doors designed for different cargo than the medical supplies he now carried. Cole’s boots echoed on the wooden floor as he approached the exit. Old habits from his military days surfaced as he peered through the glass pane, scanning the alley behind the building.

Empty. The security light showed snow starting to fall. Leaving his truck would turn a three-minute trip into twenty, but it was more recognizable than he cared for right now. His breath fogged the glass as he watched and waited, making sure the space remained clear. The temperature had dropped since sunset, but Cole ignored the bite of cold air as he stepped outside. He pulled the door shut behind him, testing the handle to ensure it locked.

Cole pulled his jacket collar up against the light snowfall and headed down the alley behind the clinic. The narrow passage between buildings offered protection from the wind, but shadows collected in doorways and behind dumpsters. His boots crunched on fresh powder as he cut between the hardware store and the old bakery.

The Masonic Hall’s windows glowed warm yellow, an early evening meeting in full swing, perhaps bingo or the quilting circle. Cole paused and looked for traffic, and finding none, he jogged across the highway, then ducked down Cedar Street, where most houses sat dark except the Anderson place. Their kitchen light spilled across the Xeriscape yard, and he caught glimpses of the family preparing dinner through gauzy curtains.

He’d made plenty of house calls since moving to Darkness, checking on patients who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—come to the clinic. Some after hip surgery. Kids with pneumonia. Often these visits were purposefully undocumented, no billing codes or insurance forms.

Cole cut through the empty lot behind the Methodist church. The houses here were newer, the lots larger, with yards that required watering, which was like pouring gold into the ground. A Mayberry-esque street that belied the pain hidden behind drawn curtains and locked doors.

His training demanded clear boundaries between doctor and patient. They protected both parties, prevented emotional entanglement that could cloud judgment. But Darkness operated on different rules. Here, community meant knowing which rules to bend and which lines to cross.

The snow fell harder now, obscuring his tracks almost as quickly as he made them. Cole pulled his mental map of back routes and shortcuts, plotting the safest path to her house. She wasn’t just another patient, and that complicated everything.

Cole slowed his pace as he approached the home, staying close to the shadows cast by overgrown hedges. The two-story house sat back from the street, partially hidden behind mature pines. Their branches drooped under fresh snow, providing additional cover as he surveyed the property.

No pickup truck in the driveway. Good. The garage door remained closed, and the front of the house appeared dark except for a single porch light—standard for this neighborhood at this hour.

He circled wide along the property line. The back of the house revealed what he needed to see—a dim yellow glow from the kitchen window, curtains drawn but light visible. Their agreed-upon signal.

Cole kept to the shadows as he approached the rear of the property. Motion sensors could trigger flood lights, but he knew their locations from previous visits. The back deck stretched across the full width of the house, the outdoor kitchen covered for the winter, weathered wood creaking under his weight despite his careful steps.

The key waited in its hiding spot beneath a loose board by the back door—exactly where she said it would be. Cole extracted it, the metal cold against his fingers. He inserted it into the lock, turning it with care. The door opened with just a whisper of sound.

The kitchen’s warm air wrapped around him as he stepped inside, carrying scents of dinner and pine-scented cleaner. Cole eased the door shut and re-locked it, pocketing the key. He’d return it to its spot before leaving.

Standing motionless in the dark kitchen, Cole listened for any unexpected sounds from upstairs. Nothing but the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the forced-air heat cycling through the vents. He set his black backpack on the counter, opening it slowly to avoid the harsh sound of the zipper breaking the silence.

She appeared in the doorway to the living room, showing no surprise at his appearance in her kitchen. She moved to the table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. Her eyes met Cole’s fleetingly. The dim light from above the stove caught the soft curves of her face, highlighting the delicate slope of her nose and the gentle arch of her brows. But tension lined her mouth, and purple shadows spread below her eyes.

Cole studied her posture—shoulders hunched, arms pulled tight against her body. Her gaze darted to the windows every few seconds, checking the darkness beyond the glass.

“The kids?” Cole kept his voice low, barely above a whisper.

“Upstairs.” She matched his quiet tone. “Disney movie. They’ll be occupied for a while.” Her eyes flicked to the ceiling, then back to the windows. “He won’t be home until late. Things to do, he said.”

Cole nodded, noting how she seemed to shrink into herself at the mention of her husband.

Cole pulled supplies from his bag. The kitchen’s dim lighting wasn’t ideal, but he’d worked in worse conditions. He dampened gauze with saline solution and stepped closer to examine the cut above her right eye.

“This might sting, Erin.” He dabbed gently at the wound, cleaning away dried blood to better assess the damage. The laceration wasn’t deep enough for stitches, but the surrounding tissue had already started to swell. “Follow my finger with your eyes, please.”

She tracked his movement, her pupils responding normally to his penlight. No signs of concussion, but he noted how she winced at the brightness.

“Any dizziness? Nausea?” Cole asked.

“No.” She barely moved her lips when speaking.

He cataloged each injury—the cut above her eye, bruising along her left cheekbone, finger-shaped marks on her throat. His training helped him hold his composure, but rage simmered beneath his calm exterior.

“I’m going to check your back now.” He waited for her small nod before lifting her shirt. Dark bruises spread across her deltoids, likely from impact with a wall. “Deep breaths. Tell me if anything feels sharp or different from normal pain.”

She inhaled shakily. Cole pressed along her spine, checking for structural damage. Nothing seemed broken, but the bruising was extensive.

“Frozen vegetables wrapped in a towel will help with swelling,” he explained. “Peas work best—they conform to shape. Keep two bags in the freezer door and rotate them so they won’t be noticed missing.” He applied antibiotic ointment to her facial cut. “Twenty minutes on, twenty off. The towel prevents frost damage to your skin.”

Cole showed her how to use arnica gel on the bruises. “This absorbs completely, leaves no smell or residue.” He placed the tube in her hands. “Hide it inside an old lotion container.”

Cole finished applying a Band-Aid to her cut, preferring a butterfly bandage, but knowing that would raise questions. The kitchen’s dim light cast shadows across her face, making the bruising appear even darker. He disposed of the wrappings and sanitized his hands, buying time to choose his next words carefully.

“There are people who can help,” he said softly. “Organizations with experience handling these situations.”

She stiffened, her fingers tightening around the cold mug. “I can’t.”

“You don’t have to decide anything right now. But there are options. Safe houses. Legal assistance. People who understand⁠—”

“The kids.” Her voice cracked. “He’ll never let me take them.”

“There are lawyers who specialize in these cases. They can help protect your rights, your children’s rights.”

She shook her head, glancing at the windows again. “You don’t understand. He’ll find us.”

Cole leaned against the counter, deliberately casual, non-threatening. “The organizations I work with have experience with all kinds of families. They know how to keep people safe.”

“I saw you.” Her words came out barely above a whisper. “With the sheriff. In town.”

Cole’s jaw tightened as he recognized the fear beneath her words. “Doctor-patient confidentiality is absolute. Nothing we discuss leaves this room.”

“But she’s . . .” Erin’s breathing quickened. “If she finds out . . .”

“Sheriff Llewellyn has no access to my medical records or private consultations,” Cole said. “What happens between us stays between us. That’s not just a promise—it’s the law.”

She studied his face, searching for deception.

Cole put his stethoscope in his backpack. “I’d give you my cell number, but . . .”

“He checks my phone. The numbers I call.”

Cole nodded. “If it’s bad, call the clinic. Ask for an appointment and say you think it’s polio. That’s our code. Serena will understand and get word to me immediately.”

His throat felt tight with the weight of what he wasn’t saying—his growing feelings for Izzy, the ethical tangle of keeping secrets from her, the fear that his silence might someday result in something she might have to investigate, something that he might have prevented.

But looking at Erin’s bruised face, Cole knew he couldn’t risk her trust. Some promises had to be kept, even at the cost of other relationships. He’d sworn an oath to do no harm, and right now, betraying her confidence would cause irreparable damage.

“Any time,” he said quietly. “Day or night. The clinic line is always answered.”

A car engine rumbled in the distance. Erin’s head snapped toward the sound, her body going rigid. Cole froze mid-movement, listening intently. The engine grew louder, then faded as the vehicle passed the house.

Her shoulders slumped with relief, but her hands trembled as she lifted her mug. “You should go.”

Cole nodded, gathering his supplies. Each item went back into the black backpack in order—gauze, ointments, bandages. He’d need to restock some items before his next house call.

“Think about what I said.” He kept his volume low, zipping the bag closed. “There are people who can help you disappear. Good people who know how to keep you safe.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, shrinking further into the shadows. “He has friends everywhere. Police. Lawyers.”

Cole wanted to tell her she could trust the sheriff, but he knew that was a conversation they would need to have in parts and a trust that would have to be earned. He picked up his bag. “Think about it.”

“I can’t.” Her voice cracked. “Not yet.”

Cole’s fist tightened around the bag strap, but he forced himself to nod. Pushing too hard would only make her retreat further. “Remember the code word if you need me: polio. Serena will understand.”

He moved to the back door, his steps whisper-quiet on the tile floor. Cold air rushed in as he eased the door open.

Cole paused on the threshold, looking back at her shadowed form. “You don’t deserve this. Neither do your children.”

She didn’t respond, but he saw her fingers brush the bruising on her throat.

The door closed with barely a click. Cole returned the key to its hiding spot, his movements deliberate despite fingers numbed by cold. Snow continued to fall, erasing his earlier tracks. He kept to the shadows as he retraced his path across the property, staying close to the fence line where overhanging branches provided cover.

The street remained empty, houses dark except for scattered windows glowing warm against the night. Cole cut through yards and alleyways, avoiding the main roads where he could. The weight of his backpack seemed heavier now.

Darkness pressed in around him, broken only by occasional streetlights and the ambient glow of the town. The snow muffled all sound, creating an illusion of isolation that matched his internal state. Each step away from her house felt like a failure, leaving her trapped.

Cole’s training emphasized professional distance, maintaining boundaries between doctor and patient. But those rules assumed support systems existed—police who would protect victims, courts that would dispense justice, shelters with room for families. Here in Darkness, just like the army, those systems were compromised by small-town politics and personal connections.

The Methodist church loomed ahead, its spire barely visible in the night sky. Cole cut across the empty parking lot, his thoughts as heavy as his footsteps. Izzy would want to help. She’d know how to navigate the legal system, how to protect Erin and her children, but a bad result now would only drive other victims further into hiding.

Cole sighed as he imagined Izzy’s reaction if she discovered his clandestine house calls. Her trust issues ran deep, shaped by Mark’s betrayal. Finding out Cole was keeping secrets, even for valid reasons, could shatter their growing connection.

Looking back toward the house, now hidden by distance and darkness, Cole knew he couldn’t stop. Someone had to help these women, these families trapped in cycles of violence. If keeping that trust meant keeping secrets from Izzy, he would bear that burden.

The clinic’s outline emerged through the snow. Cole circled to the back entrance, his decision settled but not sitting easy.

As he drove toward home, the dusting of snow gave the streets a bucolic quality, covering the town and all the cracks that hid below.

Snow drifted in lazy spirals as Elliot Wahlberg walked the quiet streets toward the Masonic Hall. The evening air held that special stillness that came with snowfall, muffling the usual sounds of the town. At an elevation of four thousand feet, snow rarely settled on the valley floor, despite being surrounded by fourteen-thousand-foot peaks that would keep the last of their snowpack right through summer.

The old hall’s windows glowed amber against the deepening night. Light spilled onto the snow-dusted porch, creating pools of warmth that beckoned through the flurries. Inside, shadows moved past the windows—the book club cleaning up from their weekly meeting.

Elliot paused at the edge of the gravel lot, hands tucked into his coat pockets. The streetlights cast perfect circles through the falling snow, each flake catching and sparkling like diamond dust before joining its fellows on the ground. His breath fogged in the cold air.

Movement caught Elliot’s eye as the hall’s front door swung open. Jenny emerged, her face lighting up at the sight of the falling snow. Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth inside, and snowflakes caught in her light brown hair like tiny stars.

“Where’s the truck?” She descended the steps, pulling her scarf tighter.

“Parked at home.” Elliot grinned. “You always say walking in the snow is one of the best things in life.”

Jenny’s laugh echoed across the empty lot. “Using my own words against me?” She reached his side and slipped her arm through his. “Sneaky, Deputy Wahlberg.”

“Guilty as charged, Mrs. Wahlberg.”

They set off down the sidewalk, their footsteps crunching in perfect sync through the fresh powder. The snow had already coated the ground in a thin white blanket, unmarred except for their tracks.

“The book club’s reading that Margaret Atwood.” Jenny pressed closer against his side. “The Handmaid’s Tale.”

“Is it good?” Elliot patted her hand where it rested in the crook of his arm.

“It’s about a dystopian future where a totalitarian government has taken over and stripped women of their rights.”

“That doesn’t sound like fun.”

Jenny shook her head. “Not for the women. But it makes you think.”

“I don’t want to think about a dystopian future. I get enough of that stuff at work.”

“Says the man who spent today doing paperwork.”

“Hey now, paperwork is very dangerous. Paper cuts are no joke.”

Jenny shook with laughter. “My brave protector.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a few steps, their breath mingling in white clouds before them. The snow continued its gentle descent, transforming the streets into something magical.

Elliot breathed in the crisp air, savoring this peaceful moment with Jenny. Not for the first time, he wondered how he got so lucky. His contentment shattered when she squeezed his arm.

“So what really happened with Gary Chávez?”

Elliot’s steps faltered. “You know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.” The words felt hollow, even to him.

“But it wasn’t suicide, was it?” Jenny said. “The whole town’s talking about how Sheriff Llewellyn ordered an autopsy.”

Elliot measured his response carefully. Sheriff Llewellyn trusted him, and he wouldn’t betray that trust, not even for Jenny. But his wife’s instincts were usually spot on.

“The sheriff is being thorough,” he said. “Making sure we have all the facts.”

Jenny pulled them to a stop beneath a streetlight. Snowflakes danced in the golden glow around them. “The reading room though—why there? He wasn’t some kind of scholar, was he?”

He smiled at her sharp observation, even as he wrestled with how much to share. Jenny had always been the smarter one between them.

“That’s actually a good question.” He brushed snow from her hair. “And you’re right. It doesn’t make sense. Gary worked at Muller’s shop, lived in his truck. The reading room isn’t somewhere he’d naturally go.”

“And how did he even get in? Isn’t it kept locked?”

“It is.” Elliot nodded. “Ms. Ramos locks up after school. But we’re going to have to figure out who else had keys.”

“Plenty of people, I’d say.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I’ve been in that room a few times, mostly with Tamara. She said once that the lock was as old as the books inside. How many keys have been through how many hands over the years?” Jenny’s brow furrowed in thought. “But Gary Chávez wouldn’t have been any of them, would he?”

“Maybe he wasn’t the one who had the key,” Elliot said. His eyes went wide at what he had said. “But we can’t jump to conclusions. Sheriff Llewellyn wants us to follow the evidence.”

“Is that why she’s pushing for the autopsy? Because the evidence doesn’t add up?”

Elliot sighed. “The sheriff believes in being thorough. That’s all I can really say.”

Jenny nodded, accepting the boundary, even though her mind clearly worked through the puzzle as they resumed walking. “She’s different than what people expected,” Jenny said after a moment. “Sheriff Llewellyn, I mean. Everyone thought she’d be like her father.”

“I don’t know what he was like, but she’s her own person.” Elliot felt defensive on Izzy’s behalf. “And she’s good at what she does. Really good.”

“I can tell you respect her.”

“I do.” He squeezed Jenny’s hand. “She sees things others miss. Asks the right questions. Like you do.”

Jenny smiled up at him. “Maybe I should have been a deputy too.”

“You still could be.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Jenny’s eyes widened. “Really? You think I could?”

Elliot thought about how naturally Jenny picked apart the inconsistencies in Gary’s death, how her mind worked through problems. “I think you’d be amazing at it.”

A flash of movement between the Ely’s colonial revival and the old Nettle place caught Elliot’s attention. He stilled, his arm tightening instinctively around Jenny.

This stretch of Darkness held the town’s more affluent homes—sprawling properties set back from the road behind manicured lawns and ornamental gates. Houses here dated back to the mining boom, when silver and lead money built Victorian mansions and colonial revivals with wraparound porches and widow’s walks. Now city doctors, lawyers, and the occasional tech refugee fleeing Silicon Valley occupied many of these stately homes, at least on weekends.

A figure darted through the shadows between the properties, moving with deliberate stealth. The fresh snow made tracking easy—clear footprints marked their path between the houses. But the falling flakes would soon erase any evidence of their passing.

Elliot’s training kicked in. The way the person moved suggested they didn’t want to be seen. Not the casual gait of someone walking their dog or heading home.

The streetlights cast long shadows across pristine snow, creating perfect cover between pools of illumination. Ancient oaks and maples provided additional concealment. The figure used these shadows skillfully, timing their movements between patches of darkness.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Something about this felt wrong. The wealthy neighborhood with part-time residents attracted crime, though that had died down when winter arrived. Elliot touched his hand to his coat, where the compact Glock sat in a discreet holster on his waist.

Elliot squeezed Jenny’s arm. “Go home. I’ll check this out.”

“Not happening.”

“Jenny, please. If something’s wrong⁠—”

“Then you shouldn’t be alone.” She gripped his sleeve. “What if you need backup?”

“I can radio for⁠—”

“By the time backup arrives, whoever that is will be long gone.” Jenny’s eyes held his in the dim light. “You know I’m right.”

Elliot struggled with his instinct to protect her versus the logic of her argument. The figure was already moving further away, using the cover of the elaborate landscaping.

“Fine.” He kept his voice low. “But stay close, and if I tell you to run⁠—”

“I know.” Jenny squeezed his hand. “I’ll run and call dispatch.”

They moved off the sidewalk, using the massive oak trees for cover. The snow muffled their footsteps, but Elliot’s heart still pounded with each crunch. Jenny matched his movements perfectly, stepping where he stepped to minimize noise.

The figure ahead paused at the corner, checking the street before darting across. Elliot counted to three before following, Jenny’s breath warm against his neck as they crouched behind an ornamental shrub.

Darkness wrapped around them like a cloak as they left the reach of the streetlights. The snow continued falling, obscuring visibility but also hiding their pursuit.

Jenny touched his arm and pointed. The figure had stopped at the edge of the Pavlich place, by their stone wall. Elliot pulled Jenny deeper into the shadows of a massive spruce tree.

They watched as the person studied the house, head turning methodically as if checking windows and doors. The snow highlighted their dark clothing in stark contrast.

Jenny’s hand found his in the darkness, squeezing once. She jerked her chin toward a line of decorative boulders that would give them better cover. Elliot nodded, and they crept forward.

The wet flakes caught in Elliot’s eyelashes, but he didn’t dare blink. The figure ahead was moving again.

Jenny proved remarkably stealthy, her feet finding secure placement even in the gathering snow. She moved like a shadow herself, anticipating when to pause and when to advance. Her presence at his side felt natural, coordinated, as if they’d trained for this together.

The distance between them and their target gradually closed. Elliot’s muscles tensed with each step, hyperaware of every sound—the soft patter of snow, the whisper of wind through bare branches, the muted thump of his own heart.

The figure led them south, across Del Rio, around the rear of the commercial district’s darkened storefronts providing new shadows to navigate. The figure’s path became clear as they approached the medical clinic. Elliot’s brow furrowed—what business would anyone have there at this hour? Did they keep drugs on site?

The clinic’s Victorian architecture loomed against the snowy sky, its windows dark except for the security light above the rear entrance. The figure paused at the corner of the building, checking the surroundings before moving toward the black truck parked in the lot.

A gust of wind cleared the falling snow for a moment. The security light caught the person’s face as they passed through its glow, and Elliot felt Jenny stiffen beside him.

Dr. Barrow.

Elliot watched, frozen, as Cole unlocked the Ram pickup and climbed in. The truck’s engine rumbled to life, and Cole pulled away, heading west toward the highway.

Jenny’s fingers dug into Elliot’s arm. “Was that who I thought it was?”

Elliot nodded, unable to reconcile the furtive behavior with the respected doctor’s usual open manner. The snow was already beginning to fill in Cole’s footprints, erasing evidence of his strange march through town.

Elliot and Jenny walked home in silence for several blocks, the fresh snow squeaking beneath their boots. His mind raced, trying to make sense of Cole’s secretive behavior.

“Maybe he was just checking on a patient?” Jenny’s voice held a note of uncertainty.

“Why all the sneaking around?” Elliot kicked at a clump of snow. “If he was making a house call, why not drive?”

“Could be someone who doesn’t want others knowing they need medical attention.”

Elliot considered this. “That’s possible.”

“Perhaps he’s protecting patient privacy?” Jenny huddled closer against the cold. “You know how gossip spreads in this town.”

“Maybe.” Elliot frowned. “Something felt off about the whole thing.”

“Should you tell Sheriff Llewellyn?”

The question shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. The sheriff trusted him, counted on him to have her back. But Cole was also part of their team, the person they relied on for medical expertise. And he knew, in the sheriff’s case, that the doctor meant a whole lot more.

“I don’t want to cause trouble.” Elliot brushed snow from his sleeve.

“But?”

He sighed heavily. “But the sheriff needs to know if something’s not right.”

Jenny squeezed his arm. “You could ask Cole directly?”

“And if he’s hiding something important?” Elliot shook his head. “I don’t want to tip him off.”

“You really think Dr. Barrow could be involved in something illegal?”

“I don’t know what to think.” Elliot was wracked with indecision.

They walked another block in silence, both lost in thought.

Jenny said softly, “I trust your judgment.”

But Elliot wasn’t sure he trusted his own judgment anymore. The weight of loyalty pulled him in opposite directions, leaving him suspended between duty and doubt.

Chapter

Ten

Cole pulled into the staff parking lot behind Harris Regional, guiding his Ram between the neat rows of vehicles. The hospital’s familiar bulk loomed against the morning sky, its windows reflecting the pale winter sunlight. A few early shift nurses hurried across the lot, their scrubs bright spots of color against the gray concrete.

He killed the engine but didn’t immediately get out. Cole felt the weight of Izzy’s expectations, mingling with memories of their last conversation. Her frustrated words echoed in his mind: What if it was your kid?

The question had struck deeper than she probably intended. Cole understood the bureaucracy of rural medicine—the delays, the protocols, the hierarchy of triage. But he also recognized the fire in Izzy’s eyes, the determination to solve this case before the trail went cold.

He looked across the lot at the door into the pathology lab at the rear of the building, where Dr. Pickett would be waiting. Cole had worked with him enough to know the man’s methodical nature, his resistance to being rushed.

Getting out of the truck, Cole felt the cold morning air bite through his jacket. The rear entrance to pathology stood like a challenge before him. He needed to push for urgency without alienating the one person who could provide the answers Izzy needed.

Her pleading expression from yesterday haunted him. The way she’d looked at him, expecting him to make this happen, trusting him to help clear the path. The thought of disappointing her twisted his stomach in knots.

But beyond his personal feelings lay a deeper truth—a young man was dead, and his family deserved answers. Whether those answers confirmed suicide or revealed something darker, the waiting only prolonged their pain.

Cole swiped his access card and pushed through the heavy double doors. The antiseptic smell hit him—stronger here than in the main hospital corridors. His boots squeaked against the polished floor as he navigated the warren of basement hallways.

Last night’s phone call with Dylan played through his mind. The pathologist’s initial resistance had been clear in his clipped tone.

“I have a loaded schedule already,” Pickett had said.

“This one can’t wait.” Cole said. “I’ll be there first thing tomorrow morning to assist.”

A long pause had followed before Pickett agreed, though Cole detected the underlying tension. They both knew that by announcing his intention to attend, Cole had forced Pickett’s hand. The pathologist couldn’t exactly tell him not to come.

The morgue’s stainless steel doors loomed ahead. Through the small window, Cole could see Pickett already prepping, his back turned as he arranged instruments on a metal tray. The movements betrayed no urgency, but at least he was starting.

Cole paused outside the door. By pushing for this autopsy, he’d stepped beyond his usual role. The political dynamics in Harris were delicate—Pickett relied on a contract with the county to survive, and Izzy was yet to win over all the county supervisors. Rush jobs and special favors created ripples that could affect his business, and Cole’s relationship with him.

Cole stepped into the morgue, the temperature drop immediate. Pickett’s shoulders tensed at Cole’s entrance, though he didn’t turn around.

“Dr. Barrow.” Pickett’s voice held a note of resignation. “Right on time.”

“We need answers on this one, Dylan.”

Pickett’s hands stilled over his instruments. “You know how these things work. There’s a process⁠—”

“And a family waiting for answers.” Cole moved closer, noting the reluctance in Pickett’s posture. “I appreciate you getting onto this.”

Pickett finally turned, his already thin face tight with tension. “Your Sheriff Llewellyn can’t push on every case. This lab has other responsibilities, you know? To the living, not just the deceased. And there are people in the county who aren’t happy with her particular approach.”

Cole’s jaw clenched. “What people?”

“Come on, Cole.” Pickett’s eyes darted to the door. “You know I can’t name names. My practice depends on county contracts. I can’t afford to make enemies.”

“Your job is to determine cause of death,” Cole said, his frustration mounting. “Not play politics.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who—” Pickett cut himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Let’s just get this done.”

Cole grabbed a coat from the hook, shrugging it on. The starched fabric crinkled in the tense silence. He slipped a plastic apron on and tied the strings with more force than necessary, watching as Pickett adjusted his own protective gear.

They donned masks and gloves, the clinical routine a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere. Neither spoke as they completed their preparations, the weight of their words hanging between them.

Cole stood beside the steel autopsy table, watching as Pickett positioned the microphone above Gary’s body. The lights made the victim’s face look like an overexposed photo, highlighting the discoloration around his neck.

“Autopsy report for Gary Chávez,” Pickett said into the microphone. “Time is 8:47 a.m. Present are myself, Dr. Dylan Pickett, and Dr. Cole Barrow.”

Cole’s eyes traced the ligature marks on Gary’s neck while Pickett continued his preliminary observations. The pattern wasn’t right for a simple hanging; he was sure of it. But now he would know for certain.

“Beginning external examination,” Pickett announced. “Subject is a Hispanic male, thirty years of age. Height five feet nine inches, weight one hundred seventy-five pounds.”

Pickett’s gloved hands moved methodically over Gary’s body, documenting every mark and anomaly. “Multiple contusions on both forearms. Pattern and placement consistent with restraint by a second party. Defensive wounds visible on right forearm.”

They worked in silence for several minutes, Pickett dictating his findings as he examined Gary’s arms. The bruising there told its own story—circular marks where someone had gripped him tight enough to leave impressions.

Then the pathologist moved up Gary’s body. “Note significant bruising around the neck, presenting in a distinct pattern inconsistent with typical suicide by hanging.”

Cole leaned closer, pointing to the marks. “See how the rope burns create two parallel lines?”

“Agreed.” Pickett spoke into the microphone. “Ligature marks indicate strangulation. Bruising pattern suggests significant force was applied from behind.” Pickett got in close and then grabbed some tweezers from his tray. He pulled some fibers embedded in Gary’s neck. Holding the tweezers up to the light, he inspected what he had found. “Fibers embedded in the victim’s neck appeared to be from the rope found at the scene. Will analyze.” He slipped the fibers into a plastic evidence bag and continued. “Secondary ligature marks on the neck appear to be post-mortem.”

Dr. Pickett rolled his stand-up computer desk closer and looked at the screen. “Time of death estimated between nine and eleven p.m. Monday night, based on liver temperature and degree of rigor,” Pickett continued. “Preliminary findings support Dr. Barrow’s initial assessment of homicide disguised as suicide. The victim was likely strangled with the rope found at the scene, then positioned to appear self-inflicted shortly after death.”

The evidence mounted as they worked, each discovery backing up Cole’s original suspicions. Gary Chávez had been murdered, and someone had gone to considerable effort to make it look otherwise.

Pickett paused his dictation, looking at Cole. “Your initial examination was spot on. Every mark, every indication you noted—it’s all here.”

Cole nodded, his jaw tight. The confirmation brought no satisfaction.

He watched as Pickett covered Gary’s body with a sheet, their examination complete. The pathologist moved to a separate examination table where the rope from the scene lay coiled.

“Take a look at this.” Pickett spread the rope out, pointing to the knot configuration. “Notice anything unusual?”

Cole leaned in, studying the intricate pattern. The rope itself was high-quality nylon, with a distinctive stiffness to it.

“This isn’t a typical noose.” Pickett manipulated the knot. “It’s a honda knot—the kind used in lariats. See how it’s designed to create a running loop?”

“Like a lasso?” Cole ran his gloved fingers along the rope’s surface, feeling the waxy coating that gave it its rigidity.

“Exactly. This is hard laid rope, specially treated with wax to hold stiffness. Makes it ideal for roping cattle.” Pickett’s eyes met Cole’s. “Did Chávez work as a ranch hand?”

“I don’t know.”

They stood silent for a moment, minds working through the evidence. Cole visualized the scene—Gary alone in the reading room, someone approaching from behind with the rope ready.

“The marks on his arms suggest he was caught by surprise,” Cole said. “Roped from behind, like you’d catch a steer.” Cole stripped off his gloves and protective gear. “I need this report as soon as possible, Dylan. Sheriff Llewellyn needs to know what we found.”

“The formal report will take time.” Pickett removed his own gear more deliberately. “Processing the fiber evidence, toxicology⁠—”

“Then give her preliminary findings. Something official she can act on.”

Pickett frowned. “You’re pretty invested in helping the sheriff.”

“This is about getting justice for Gary Chávez.”

“Is it?” Pickett leaned against the counter. “Look, Cole, I’ve known you a while. You’re letting your feelings for her cloud your judgment.”

Cole’s jaw tightened. “My judgment is fine.”

“What happens when she loses the election? When she packs up leaves? Everyone knows she didn’t want to be here, or she never would have left.” Pickett’s tone softened. “Where does that leave you?”

The question hit Cole hard. Heat rose as he fought back an angry response.

“She didn’t leave of own accord, Dylan. She was sixteen. Her dad died and her mom took her and her sister to the east coast,” Cole said through clenched teeth. “Look, she’s good at her job, and she needs our support, not speculation about her future.”

“I’m trying to look out for you.” Pickett gathered his notes. “Don’t stake everything on someone who might not stick around.”

Cole grabbed his coat, anger warring with an unwelcome seed of doubt. “Just get her those preliminary findings. Today.”

But as he strode toward the door, Pickett’s words echoed in his mind. Would Izzy stay if she lost the election? Or would she view it as another reason to leave Darkness behind?

Cole pushed the thoughts away. Right now, Izzy needed evidence to solve Gary’s murder. Everything else was just noise.

Chapter

Eleven

Cole steered his Ram along Highway 395, the heavy clouds pressing down on the desert landscape. The usual stark contrasts of scrub and stone merged into a single muted palette, creating an otherworldly vista that matched his unsettled mood.

Dylan’s warnings about forces working against Izzy replayed in his mind, mixing with the brutal evidence they’d uncovered during Gary’s autopsy. The rope burns, the defensive wounds, the carefully staged scene—all of it pointed to a calculated murder.

But it was Dylan’s other warning that gnawed at him. The suggestion that Izzy might leave, that she’d never intended to stay in Darkness. Cole had seen enough people pack up and abandon small towns like theirs, seeking bigger opportunities elsewhere.

A memory surfaced—Amber standing in their kitchen, boxes stacked around her. “You always choose the hard road, Cole. The impossible cases, the difficult patients, the deployments that take you away. It’s so exhausting.”

He’d wanted to argue then that doing what was right wasn’t about choosing the easy path. But the truth was, he had said nothing, as if he, too, was exhausted by his own choices. Now, watching the desert scroll past his window, he wondered if the same exhaustion was ebbing into his bones. Here he was, falling for a woman who carried more baggage than most airlines, who faced opposition from unknown forces within the county, who once had roots in Darkness that were torn from the ground and which she might not want to put down again.

The clouds parted briefly, sending shafts of light across the landscape. Cole flexed his fingers on the wheel, remembering how it felt to help Izzy with her wound dressings, the trust in her eyes when she let him care for her. The quiet moments sharing dinner with Joe, Nanook sprawled at their feet.

Maybe Amber was right. Maybe he did choose the difficult path. But watching Izzy fight for justice, seeing her determination to uncover the truth despite the personal cost—he realized that she was a kindred spirit, one who took the road that needed to be taken, not just the easy way. He wondered how two people like that could coexist.

Cole pulled the Ram onto the shoulder of Highway 395, gravel crunching under the tires. His phone felt heavy in his hand as he stared at Izzy’s number on the screen. The information from the autopsy would change everything—confirm her suspicions, and likely set off a chain of events he couldn’t control.

He leaned back against the headrest. The desert stretched endlessly before him, a reminder of just how isolated they all were out here. How vulnerable.

His thumb hovered over the call button. Once he shared this information, there’d be no going back. Izzy would throw herself into the investigation with everything she had, regardless of the political cost. And he realized, with sudden clarity, that he was already too invested to walk away. Whether it was the right choice or not, he was on this path with her.

Cole pressed call and waited through three rings before Izzy answered.

“Where are you?” he asked, hearing road noise in the background.

“In Wahlberg’s patrol vehicle. We’re checking something out. Where are you?”

“Heading back from Harris. I was at the autopsy.” Cole sighed. “The findings confirm my initial examination. Gary Chávez was murdered.”

“Tell me.”

“Like I suspected. Ligature marks show he was strangled from behind with the same rope used to stage the scene. The rope itself is specialized—a lariat, not just some old rope. And the knot wasn’t a typical noose. It was a honda—that’s a particular kind of knotted loop used to create a lasso, apparently. There were defensive wounds on his arms consistent with restraint, and the bruising pattern suggests his attacker roped him from behind. Dr. Pickett asked if Gary was a ranch hand.”

“A ranch hand? Because of the lasso?”

“Yes.”

He heard Izzy’s sharp intake of breath. “Good to know. Time of death?”

“Between nine and eleven p.m. Dylan’s processing fiber evidence from the rope, but the preliminary findings are conclusive. This was staged to look like suicide.”

“I knew it.” Her voice hardened with determination. “The scene was wrong. The height, the chair placement—none of it made sense.”

“Izzy, there’s something else. Dylan mentioned there are people in the county who aren’t happy with how you’re handling things. Powerful people who⁠—”

“I don’t care about politics right now, Cole. A man was murdered.”

“I know, but⁠—”

“No buts. Gary’s mother looked me in the eye and asked me to find out what happened to her son. That matters more than some good old boys’ club being uncomfortable with change.”

Despite his concerns, Cole felt a surge of admiration at her fierce conviction. “Just . . . be careful. We don’t know who we’re dealing with.”

“I’m always careful.” He could hear the ghost of a smile in her voice. “But I appreciate you looking out for me.”

Cole stared at his phone after Izzy disconnected, her determination still echoing in his mind. Through the windshield, cars and trucks rushed past on the highway, their drivers oblivious to the weight settling inside him.

The desert stretched before him, vast and unchanging. He’d chosen this place, this life, believing he could build something permanent here. A practice that mattered. A home that felt real. But now, watching the endless stream of vehicles heading elsewhere, he recognized the bitter irony of his situation.

Just as he’d finally found his footing, finally opened himself to the possibility of more than just existing in Darkness, he’d fallen for someone whose future here was uncertain. The election loomed like a storm on the horizon. If Izzy lost, would she stay? Could she? The thought of her leaving, of watching another woman he cared for drive away from him, brought back old wounds.

He checked his mirrors and pulled back onto the highway. The familiar rhythm of the road helped settle his thoughts. Whatever came next, he couldn’t change it by worrying. Izzy needed his support now, needed someone in her corner as she fought for justice in a town that seemed determined to resist change.

Chapter

Twelve

The previous evening’s snow had melted as Wahlberg pulled into Muller’s lot. Steam rose from puddles where morning sun hit wet pavement, creating ghostly tendrils that danced and dissipated in the crisp air.

Izzy shifted in the passenger seat, her side twinging as she took in the changed scene. Unlike her previous visit, when the place had been locked tight, the yard now bustled with activity. Three mud-splattered pickup trucks lined the parking area, and the deep rumble of machinery spilled from the open bay doors.

The acrid smell of diesel fuel mixed with engine oil hit her as she stepped out of the vehicle. Her boots splashed in a shallow puddle, and she breathed in the industrial scents that reminded her of stakeouts at truck stops and warehouses during her FBI days.

Old habits kicked in as she scanned the building’s exterior. Security cameras mounted at strategic points—two above the main bay doors, two covering the equipment yard. Professional-grade units, not the cheap systems most small businesses installed. The coverage left few blind spots.

The mechanical symphony grew louder—the whine of power tools, the clang of metal on metal, voices calling back and forth across the shop floor. Through the open bay, she glimpsed figures moving between the hulking shapes of tractors and farm equipment.

“Different vibe from yesterday,” Wahlberg said, coming around the Explorer to join her.

Izzy nodded, her eyes still tracking details as they stepped inside. She moved toward a small office partitioned from the main shed. A stack of invoices visible through the office window indicated business as usual. If someone here was involved in Gary’s death, they were preserving a convincing facade of normalcy.

Izzy pushed open the office door, a bell chiming overhead. The front area smelled of coffee and machine oil, with a worn counter displaying various small parts and tools. Behind the counter, a middle-aged man hunched over paperwork, his weathered hands marked with decades of mechanical work. The name stitched on his work shirt matched the “Muller’s” logo on the building outside.

“Morning,” Izzy said. “Sheriff Llewellyn. This is Deputy Wahlberg. Are you Mr. Muller?”

The man glanced up, his expression shifting from distracted to attentive. “Call me Matt, please. What can I help you with, Sheriff?”

“We need to talk about Gary Chávez.”

“Gary? What about him?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Matt rubbed his temple, leaving a smudge of grease. “Friday morning. He was heading out to work on the Robertsons’ tractor.” He paused, studying their expressions. “What’s this about?”

“Gary was found dead yesterday morning.”

“Dead?” Matt’s voice cracked. The color drained from his face, and he gripped the edge of his desk. “How?”

“We’re still investigating the circumstances.” Izzy watched his reaction carefully. “Can you tell me about Gary’s work here?”

Matt’s eyes drifted toward the workshop outside the office. “Best mechanic I ever had. Self-taught mostly, but he had a gift. Could diagnose problems just by listening to an engine.” Pride mixed with grief in his voice. “Last month, he figured out why Thompson’s new hay baler kept jamming. The manufacturer’s rep couldn’t even spot it, but Gary traced it to a microscopic timing issue.”

“What was his schedule like?”

“Flexible. Nature of the work—can’t predict when machinery will break down. But Gary was reliable. Always showed up when needed.” Matt gestured at a whiteboard covered in notes and schedules. “He’d check in most mornings unless he was already scheduled for an off-site job.”

“You didn’t miss him yesterday?”

“Honestly, no. If he was working a big job out at one of the farms, we might miss each other for a couple of days. But he’d always call in updates.”

Izzy nodded and glanced at Wahlberg. “We stopped by yesterday, but the shop was closed.”

“Yeah, emergency out at the Moretons’. Their water pumped failed—could’ve lost livestock if we didn’t get it fixed. I was only gone about three hours.” Matt’s hands twisted together. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” He swallowed hard. “How did he . . . Was it an accident?”

“We’re still investigating,” Izzy repeated. “Did Gary ever mention any problems? Personal issues, conflicts with customers?”

Matt shook his head. “He was quiet, kept to himself mostly. But solid. Dependable. I trusted him with my reputation, with my customers’ livelihoods. Never let me down.”

Izzy shifted her weight, easing the pressure on her injured side. “Did you know where Gary was living?”

“Yeah, in that camper of his. Good setup, actually—let him stay close to jobs when needed.” Matt’s matter-of-fact tone suggested nothing unusual about the arrangement.

“You didn’t find it strange?”

“Housing’s tight in town, and what’s available isn’t cheap. Plus, Gary seemed to like the freedom of it. Could park out at a farm for a week while doing a big repair.” Matt shrugged. “Clients appreciated having him right there on site. Got things done faster.”

Izzy noted how naturally Matt discussed the arrangement, as if having your mechanic camp in your field was perfectly normal. But then again, in rural communities like this, maybe it was.

“The camper wasn’t on his truck when we found it,” Izzy said. “Any idea where it might be?”

“Could be out back. He’d leave it here between jobs sometimes.” Matt gestured toward the rear of the building. “I can show you.”

They walked through the shop floor, past tractors in various states of repair. Izzy cataloged the layout—three large bay doors at the front, a side entrance out the equipment yard, and a rear exit. Tools lined the walls in organized sections, and an overhead crane system suggested they handled serious equipment.

“You were okay with Gary leaving the camper here?” asked Izzy.

“Sure. Why not?” said Matt. “He was doing me a favor when he stayed out on site. Didn’t have to do that, so no skin off my nose when he stayed here. If anything, it was extra security around the place.”

“You have many problems with theft?” asked Wahlberg.

Matt shook his head. “Not much. The odd thing goes missing, you know. Times are tough out here.”

The rear gate was secured with a heavy chain, and beside it stood a small shed. Next to the shed sat Gary’s camper, propped up on sturdy jacks. The Western Wilderness M-9 Sierra showed its age but appeared well-maintained, its dark blue exterior recently washed despite the winter weather. Without the pickup truck underneath it, the camper looked like a shell without a snail.

Izzy snapped on some nitrile gloves and climbed the metal steps into Gary’s camper, ducking her head beneath the low doorframe. The interior felt smaller than she’d expected—a compact living space that spoke of careful organization and minimal possessions.

A narrow bunk stretched above the truck cab area, the unmade blankets bunched at one end as if Gary had rolled out of bed and never returned to straighten them. Below the sleeping area, built-in cabinets lined both walls, their worn handles suggesting frequent use. Each drawer and compartment had been labeled with neat handwriting: Tools, Clothes, Kitchen, Documents.

“How does anyone live in something this small?” Wahlberg’s tone carried a mix of wonder and claustrophobia as he hovered in the doorway.

Izzy moved methodically through the space, starting with the kitchenette. A single bowl and plate sat in the drying rack beside the tiny sink. The mini-fridge held basic groceries—eggs, milk, sandwich supplies. Nothing expired, nothing molding. A stack of mechanical manuals occupied one corner of the counter, their pages marked with color-coded tabs.

Personal touches revealed themselves in subtle ways—a small wooden cross hung by the bed, a few family photos taped to the wall showing younger versions of Gary with his parents. A well-worn paperback of The Old Man and the Sea lay on the small fold-down table.

The closet held three pairs of work pants, five shirts, and two sets of coveralls, all cleaned and pressed despite the cramped living conditions. Work boots lined up beneath, their steel toes gleaming from regular maintenance.

“Check this out,” Wahlberg called from outside. He’d circled to the back of the camper, where a small external compartment housed tools. “Everything’s organized by size and type. Guy was serious about his work.”

“Always,” said Matt, watching on with his hands in his pockets.

Izzy nodded, continuing her search of the interior storage spaces. Gary’s living arrangement might have been modest, but nothing about it suggested temporary or transient. This was a home, carefully looked after and lived in with purpose.

The rear compartment of Gary’s camper yielded two notebooks, tucked behind a stack of repair manuals. Izzy pulled them out, careful not to disturb any potential evidence. The first was leather-bound, its cover cracked and weathered, page ends yellowed with age. Not the kind of notebook you’d pick up at the drugstore—this was old, maybe decades so.

She settled onto the small fold-down table, mindful of her injury. The pages crackled as she opened the cover, revealing neat columns of handwritten text. Dates lined the left margin: 1848, 1851. The writing itself was precise, almost architectural in its formation, as if each letter had been carefully constructed rather than casually scrawled.

Two names caught her eye: Guadalupe Hidalgo and Grainger Preston. The Hidalgo name tugged at her memory—something from local history, perhaps? She made a mental note to ask Tam. But Preston, she knew. Not Grainger, specifically, but the Prestons were old money in Mirage County, their influence stretching back generations.

The second notebook was newer, standard spiral-bound, with a tattered and frayed card stock cover. Different handwriting filled these pages—looser, more rushed. References to Dead Man’s Hollow appeared multiple times, along with mentions of something called diseños.

She compared the notebooks side by side. While the first focused on dates and names, the second contained location descriptions and what looked like coordinates. Both had been stored together, but they did not belong to one person.

“Wahlberg,” she called. “Check the other compartments. Look for anything related to San Francisco—ticket stubs, 49ers merchandise, receipts.”

“Nothing, Sheriff. No evidence he ever went to that game.”

Izzy frowned. Gary’s mother had mentioned the football game, how unusual it was for him to spend money on something like that.

She slipped both notebooks into evidence bags. She needed to study the contents fully to understand any connection they had to Gary’s death, and she had an idea of how to expedite that. But the absence of any proof of his supposed trip to San Francisco nagged at her. A big 49ers fan, and not a single memento from what would have been an expensive and maybe once-in-a-lifetime trip.

Izzy stepped out as Wahlberg photographed and bagged each item—the well-worn Hemingway paperback, the neatly pressed clothes, the work boots that showed such meticulous care. The final sweep revealed nothing obviously suspicious—no hidden compartments, no traces of drugs or weapons, just the organized life of a skilled mechanic who lived within modest means.

“We’ll need to transport the camper to the sheriff’s office,” Izzy told Matt. “I’d like a complete inventory done in a controlled environment.”

Matt nodded, his face drawn with concern. “I can put it on my truck. Just let me know when your people are ready.” He hesitated. “Sheriff, Gary was good people. He was a quiet guy, you know, but not depressed or anything. Not that I saw . . .”

“We don’t believe Gary took his own life, Matt.”

Muller’s brow creased, but he didn’t ask for more details.

Izzy watched as Wahlberg sealed the camper door with evidence tape. “We’ll have someone over this afternoon to coordinate the transport. I appreciate your help with that, Matt. In the meantime, nobody goes inside.”

Matt nodded, and the look of concern didn’t leave him. Izzy and Wahlberg headed for the exit, and Matt walked with them until he reached the office. She watched through the grimy window as he flopped down into his chair and stared stony-faced at the desk.

“Boss?” asked Wahlberg. “What’s next?”

“Let’s get this stuff back to the office. I want to understand more about what these notebooks are telling us. And let’s go through the camper with a fine-tooth comb. We need to know every little secret it has.”

Chapter

Thirteen

Izzy spread the two notebooks across the incident room table. Her whole side ached as she leaned forward, but she pushed the discomfort aside. The scribbled dates and cryptic references held secrets she needed to unravel.

Izzy rolled the whiteboard on casters closer to the wall. As she did, the door opened, and Tam walked in, still wearing her classroom smile. “Got your message.”

Izzy walked over to her old friend and wrapped her arms around Tam. “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better, to be honest. I keep seeing him, you know, hanging there. Every time I close my eyes.”

Izzy pulled back and took Tam’s eyes. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

Izzy didn’t say that she remembered every time and never slept well. “Give it time. A talk about it, to me, to whoever.”

“Thanks, Iz. So your message said you needed some help?”

“I do.” Izzy gestured to the chair beside her. “I need your help understanding some local history.”

Tam’s eyes lit up as she settled into the chair. “My favorite subject. What are we looking at?”

“This is evidence in the Gary Chávez case, so I have to remind you that it’s confidential. You can’t tell anyone, even your mom.”

“Especially my mom. I understand. You want to deputize me or something?”

Izzy smiled. “Maybe later.” She directed Tam to a chair. “Found these in Gary Chávez’s camper.” Izzy slid the older notebook toward Tam. “There are references here I don’t understand. Guadalupe Hidalgo? And a bunch of other stuff, and maybe these are dates?”

“Ah.” Tam traced her finger along the neat handwriting. “Okay, 1848, yeah that would be noting a year. That takes us back to before we were even a state. California was Mexican territory then. Huge swaths of land were owned by Mexican families through grants from their government.”

“Were? What changed?”

“The Mexican-American War.”

“And this Guadalupe Hidalgo? Who’s that? It rings a bell.”

“Which proves you were in class back in school, but probably asleep.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny, Tam.”

“I can. I was there, Iz.” Tam laughed and then continued. “The war ended in 1848 with the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo—that’s not a person, by the way; it’s named after the town near Mexico City where the treaty was signed.” Tam tapped the date in the margin. “Part of the treaty was supposed to protect Mexican landowners’ rights. Any land grants given under Spanish or Mexican rule were meant to be honored.”

Izzy frowned. “Meant to be?”

“That’s where it gets messy. In 1851, Congress passed the California Land Act.” Tam pointed to another date in the notebook. “It established the Public Land Commission. Mexican landowners had to prove their ownership claims all over again, but under American rules.”

“What kind of proof?”

“Deed titles were preferred under American law but were rare. Land grant documents from either the Spanish or Mexican governments were handled differently. Often, they used diseños—hand-drawn detailed maps showing the boundaries of the claimed land.” Tam shook her head. “So, the problem was, many Mexican families didn’t have the kind of documentation the commission demanded. Some papers were lost over the years. Others never existed in the first place because that’s not how property ownership worked under Mexican law.”

Izzy nodded. “So what happened to the land?”

“If they couldn’t prove ownership to the commission’s satisfaction, the land went back to the state. And then . . .” Tam’s expression darkened. “Most of it got parceled out to American settlers later under the Homestead Act. Some Mexican families had to watch while land their grandparents had worked for generations was handed over to newcomers.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Anyone who thinks history is fair didn’t study history. They wandered into creative writing class.”

“So they just lost their land?”

“Many.” Tam pursed her lips and dropped her eyebrows. “Some were able to provide documents to the satisfaction of the PLC, but many weren’t. And some took it to court, but legal fights were expensive. Many couldn’t afford the lawyers or the endless appeals. Even those who could often ran out of money before they got a final ruling.”

Izzy studied the careful notations in the old notebook. “Why would Gary be researching this?”

Tam leaned closer to examine the pages. “These aren’t just general history notes. Look at these specific dates and locations. He was tracking something particular.”

“The second notebook mentions something called Dead Man’s Hollow, and more about these diseños.”

“Dead Man’s Hollow?” Tam’s brow furrowed. “It sounds like a place, doesn’t it? But I don’t recall it.”

Izzy remembered the other name from the older notebook. “Preston—there was a Grainger Preston mentioned here too.”

“One of the original American settlers in the area. The Prestons ended up with some of the largest land holdings after the commission’s rulings.” Tam glanced at the newer notebook. “Mind if I look?”

Izzy slid it over, watching as Tam flipped through the pages. The notations seemed to mean something to her friend, though she kept her thoughts hidden behind a neutral expression. Tam’s fingers traced the lines of text, her lips moving as she read.

“The Prestons,” Tam finally said. “You remember the basics, right? Grainger Preston was one of the earlier settlers in the valley, built the big ranch house up on what became Grainger Creek.”

“North of Harris.” Izzy nodded. “Robert Preston runs it now with his sons.” The ache in her shoulder flared as she shifted her position. “Wasn’t there a whole thing with water rights issues?”

“Yeah. They had land holdings from the current ranch all the way to what is now the north end of Harris. Both Valley River Canal and Grainger Creek ran through their land, and they sold the land around the canal to the City of Los Angeles during the whole aqueduct thing. A lot of farmers in the valley lost their water as a result. But it also brought in LA money for the project, and jobs, so the Prestons have a mixed relationship with the townspeople.”

“And they’ve got the water from Grainger Creek.”

“They do,” said Tam. “But my understanding is that in poor snowpack years, even that is barely enough.”

“But they still seem to rule the roost around here.”

Tam sat back from the notebooks and turned to face Izzy. “They’re certainly big fish, but it’s a small pond. Robert’s a big man in Harris.” Tam’s expression turned thoughtful.

“And his wife Elaine is the President of the Board of Supervisors.” Izzy’s mouth twisted. “She’s the one who appointed me sheriff.”

“That’s right.” Tam gave her a searching look. “How long until you have to run for election?”

“They have a year to hold an election. They haven’t given me a date yet. I’m guessing spring or summer.” The thought of that future weighed heavily on Izzy. She pushed it aside, focusing on the notebooks. “So Gary was looking into something to do with the Prestons?”

“Maybe, and that makes this more interesting.”

“How so?”

Tam smiled. “This bit they didn’t teach at school. Let’s call it an unofficial alternate history of Mirage County. It goes back to a man called José Chávez.”

“Chávez? A relation of Gary’s?”

“I don’t know, but what are the odds?”

“Decent, I’d say. Go on.”

Tam sat back, slipping into storyteller mode. “José settled here before the gold rush brought waves of settlers through. Before Darkness was even a town. He had land, a wife, children. Then, around 1852 or ‘53, he vanished.”

“Vanished?”

“That’s where the stories diverge. Some say he abandoned his family for the gold fields, caught up in dreams of striking it rich. Others swear he made it to San Francisco, remarried, lived in one of those fancy Painted Ladies on a hill.” Tam shrugged. “But his wife and children stayed here. That much is documented. They show up in the 1860 census.”

“How do you know that?”

“I looked into it. I heard bits and pieces of this story over the years, so I did a little digging. Amateur historian. I’m no Davina Williamson, but I know some stuff about this town.”

Izzy stared at the careful notations in the older notebook. “These dates line up with when José disappeared.”

“Maybe Gary was researching his own family history.” Tam’s voice softened. “Looking for answers about what really happened to his forefather.”

The pieces shifted in Izzy’s mind, forming new patterns. A mechanic living in a camper, meticulously documenting historical land claims. A sudden trip to San Francisco that left no trace. And now, a death made to look like suicide.

Izzy was about to ask another question when the incident room door opened, and Deputy Wahlberg poked his head in.

“Sorry to disturb.”

Izzy frowned. “Elliot, we’re in the middle of something. Can you come to my office in half an hour?”

Wahlberg took a long look at the notebooks, then at Tam. His eyes fell on Izzy. “No, boss. I think you need to hear this now.”

Chapter

Fourteen

Something in Wahlberg’s expression made Izzy straighten in her chair. Her deputy stepped into the incident room, holding the door for a petite woman with a light brown ponytail and green eyes that surveyed the room before settling on Izzy. Despite her youthful features, she wore a troubled look that set off warning bells in Izzy’s mind.

“Sheriff, this is my wife Jenny,” said Wahlberg.

“Nice to meet you properly.” Izzy nodded to Jenny, noting how Tam had already risen to give the younger woman a quick hug.

“Hi, Tam.” Jenny’s voice was subdued. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Not at all.” Tam settled back into her chair. “Everything okay?”

Wahlberg glanced at his wife before addressing Izzy. “Boss, I told Jenny about our visit to the Chávez house. About Mr. Chávez’s reaction when you said you’d investigate.”

Izzy clenched at the memory of the father’s dismissal. “He didn’t seem to think we’d try very hard.”

“That’s what I told Jenny.” Wahlberg placed a supportive hand on his wife’s shoulder. “And she said she could understand why he’d feel that way.”

Jenny twisted her hands together, her eyes darting between Izzy and Tam. “It’s about what happened before.”

Izzy’s gaze sharpened.

Wahlberg pulled out a chair for Jenny. “Tell them what you told me, honey.”

Izzy watched Jenny settle into the chair, noting how Wahlberg hovered protectively nearby. The young woman’s discomfort was evident in the way she clasped her hands together on the table.

“I used to waitress at Mr. and Mrs. Ramos’s diner during high school,” Jenny began, glancing at Tam. “Your mom was always so nice to me.”

“She said you were a hard worker. That wins my dad over every time.” Tam’s smile was warm and encouraging.

“Well, I worked there with one of Gary’s aunts, Ana—she was his mom’s sister. She’d been there forever.” Jenny sighed. “One slow afternoon, she told me about Miguel—Gary’s uncle. Mr. Chávez’s brother.”

Izzy leaned forward. “What about him?”

“He disappeared about twenty years ago.” Jenny’s voice dropped. “Just . . . vanished.”

“Oh, my gosh.” Tam put her hand to her mouth. “I remember that. I completely forgot that was a Chávez.”

Jenny’s eyes never left Izzy. “Your father handled the investigation, Sheriff.”

The mention of her father sent a familiar ache through Izzy. She kept her expression neutral, waiting.

“They never found Miguel.” Jenny glanced at her husband before continuing. “The story going around town was that he skipped out to avoid paying for his new baby. His wife had just given birth a few months before.”

“Did anyone look for him?” Izzy asked.

“Ana said your father did at first. But then . . .”

“Then what?”

“The investigation just kind of stopped.” Jenny shrugged and dropped her eyes like she was disappointed in the whole idea. “The Chávez family claimed it was because they were just working-class people, that if it had been someone from a prominent family⁠—”

“Like the Prestons?”

Jenny frowned. “You know about that?”

“About what?”

“The altercation.”

“What altercation?” Izzy flicked her eyes to Tam and then back at Jenny.

“I don’t know if it’s true or not—remember this all happened just after I was born, so it’s hearsay—but the Chávezes claimed there had been an altercation in town and that was the reason they believed Sheriff Lew didn’t follow up the case. Because of who was implicated.”

“Who was implicated, Jenny?”

“They say it was Hank Preston. Hank and Miguel had some kind of disagreement before Miguel disappeared.”

“Hank Preston?” Izzy glanced at Tam. ”The old man?”

Tam nodded. “When we were kids, yes. Robert’s father. He died about ten years ago.”

Izzy felt her entire body tense at the implication of her father sandbagging a case for the powerful Preston family. In her heart, she didn’t believe it, but she understood now the kind of pressure he would have been under.

“So the Chávez family think my dad swept the case under the rug because it involved a Preston?” Izzy’s head swiveled around the room. “Is that what everyone thinks?”

Jenny shook her head. “I’m sure some do, but the few people I’ve ever heard speak about it around town assumed Miguel just left. His wife moved away a few years later, took the baby with her.”

“Did Ana mention anything else about Miguel?” Izzy kept her tone casual despite the sudden urgency she felt. “What he did for work? His interests?”

“She didn’t talk about him much after that.” Jenny shook her head. “It seemed to upset her. But she did say one thing that always stuck with me—she never believed he’d abandon his family. Said he was too proud of being a father, that the Chávezes had been here since the beginning and would continue on to better things.”

Izzy exchanged a loaded glance with Tam. Two Chávez men, separated by generations but united by mysterious disappearances. One allegedly chasing gold, the other supposedly running from responsibility. And now Gary, found dead in circumstances that pointed to murder rather than suicide.

Izzy’s mind raced with the connections. “Two sets of handwriting in the notebooks.” She turned to Tam. “The older one could be Miguel’s.”

Tam’s eyes widened. “That would explain the different styles. The older entries are more formal, like someone who learned penmanship in school decades ago.”

“I need to speak with Ana Chávez,” said Izzy. “Does she still work at the café?”

Tam’s eyes dropped to the floor. Izzy glanced at Jenny, who shook her head as she spoke. “She passed last summer.”

Izzy suppressed a curse. “Elliot. I need you to visit the Chávez house again. See if they have anything in both Gary and Miguel’s handwriting. Old letters, birthday cards, school assignments—anything we can use to compare.”

Wahlberg nodded. “I’ll head over now.”

“If they won’t lend us originals, take photos of whatever they show you and bring them back here.”

“On it, boss.”

Jenny touched her husband’s arm. “What notebooks?”

“He didn’t tell you about the notebooks?” asked Izzy.

“Elliot doesn’t discuss case details with me.” Jenny’s smile held a touch of pride. “Even when I pester him.”

Izzy felt a surge of approval. Having a deputy who took confidentiality seriously was worth his weight in gold.

After Wahlberg left, Izzy explained finding the notebooks in Gary’s camper. Jenny listened intently, her brow furrowing in concentration.

“If Gary was researching something from that far back, he must have been looking through the historical collection.” Jenny leaned forward. “Have you gone through the reading room materials? The answer might be in there.”

Izzy shook her head. “I don’t have the staff for a needle-in-a-haystack kind of search.”

“I’ll do it.” Jenny’s eyes lit up. “I’d love to help.”

“I can assist after school,” Tam added. “It’s my library. I know that collection better than anyone in town.”

Izzy smiled. She hadn’t even needed to ask. “I’d need to do this properly.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “You’d both need to sign consultant agreements. You know I trust you both, but I want everything above board—no accusations of outside interference or cover-ups down the line.”

“Of course.” Tam nodded eagerly.

“And we don’t have a budget for consultants,” Izzy warned.

Jenny waved that away. “We don’t care about money. We want to help find the truth.”

“Can we start by looking through these notebooks?” Tam reached for the older one. “Maybe we can piece together what Gary was searching for.”

“Use this room.” Izzy stood, trying not to wince. “It’s our incident room now. Adrianne can get you anything you need—coffee, supplies, whatever helps. I’ll find those agreements for you to sign. I can tinker with a boilerplate version we used in the FBI. Just remember, regardless of anything you sign, everything you learn stays in this room, and between the three of us and Elliot.”

The energy in the room had shifted. Where moments ago there had been tension and uncertainty. Now Izzy felt the spark of forward momentum. But beneath that satisfaction lurked darker concerns. If the Prestons were somehow involved in Miguel’s disappearance, and if the Chávez family believed her father had buried that investigation . . .

She pushed those thoughts aside. One step at a time.

Chapter

Fifteen

Izzy leaned back in her chair. She had left Tam and Jenny working on the notebooks, having compared them to the samples Wahlberg had brought back. The handwriting comparison was unmistakable—the older entries matched Miguel’s flowing script from old birthday cards and letters, while Gary’s distinctive scrawl filled the newer pages.

She reached for her water bottle, finding it empty. The ibuprofen Cole had given her this morning had worn off hours ago. Her shoulder throbbed in time with her pulse, a steady reminder that she should have taken more during the day. But between Jenny’s revelations about Miguel and coordinating the handwriting analysis, she’d lost track of time.

The pain made it hard to focus on the file in front of her. She found herself reading the same page in the case notes, her mind floating in and out and not processing any of it. She blinked hard, attempting to clear her vision.

Izzy’s thoughts drifted to Tam and Jenny still working in the incident room, heads bent together over the notebooks. Their dedication touched something in her—a reminder that not everyone in this town was content to let sleeping dogs lie.

Izzy shifted again. She should get up, walk to the break room for more water and maybe dig through the office’s med kit for some emergency painkillers. But moving seemed like too much effort right now.

Then there was the stack of papers before her demanding attention—arrest reports, court schedules, forms to be completed as a quid pro quo for the federal money that had built the new office. None of it seemed important right now. She pressed her good hand against her temple, willing herself to focus despite the steadily increasing ache.

The thud of knuckle on doorjamb made Izzy look up from her papers. She hoped it was Cole coming to check on her.

Hawkins appeared in her doorway, his face pinched. “You have a visitor, Sheriff.”

“Who is it?”

“Davina Williamson.”

“Who?”

Before Hawkins could answer, a woman pushed past him into the office. “Davina Williamson.” Her voice carried the tone of someone used to being obeyed.

Izzy studied the newcomer. Davina stood barely over five feet tall, but her presence filled the room. Her strawberry-blonde hair was cut in a severe bob with ruler-straight bangs, and thick-rimmed cat-eye glasses magnified sharp green eyes. She wore a vintage circle skirt and cardigan set that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a 1950s catalog, complete with sensible oxford shoes. A heavy silver pendant hung from her neck, and she clutched a worn leather messenger bag like it contained state secrets.

Hawkins slipped away without another word as Davina strode to Izzy’s desk, the pendant bouncing against her chest with each determined step.

“How can I help you, Ms. Williamson?”

“I require immediate access to the reading room.” Davina adjusted her glasses. “I must assess the condition of the historical materials.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. The reading room is an active crime scene.”

Davina waved this away. “Nonsense. I need to document everything and ensure nothing has been damaged or stolen. Those materials are irreplaceable.”

“The reading room will remain closed until our investigation is complete.” Izzy kept her voice level despite her growing irritation. “When it reopens, appropriate personnel will be given first access.”

“You don’t understand.” Davina’s fingers tightened on her bag. “There are vital historical documents in that room. Things of importance to this county.”

“A man died in that room, Ms. Williamson. That takes priority over everything else.”

“But—”

“I will inform the library and school staff when the room can reopen,” Izzy cut her off. “I’m sure they’ll pass that information along to interested parties.”

Davina drew herself up to her full height. “I insist you contact me first.”

“Do you work at the library?”

“No, but I⁠—”

“Then I’ll stick with official channels.” Izzy met Davina’s glare.

“Then I will have to take the delay up with the county supervisors.”

“You do as you see fit, Ms. Williamson.”

“Oh, I will.” Davina pushed her glasses up her nose. “You can count on that.”

Cole moved through his kitchen like a robot, his movements automatic after years of military routine. The familiar rhythm of meal prep provided little comfort tonight. He placed a pan on the stove, the metal clanking against the glass induction cooktop in the quiet house.

Nanook sprawled near his food bowl, watching Cole with patient eyes.

“Yeah, I know. Dinner’s coming.” Cole pulled chicken from the fridge, seasoned it with a sprinkle of herbs. The sizzle of meat hitting the hot pan filled the silence.

His mind drifted back to Joe’s house earlier. The old man had answered the door with a concerned frown. “She’s still at work,” he’d said, shaking his head. “Stubborn like her father.”

Cole had planned to head straight to the sheriff’s office, then caught himself. Showing up there again would only irritate Izzy, make her dig her heels in deeper. So he’d called from his truck instead.

“Oh, Dr. Barrow.” Adrianne’s warm tone carried a note of worry. “She was working with Tamara and Jenny Wahlberg, last I heard. Let me check.” A pause. “Hmm, she’s not in her office. Or the conference room. She must have just stepped out—she usually lets me know when she leaves. Can I give her a message?”

He resisted the urge to tell her to tell Izzy to go home. “Just let her know I called.”

Cole flipped the chicken. Steam rose from the pan as he added vegetables, the sharp smell of garlic and ginger filling the kitchen. Nanook’s tail thumped against the floor.

“Almost ready, boy.”

The dog food kibble rattled into Nanook’s bowl, mixed with pieces of plain chicken. Cole plated his own dinner and carried it to the soapstone counter, where he ate standing up, unable to settle.

The house felt different tonight. Emptier. The silence that had once offered peace now felt hollow. He thought of Izzy surrounded by her impromptu investigation team—Tam and Jenny—neither of them deputies, which was a puzzle in itself. While he stood alone in his kitchen, worried about her pushing herself too hard.

Cole ate his plate clean without tasting the food. He washed the dishes, each item dried and returned to its proper place. Nanook finished his dinner and padded over, resting his head against Cole’s thigh.

“What do you think, boy?” Cole scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Should we head back to town?”

Nanook’s tail wagged hopefully.

“No, you’re right.” Cole hung the towel on the oven handle. “Enough brooding.”

The night air bit into Izzy’s skin as she stood behind the motor pool garage, staring across the high desert. Sagebrush dotted the landscape, stretching endlessly until it met the eastern hills—dark shapes that wavered like mirages against the night sky. She pressed her palm against her shoulder, willing the ibuprofen she’d finally taken to work faster.

The stillness settled around her. No cars, no voices, just the whisper of wind through the brush. She drew in a deep breath of cold air, letting it fill her lungs and clear her mind. The desert’s vastness had a way of making problems seem smaller, more manageable.

She wandered back to the incident room where Jenny and Tam hunched over the notebooks, their enthusiasm undimmed despite the late hour.

“Time to call it a night,” Izzy said from the doorway.

Jenny’s fingers traced a line of text. “Just one more section⁠—”

“The documents will still be here tomorrow.” Izzy stepped into the room. “Trust me, these cases can consume you if you let them. Go home to your families.”

The two women packed up, and as Tam reached the door, she rested her hand on Izzy’s forearm in the way Mrs. Ramos always did.

“Take your own advice.” Tam smiled softly. “Go home.”

After seeing them out, Izzy returned to her office and found a yellow sticky note on her desk in Adrianne’s neat handwriting: “Dr. Barrow called.”

Izzy knew what was about. Finally following his advice, she locked her office and walked downstairs.

The night-duty deputy nodded as she passed through the lobby. “Heading out, Sheriff?”

“Yeah. Call my cell if anything comes up.”

Izzy drove home on autopilot. Joe’s house was quiet except for the TV’s muted chatter. He dozed in his armchair, an empty Hungry-Man dinner tray on the side table. Tom Selleck’s mustache filled the screen. Guilt tugged at her—she should have been home to cook her grandfather a proper meal.

In her bedroom, she peeled off her uniform and examined the gauze Cole had applied. His touch lingered in her memory—clinical yet intimate. The dressing looked fine. No need to change it.

The kitchen felt too large, too empty. She pulled bread and cheese from the fridge, lacking the energy for anything more ambitious. The grilled cheese sizzled in the pan, filling the silence.

Sitting alone at the dining table, she picked at the sandwich. The Preston names kept surfacing in the investigation like bodies in a flood. Hank Preston’s altercation with Miguel. Grainger Preston in Gary’s notes. What did it mean for Izzy if Gary’s death traced back to that family?

Elaine Preston controlled the Board of Supervisors. One word from her, and Izzy’s career in Darkness would end. Until she was formally elected, she was employed at their whim. And some future election victory was far from guaranteed. She felt like she had made some gains with the townspeople, but others, like Hawkins, had deep roots and people on their side. The thought of leaving—leaving the job, leaving Darkness—settled in her stomach like lead. A place that she didn’t want to return to had become the only place she wanted to be, working its way into her veins like a drug. And the name of that drug was Cole Barrow.

Chapter

Sixteen

The morning came on bright and blue the way it often did in the winter. Izzy needed her sunglasses for the short drive to the office. She headed for the squad room to check in on the night shift, where the smell of stale coffee lingered in the air.

After confirming a quiet night with nothing out of the ordinary, she made her way to the incident room to reacquaint herself with the notes Tam and Jenny had made.

She stopped short at the sight of Hawkins standing before the whiteboard, hands clasped behind his back. He studied the names and connections they’d mapped out yesterday, his attention fixed on “Preston” written in black marker.

The room felt smaller with him in it. Izzy moved inside, setting her travel mug on the table. The whiteboard was the only detail from the investigation in the room. The notebooks and case files were locked in her office.

“We’ve had calls.” Hawkins didn’t turn around. “People are unhappy about the library being closed.”

“Tam says about six people use it on a weekly basis. I think they can wait.”

“About that.” He pivoted, his polished boots rustling against the industrial carpet. “Since when have we outsourced investigations to civilians?”

“We’re not outsourcing anything. We’re utilizing local expertise.”

“The schoolteacher and a deputy’s wife?” His mustache twitched. “That’s what passes for expertise these days?”

“Tam knows more about local history than anyone else in town. And Jenny Wahlberg has connections throughout the community that⁠—”

“That’s what deputies are for.” Hawkins’s voice hardened. “Real law enforcement officers.”

“Who are already stretched thin covering regular duties.”

“Then maybe we should focus on those duties instead of chasing conspiracy theories.”

Izzy met his stare. “A man is dead, Undersheriff. That is not a conspiracy theory. I don’t care how you did things before, but in my office, we investigate without fear or favor.”

“With civilians pawing through evidence?” He gestured at the whiteboard. “Do you have any idea how that looks?”

“I know exactly how it looks. It looks like we’re using every resource available to solve this case.”

“It looks amateurish.” Hawkins stepped closer. “Like you don’t trust your own deputies to handle an investigation.”

Izzy shook her head. “This isn’t about trust. It’s about expertise and manpower.”

“It’s about control. You’re keeping information from your own office while sharing it with outsiders.”

“I’m utilizing specialized knowledge⁠—”

“You’re undermining the chain of command.” Hawkins’s face flushed. “Creating your own little task force outside proper channels.”

“I’m the sheriff. I determine the proper channels.”

Hawkins let out a grunt. “You think you’re better than us because you were FBI.” His lips curled beneath his mustache. “That your fancy training makes you superior.”

Izzy felt a surge of frustration. Always the FBI card. She kept her voice level. “No, Undersheriff. I don’t think I’m better than anyone here. I know I’m better.”

“Arrogant to a fault.”

“Yes, Hawkins, I think you are. Because I’m not better by default. The FBI gave me excellent training.” Izzy squared up to him. “Training I plan to bring to this office. That’s not superiority—it’s experience I want to share.”

“We don’t need⁠—”

“Yes, you do. This office will improve,” she cut him off. “Whether you like it or not. Better procedures, better training, better results. That’s not about me being better than anyone. It’s about all of us doing better.”

Hawkins’s face reddened. “We’ve served this community just fine.”

“And now we’ll serve it better.” Izzy held his gaze. “You can either help make that happen or get out of the way. But you won’t stop it.”

Hawkins jabbed a finger at the whiteboard. “You know what? Go ahead. Keep digging into this. Makes my job easier when election time comes around.”

The shift in his tone made Izzy’s skin prickle. She waited, letting the silence stretch between them.

“But I feel obligated to warn you.” He lowered his hand, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “You’re barking up the wrong tree with the Prestons. That family’s been here since before California was a state. They’ve got connections that would make your head spin.”

“Is that concern for my career or hope I’ll destroy it?”

“Both, if I’m being honest.” A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Either way works in my favor. But the smart move would be looking closer at the Chávez family.”

“Based on what evidence?”

“Based on knowing this county better than you ever will.” Hawkins rocked back on his heels. “That family’s been trouble since they showed up here. Always living on the edge of things, causing problems.”

Izzy crossed her arms, ignoring the twinge in her shoulder. “I haven’t seen any criminal records.”

“Not all poor behavior is illegal.” He shrugged. “And not all illegal behavior gets caught.”

“Interesting perspective.” Izzy said, thinking not of the Chávez family but of more prominent figures, and of investigations that ended before they began. “You’re right that not everything illegal activity gets caught. Especially when certain families are involved.”

Hawkins’s eyes narrowed at her tone. “What exactly are you implying?”

“Nothing at all, Undersheriff. Just agreeing with your astute observation about how some things manage to slip through the cracks in this county.” She gestured to the door. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, you have a morning briefing to do.”

His jaw clenched as he moved toward the exit. At the threshold, he paused. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you about the Prestons.”

“Noted.” Izzy watched him leave, his warning hanging in the air like smoke—more threat than concern.

Izzy turned to the whiteboard as Hawkins left, his words settling like a weight in her stomach. The names and connections mapped out in black marker felt exposed, vulnerable. She pulled out her phone and snapped several detailed photos of their work before grabbing the eraser.

The squeak of whiteboard marker being wiped away echoed in the empty room. Better to keep their findings close, protected from prying eyes and political agendas.

At the morning briefing, she sat quietly in the back as Hawkins assigned patrols and discussed routine matters. His earlier hostility was hidden beneath a veneer of courtesy, but she caught the sideways glances from deputies, the whispered conversations that stopped when she walked past.

Back in her office, Izzy locked the door and pulled out a legal pad. If she was going to be accused of closing ranks, then she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. But that would require careful planning. The reading room needed a thorough search, but it had to be done quietly, away from the town’s watching eyes.

She called Wahlberg’s extension. “I need your help.”

“What do you need?”

She told him. “Can you get the others?”

He paused. “They’ll be there.”

“Good. But Elliot—keep this quiet.”

“Understood, boss.”

Izzy tapped her fingers on the desk, then picked up her phone again. The clinic’s receptionist answered with cheer.

“Dr. Barrow’s office.”

“Serena, it’s Sheriff Llewellyn. Is Cole available?”

“One moment, Sheriff.”

Cole’s voice came through, warm and concerned. “How’s the shoulder?”

“It’s fine.” Izzy shifted in her chair. “But I need your help.”

There was silence at the other end of the line.

“Cole? Are you there?”

“Yes. I’m just not sure I’m hearing right. You’re asking for help?”

Izzy fought the smile that crept into the corner of her mouth. “You’re hilarious.”

“So I’m told. What kind of help do you need?”

“The kind that requires discretion and maybe your pickup truck.”

A pause. She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. “Are you sure you’re up for whatever this is?”

“I don’t have much choice.” She glanced at her office door. “This goes deeper than I thought, Cole. I need people I can trust.”

“I honored I’m on the list.”

“It’s not a long list.”

“Tell me where and when.”

Izzy told him.

“Can I bring my dog? He gets lonely, you know.”

“I do, and Nanook is always welcome.”

Izzy spent the rest of the day working through the evidence and willing the sun to descend faster than it already did in winter. By the time it dropped behind the mountains, she was tapping her foot under her desk to expel the excess energy.

The sun had set by the time Izzy pulled up behind the library. Cole’s truck already idled in the lot, Nanook’s silhouette visible in the passenger seat. Tam’s sedan and the Wahlbergs’ SUV were parked nearby.

Deputies Wilson and Martinez stood by their personal trucks, shifting uncomfortably. Izzy had approached them separately earlier, gauging their reactions. Both had expressed frustration with Hawkins’s leadership style. Whether that translated to loyalty to her remained to be seen.

Cole climbed out of his truck as Izzy approached. “You’re not lifting anything.”

“I’m supervising.”

“From a chair.” He nodded toward a folding camp chair in his truck bed. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Since when do you carry furniture around?”

“Since my most stubborn patient refuses to rest.”

Tam emerged from the building, notebook in hand. “I’ve marked everything that needs to move. Jenny’s inside organizing by priority.”

“How are we handling fragile items?” Izzy asked.

“I brought archival boxes and padding.” Tam held up supplies. “Nothing leaves without proper protection.”

Wilson cleared his throat. “Sheriff, are you sure about this? Moving evidence?”

“Is standard procedure when a crime scene needs to be processed elsewhere.” Izzy looked him in the eye. “Unless you have concerns about the chain of custody?”

“No, ma’am,” Wilson said. “Just curious why you think we have to move this stuff.”

“You know as well as I do this is a small town. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. But an investigation can’t work like that. Every leak is a chance for a defense attorney to poke holes in any charges we might bring, and I’m not a fan of letting criminals loose because we’re sloppy.”

Martinez nodded. “We’ve got it, ma’am. We’ll document everything.”

Inside, Jenny had already sorted materials into categories. Maps lay carefully rolled in tubes, documents nestled in protective sleeves. Elliot moved between piles, photographing each item before it was packed.

Cole appeared at Izzy’s elbow with the chair. “Sit.”

“I can help coordinate⁠—”

“From the chair.” His hand brushed her good shoulder. “Let us do the heavy lifting.”

Izzy sank into the seat, watching her unlikely team at work. Tam directed traffic with quiet authority, ensuring each item was properly documented and packed. The deputies kept complete records, perhaps more thoroughly than usual, under her watchful eye.

Jenny’s organizational skills proved invaluable as she coordinated which vehicles would carry what cargo. “These maps need to lie flat. They’ll fit better in Cole’s truck bed.”

Nanook supervised from his post by Izzy’s chair, occasionally sniffing boxes but staying clear of the workflow. His presence added an oddly domestic touch to the operation.

“You’ve got good people here,” Cole murmured, pausing beside her chair.

“I hope so.” Izzy watched Wilson and Martinez carefully wrapping some old books in moving blankets. “This could backfire spectacularly.”

“Or it could show them what real leadership looks like.”

The operation moved with surprising efficiency. Within two hours, the reading room stood empty except for built-in shelving. The caravan of vehicles headed toward the Wahlberg residence, where Jenny had cleared their garage for secure storage and the dining room as the new incident room.

Izzy climbed into her patrol SUV, following the procession through Darkness’s quiet streets. Elliot’s patrol vehicle led the way, Cole right behind, with Nanook’s head visible through the back window. In her rearview mirror, she saw Tam’s car, with Wilson and Martinez bringing up the rear, their trucks loaded with carefully packed evidence.

The garage at the Wahlbergs’ allowed them to unload directly into the storage space. Jenny had already set up folding tables and additional lighting. A treadmill had been rolled to the side. Tam directed the placement of items, maintaining the organizational system they’d established.

“Couldn’t do this in my garage,” Martinez commented, helping position a table. “We’ve got way too much junk.”

Wilson nodded. “They’re newly married. Give them time. But at least it’s winter. The cold will help preserve, not damage, the collection.”

Izzy noted their approval, wondering if she’d judged correctly in bringing them in. Their experience could prove valuable—if they stayed loyal.

“That’s the last of it,” Elliot announced, setting down a box of documents.

Tam surveyed the room. “Everything’s accounted for. We can start processing tomorrow.”

“It’s not that late,” said Izzy. “I’ll just⁠—”

“No.” Cole pointed at Izzy. “You’re taking the night off.”

“Cole—”

“I’m serious.” He softened his tone. “Everyone’s tired. Come back fresh tomorrow.”

Jenny stepped forward. “We’ll start first thing, Sheriff. Promise.”

Izzy looked around the room at her assembled team—the teacher, the deputy’s wife, the young deputy, the doctor, and two seasoned officers who’d chosen to trust her judgment. Maybe Cole was right. Maybe this was what real leadership looked like.

“Okay,” she said. “Tomorrow. I have something to do first, but you can start without me.”

Elliot grinned. “Yes, boss. The ladies have got this.”

As the group dispersed, Izzy caught Wilson and Martinez exchanging glances. Whatever they decided about tonight’s operation would likely determine the success of this investigation. She could only hope she’d shown them a better way forward.

Izzy watched as Cole’s truck disappeared down the street, Nanook’s silhouette riding shotgun. The others had already left, leaving her alone with Tam in the Wahlbergs’ driveway.

“You need dinner.” Tam linked her arm through Izzy’s good one. “You want me to swing by Mom’s?”

“No, that’s okay. I can make something at home.”

“What did you guys eat last night?”

“Joe had a TV dinner. I was late.”

“And what did you have?”

“Grilled cheese. But I can cook, you know.”

“Someone else should be cooking for you now.” Tam’s tone held meaning that made Izzy swallow hard.

She shrugged her good shoulder. “He’s got his own life, Tam. His own routine.”

“Which he’s willing to change.” Tam squeezed her arm. “I see how he looks at you when you’re not watching. Like you’re a puzzle he can’t quite solve, but desperately wants to.”

“I’m not good at letting people in.” The admission felt heavy in the cold night air.

“No one’s asking you to throw open all the doors at once.” Tam’s voice softened. “But maybe unlock one or two? See what happens?”

Izzy thought of Cole’s gentle hands as he’d changed her dressing, the way he’d chosen a shirt for her, how natural it felt having him in Joe’s kitchen. “What if I mess it up?”

“What if you don’t?” Tam bumped her hip. “Not everything has to follow the same path as before. Sometimes the winding route leads to the best view.”

The words settled deep inside Izzy, next to the warmth that thoughts of Cole brought. Maybe Tam was right. Maybe there were different ways to move forward, ones that didn’t require sacrificing everything else for the job.

Izzy hugged Tam and then got in her SUV. She wound through the quiet streets of Darkness, the events of the evening playing through her mind. The makeshift evidence room in the Wahlbergs’ garage might work better than the official channels—fewer eyes, fewer leaks. Still, moving evidence was a risk. She’d have to trust her chosen team.

The familiar shape of Cole’s truck sat in front of Joe’s house, and she felt her whole body relax. She hadn’t expected him here, hadn’t dared hope for it.

Rich aromas hit her as she opened the front door—garlic, herbs, and the unmistakable scent of meatloaf. Her stomach growled, reminding her that lunch had been hours ago.

Joe sat at the dining table, supervising Cole’s movements in the kitchen. Nanook sprawled nearby, his tail thumping against the floor at her entrance.

“Thought I’d bring dinner.” Cole looked up from where he was arranging food on plates. “And check that dressing while I’m here.”

“You didn’t have to⁠—”

“Sit.” He nodded toward the chair beside Joe. “I’m ready to serve.”

Joe chuckled. “He’s as bossy as your mother.”

Izzy sank into the chair, watching Cole move efficiently through the kitchen. He’d clearly learned the layout, finding serving spoons and glasses without having to search.

Cole brought their plates to the table—perfectly portioned meatloaf with roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes. He returned with a pitcher of iced tea, pouring for each of them before setting a plate down for Nanook on the kitchen floor.

“This is good.” Joe stabbed another piece of meatloaf. “Not as good as Ane’s, but good.”

Izzy shot Cole a smile and faux-whispered to him. “Even a comparison to grandma’s cooking is high praise.”

“Noted.” Cole smiled. “I’ll let Mr. Ramos know his meatloaf is a winner.”

They ate in comfortable silence, the kind that settled naturally between people who didn’t need to fill every moment with words. Izzy found herself stealing glances at Cole, noting how at ease he seemed in their space.

After dinner, Joe took to his recliner, and Cole gestured for her to stay seated while he cleared the plates. “Let me check that injury.”

His fingers were gentle as he peeled back the gauze. Izzy held still, aware of every point of contact between them.

“Healing nicely.” Cole applied fresh dressing. “Keep it dressed one more day.”

Too soon, he was calling Nanook to his side. The dog rose reluctantly, clearly hoping for seconds.

Cole’s lips brushed against hers, soft and quick. “Get some sleep.”

Izzy watched from the doorway as Cole and Nanook climbed into his truck. The taillights disappeared around the corner, leaving her with an emptiness she wasn’t ready to examine. She was tired of the physical drain her injury caused. She was tired of maintaining the careful distance she’d built around herself.

She was tired of watching him leave.

Chapter

Seventeen

The Preston ranch sprawled across the valley floor north and west of Harris like a kingdom unto itself, a stark contrast to the harsh desert terrain surrounding it. Ryall’s Peak stood over the property like a sentry, a grand and picturesque mountain that gave the entire ranch a European alpine quality that set it apart from the sagebrush scrub to the east. Izzy guided her SUV west off Highway 395 onto a well-maintained private road, watching the odometer tick up nearly five miles before the main house came into view.

The two-story log home dominated the landscape, its weathered timbers and wide wraparound porch speaking of old money and older influence. A lush lawn surrounded the house. The morning sun caught the windowpanes, most gleaming but a few dulled by a winter’s worth of dust and rain spots.

Izzy parked beside a mud-splattered Ford F-250 and checked her phone. The call to City Hall had confirmed Elaine Preston would be occupied with Board of Supervisors business for at least two more hours. Better to question the men without the board president’s careful orchestration.

No one answered her knock at the heavy wooden door. Paint peeled at the corners of the door frame, barely noticeable unless you were standing as close as she was.

She followed a gravel path around the side of the house. The working part of the ranch spread out before her—a complex maze of corrals and chutes constructed from weathered metal pipes. A series of connected pens funneled down to a squeeze chute where cattle could be sorted or loaded onto trucks. Beyond the sorting area stood three hay barns, their metal roofs reflecting the morning light. A workshop bigger than most houses in Darkness occupied the space between the barns, its wide doors hanging open.

Farm machinery hunched silently in the sheds—a front-end loader, several tractors, a fleet of ATVs—the kinds of equipment Gary Chávez would have serviced. Everything looked well-maintained but well-used. The yard was empty of workers, the morning quiet broken only by the whistle of wind through the metal buildings.

Movement caught her eye beyond the far barn. Three men worked a horse in a round pen, their actions smooth and controlled. As she approached, she noted the rope around the horse’s neck. A lasso. Standard ranch equipment, she reminded herself, but filed the observation away, nonetheless.

The older man spotted her first. He stood at the center of the round pen, directing the horse’s movement with subtle shifts of his body. Two younger men worked the perimeter with their backs to Izzy, moving in concert with him. All three wore dusty jeans and work shirts. Two had cowboy hats pulled low against the morning sun, the other a blue Los Angeles Chargers ball cap.

The horse, a sleek bay gelding, trotted in a circle around the central figure—who had to be Robert Preston, Elaine’s husband. The animal’s coat gleamed with sweat despite the cool morning air. The rope around its neck wasn’t taut—more suggestion than control—but Izzy noted how the horse responded to the slightest movement of Preston’s hands on the line.

Preston patted the horse’s neck and glanced her way as Izzy approached the pen, causing the other two men to turn her way. She felt the weight of their gazes as she moved toward the pen. Both shared Preston’s height and build, but where one was nearly a mirror of his father’s weathered features, the other had inherited Elaine’s softer lines and pale eyes. They held their positions, their movements unhurried, but their shoulders had tensed at her arrival. The message was clear: this was their territory, and she was the intruder.

When she reached the rail, Preston gathered the rope, drawing the horse to a stop. Only then did he turn to face her, his hardened features set in a neutral expression that didn’t quite mask his irritation at the interruption.

“Sheriff Llewellyn.” He touched the brim of his hat, the gesture both courteous and dismissive. The younger men echoed the movement, a synchronized display of ranch manners that carried an undercurrent of challenge. “What brings you out this way?”

“Mr. Preston.” Izzy offered a nod and hooked her thumbs into her belt. “I’m sorry we haven’t had the chance to meet yet. I’m following up on an investigation. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.” She glanced at the other two men and then back at Preston. “These are your sons?”

“My boys.” A slight emphasis on the possessive. Preston shifted his weight, adjusting the coiled rope in his hands. “Jefferson, my eldest, here”—he nodded toward the son who shared his features—“and Ranger.” The one with Elaine’s eyes touched his ball cap peak again.

“Appreciate you taking the time,” Izzy said. The formality of ranch courtesy had its own choreography, and she’d learned long ago not to rush it.

“Well now.” Preston handed the rope to Jefferson and moved closer to the rail where she stood, his movements deliberate. Jefferson walked away across the training ring, and the horse followed, drawn by the slack rope, toward a water trough. Ranger mimicked his father’s move to lean on the rail, eyes on Izzy. “What brings the sheriff fifty miles from Darkness to our doorstep?”

The words were polite enough, but the implication was clear: the Prestons considered themselves separate from the concerns of a small-town sheriff, even if technically within her jurisdiction. Still, there was something performative about his challenge, as if he were going through expected motions rather than showing genuine concern about her presence.

“Just trying to be thorough, Mr. Preston.” She narrowed her eyes. “Sometimes investigations lead where they lead.”

He nodded slowly. “That they do, Sheriff. That they do.” He pulled off a tan-colored leather glove. Izzy noted the son had bare hands. His father dominated the rope work.

“I’m looking into the death of Gary Chávez,” Izzy said, watching their faces for reactions. “Did any of you know him?”

The two men exchanged glances, a silent communication that spoke of years working together.

“Can’t say that I did.” Robert Preston shifted the rope to his other hand. “Name’s not familiar.”

Ranger shook his head. “Me neither.”

“He worked at Muller’s,” Izzy said. “Did mechanical repairs around the county.”

“Muller’s?” Ranger’s brow furrowed. “We use them sometimes for equipment repairs. But we deal with Matt directly.”

“Handle most repairs ourselves when we can,” Robert added. “Only call Muller when we need him for something specific. And we only deal with the top man in any business.”

“When was the last time you had work done by him?”

“Two, three weeks back?” Robert glanced at Ranger. “That hydraulic leak on the loader.”

Ranger nodded, and now they were standing together, she noticed that Ranger was a couple inches shorter than his father, and his pale blue eyes more welcoming. “Think Matt came out himself. We were working the south pasture that day, didn’t see him.”

“Where were you all Monday night?” Izzy asked.

The question hung in the morning air.

Robert’s lip twitched. “Home here with Elaine.”

“I was at The Horseshoe,” Ranger said. “Till closing.”

“Horseshoe?” Izzy frowned. “But you live here at the ranch?”

“No, we’ve got a house over in Darkness. Up on Mountain View.” The newer development where what was left of the old mining money lived and the new tech bros had vacation places.

The elder son, Jefferson, moved laconically back across the yard, rolling his sleeves up as he walked. He didn’t lean on the fence like his father and brother, preferring to cross his massive forearms and stare from out under his black cowboy hat with brooding eyes that both drew her in and repelled her at the same time.

Izzy kept her focus on him. “I was just asking where you were on Monday night.”

“I was at my cabin.” His voice rumbled like distant thunder, and he gestured vaguely toward a northern valley. “Few miles that way.”

“Alone?” Izzy asked.

“Yeah.” Jefferson’s chin lifted. “Something wrong with that?”

“No.” Izzy watched their body language shift—subtle tensions in shoulders and necks, the way they’d unconsciously moved closer together.

“What about Miguel Chávez?” Izzy asked. “Did any of you know him?”

The three men exchanged another round of glances.

“Miguel Chávez?” Robert Preston jutted his chin. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He disappeared about twenty years ago.”

“Ah.” Recognition crossed his granite features. “That one. Yeah, I remember now. Guy who skipped town, left his wife and kid behind.” He studied Izzy’s face. “Your father handled that investigation, didn’t he?”

Something in his tone made Izzy’s neck prickle. “Yes, he did.”

“Shame when a man abandons his responsibilities like that.” The elder Preston’s words carried a weight that seemed to settle heavily on his sons’ shoulders. “Family ought to mean something.”

Izzy watched Robert as he watched her. “Well, gentlemen, thank you for your time.”

“Always happy to help law enforcement.” His tone suggested otherwise.

Izzy was about to leave when she noticed the line of ATVs by the workshop. “Quite a fleet you’ve got there.”

“ATVs are good for hauling hay, running supplies. Following the tracks.” Robert nudged his head toward the bay that stood in the ring behind him. “But horses work better in the rough country, especially when we’re working cattle. They’ve got an instinct for it. Can’t replace that with machinery. Sometimes, the old ways are best.”

Izzy’s gaze lingered on the rope around the horse’s neck, the quality of the braiding, before she nodded. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”

“Anytime, Sheriff.” Robert’s words followed her across the yard. “Service to the county is a Preston family tradition.”

The morning wind carried his words, and beneath them, the unmistakable sound of authority used to having its way.

Driving back down the private road, Izzy’s mind cataloged the oddities of her visit. The sprawling ranch had been eerily empty—no ranch hands mucking out stalls, no workers distributing feed, no one manning the equipment sheds.

Winter might slow crop operations, but cattle required constant attention. The Preston herd would need daily feeding now that the grass had died off. Those neat hay barns should have been the center of activity, with workers loading trucks and distributing bales across the grazing lands. Instead, they stood silent, their doors firmly shut.

Three men working a horse in a round pen. No other activity on a working ranch this size, in the middle of a weekday morning. The Preston wealth and influence might be old, but their operation felt more like a carefully maintained façade than a functioning ranch.

Izzy glanced in her rearview mirror at the grand house growing smaller behind her. The question wasn’t just where everyone was today—it was whether anyone worked here at all. And if not, what exactly were the Prestons keeping up this elaborate charade to hide?

Chapter

Eighteen

Izzy’s boots scuffed against the worn concrete steps of The Horseshoe. The heavy wooden security door stood ajar, propped open by a rubber wedge despite the winter chill. She paused at the threshold, struck by a wave of unfamiliarity that shouldn’t exist in the town where she’d spent her first sixteen years.

The Horseshoe had been off-limits during her youth—too young before she left after her father died. Another reminder of the experiences she’d missed, the local knowledge gaps that marked her as both native and stranger.

She stepped into the vestibule, where a set of classic saloon doors separated the entrance from the main bar. The swinging wooden panels felt absurdly theatrical, like something from a TV western, but they creaked with authentic age as she pushed through them.

The bar stretched long and dark before her, dominated by a scarred wooden counter running the length of the left wall. Shelves of bottles rose behind it, dusty glass catching afternoon light that filtered through high windows. The mirror behind the bar had clouded with age, reflecting distorted versions of the room.

Two pool tables commanded the right side of the space, their felt surfaces showing patches of wear. Overhead lights cast pools of yellow illumination across the green baize, while neon beer signs flickered their artificial glow against dark wood paneling. Mismatched tables filled the middle ground, their surfaces etched with decades of initials and crude drawings.

Her father’s words echoed in her memory: “The Horseshoe’s where trouble starts or ends up.” He’d mentioned it often enough during dinner conversations about his shifts, creating a mythical space in young Izzy’s mind. The reality felt simultaneously more mundane and more significant—a physical embodiment of all she’d missed by leaving.

A small stage occupied the back corner, currently empty except for a microphone stand and some coiled cables. Signs advertised live music on weekends, local bands whose names meant nothing to her. Another piece of town life she’d have known if she’d stayed.

The afternoon regulars studied her with the particular intensity reserved for someone both familiar and foreign—the sheriff who’d never darkened their door until now. Their gazes held equal parts curiosity and judgment, measuring how she carried her father’s badge in this space he’d known so well.

Izzy approached the bar, where a lean man in his thirties wiped glasses with glazed eyes that spoke of total boredom. His dark hair hung in unwashed strands past his ears, and a faded Nirvana T-shirt stretched across his chest. The band’s iconic smiley face had cracked and peeled with repeated washing.

She slid onto a stool. “Coffee, if you’ve got it.”

He set down the glass he’d been polishing. “On duty?” His voice carried the flat affect of someone who’d rather be anywhere else.

“Always.” Izzy drummed her fingers on the bar top. “You work here long?”

“Long enough.” He grabbed a coffee pot that had seen better days and poured her a cup. “Cream’s over there.” He jerked his chin toward a small station near the end of the bar.

“Black’s fine.” She wrapped her hands around the warm mug. “Must see all kinds come through here.”

“Some.” He resumed wiping glasses, giving the sense that it was make-work rather than an epidemic of dirty glassware.

Izzy took a sip of the bitter coffee. “Must’ve been busy Monday night. Ranger Preston was in here, right?”

The bartender’s shoulders tensed. He set down the glass with deliberate care, his eyes darting to the door before returning to meet her gaze. “Yeah, he was here, alright.”

She kept her tone casual. “Sounds like it was quite a night.”

“Monday Night Football. We get a good crowd.” He grabbed another glass, polishing it with renewed focus. “Ranger was running the table most of the evening. Won a few games, lost a couple. Bought rounds for everyone after each win.”

“Generous of him.”

A muscle twitched in the bartender’s jaw. “That’s Ranger for you. Big spender, especially when he’s feeling good.”

“Was he feeling good Monday?”

“Started that way.” The bartender’s cloth squeaked against the glass. “Got louder as the night went on. More . . . expansive, you might say.”

Izzy noted the careful word choice. “Had to cut him off?”

“Not that night.” He shrugged, but his eyes flickered to the door again. “Not that it matters much. I’m sure he’s got better stuff at home.”

“Comes in often, then?”

“Most nights, truth be told.” The bartender stacked the clean glasses. “When he’s not tied up with ranch business.”

“Must keep you busy.”

His laugh held no humor. “Part of the job when you work at the only bar in town. Especially with the Preston name behind the tab.”

The weight of that name hung in the air between them. Izzy watched him sort through bottles behind the bar, his movements sharp with nervous energy.

“Anything else unusual happen that night?”

The bartender’s hands stilled. “Nothing comes to mind.” But his gaze slid away from hers, finding a sudden fascination with the clouded mirror.

“You sure about that?”

He grabbed a rag and started wiping down the already clean bar top. “Look, Sheriff. I just pour the drinks. What folks do or say after that . . .” He glanced at the door again. “Well, that’s their business, ain’t it?”

Izzy lifted her coffee mug, letting the steam rise between her and the bartender’s discomfort. “Must be interesting, seeing the town’s stories play out from behind that bar.”

An older man two stools down snorted into his beer. His face was creased with decades of sun exposure, and his plaid shirt had faded to a soft, indefinable color. “Stories? Hell, we’ve had whole dynasties unfold right here.”

The bartender shot him a warning look, but the old-timer was already turning toward Izzy, warming to his audience.

“Take them Preston boys. Perfect example of how blood ain’t always destiny.” He gestured with his bottle. “Jeff—now, there’s a chip off the old block. Quiet, like Robert, knows the value of listening more than talking. Man’s got the weight of generations on his shoulders, and he carries it just like his daddy does.”

Izzy set her mug down. “And Ranger?”

“The spare.” The old man’s tone held a peculiar mix of pity and disdain. “That’s what they call him, you know. The extra heir, just in case something happens to Jeff. But Jeff—” He shook his head. “Jeff’s the one who’ll get it all. The land, the water rights, the legacy. Ranger just gets the consolation prize of being a Preston without the responsibility.”

“Must be hard,” Izzy said, “living in that shadow.”

“Hard?” The old-timer barked a laugh. “Boy drowns his frustrations in whiskey and pool hustling, then stumbles home to that fancy ranch house his daddy built him. Ain’t nothing hard about that life except what he makes of it.”

The bartender slammed a glass down harder than necessary. “Mr. Humbolt, maybe you should⁠—”

“Should what?” Humbolt challenged. “Pretend we don’t all see it? Hell, whole town knows Ranger’s the family disappointment. Jeff’s out there every day, working the ranch, making deals, planning for the future. Meanwhile, his brother’s in here running up tabs and running his mouth.”

Izzy caught the bartender’s eye. “Running his mouth about what?”

“Nothing worth repeating.” The bartender’s tone carried finality. “Mr. Humbolt, I think you’ve had enough for today.”

Humbolt pushed his empty bottle away. “Suppose I have at that.” He slid off his stool with the careful movements of a man well-practiced at maintaining dignity despite alcohol. “But I ain’t wrong, Sheriff. You want to know about the Prestons? Watch Jeff. He’s the one with something to protect.”

The bartender waited until Humbolt had shuffled out before turning back to Izzy. “Don’t mind him. Old-timers love their gossip.”

Izzy shrugged. “Seems like he knows the family well.”

“Everyone thinks they know the Prestons.” The bartender’s voice held an edge. “Doesn’t mean they’re right.”

Izzy nursed the cooling coffee, letting Humbolt’s words settle into place alongside the other pieces of the puzzle. Jefferson Preston—the heir apparent, the chosen son.

Her fingers traced the rim of the mug as she considered the pressure that kind of legacy would create. To protect not just land and wealth, but centuries of power and influence. The kind of pressure that might make a man take decisive action if someone threatened to unravel it all.

Gary had been digging into something in that reading room. Something about land rights and old treaties . . .

The coffee turned bitter on her tongue. Jeff wasn’t just protecting his inheritance—he was guarding the foundation of his family’s power in the county. The water rights, the grazing lands, the mineral rights beneath the soil. Everything that made the Prestons who they were could depend on those ancient land grants being ironclad.

Izzy set down her mug. Robert had an alibi, and Izzy was sitting in Ranger’s, but Jefferson claimed to be alone at his cabin. He was the one with the motivation to plan a murder. To make it look like suicide. To protect everything his family had built over generations.

The pieces clicked together with cold clarity. Jefferson Preston had just moved to the top of her suspect list.

Chapter

Nineteen

Cole guided his Ram around another switchback, the chains on the tires crunching through fresh powder. The late morning sun caught the snow-laden pines, creating a winter wonderland that felt a world away from the high desert below. He stole another glance at Izzy, who sat quietly watching the scenery roll past, her face more relaxed than he’d seen it.

In the back seat, Nanook’s head appeared between them, his breath fogging the window as he tracked the occasional mountain jay. The dog’s excitement at the scenery had been evident since they’d hit the snow line two thousand feet below.

Her call earlier that morning had caught Cole off guard. “I need to get out of town for a night,” she’d said, her voice tight with something he couldn’t quite name. “Tam and Jenny are going through the library stuff, and I’m just in the way. And I’ve been thinking about something Tam said. About creating a new path. I wondered if maybe . . . you’d like to do something? Just us?”

It wasn’t an outlandish suggestion for a Saturday night, but Cole hadn’t known Izzy to take even a Sunday off. Now he glimpsed Nanook sprawled across the back seat, remembering the malamute’s helpful supervision while Cole had installed the chains an hour ago. The dog had planted himself in a snowbank, head cocked to one side, offering occasional encouraging woofs as Cole wrestled with the metal links. Izzy had actually laughed at their antics—a rare sound that made the cold fingers and scraped knuckles worth it.

The cabin appeared around the final bend, tucked into a small clearing. Simple log construction, a metal roof, and a stone chimney rising from one end. Snow lay thick on the roof edges, forming crystalline daggers that caught the wan winter light. The structure was basic—one room with a small, covered porch, but the setting made it feel like a fortress of solitude against the world below.

He parked beside the woodpile and cut the engine. The sudden silence felt sacred, broken only by the soft tick of the cooling engine and the whisper of wind through the pines.

Izzy stood in silence, the steam from her breath enveloping her face as she took the scene in with a look of wonder. “How did you find this place?”

“It belongs to an old army buddy. He has a family practice in LA now. Uses the place more in the summer. I warn you, it’s pretty rustic.”

Izzy smiled. “It’s perfect.”

Cole unlocked the cabin door and pushed it open, watching Izzy’s face as she took in the interior. The main room held the essentials—a stone fireplace along one wall, a small kitchen setup in the corner, and a few pieces of sturdy furniture arranged to maximize the limited space. Late morning light filtered through windows on three sides.

“Bathroom’s through there.” He gestured to a door at the back. “Running water, but no hot water heater. We use the wood stove to heat water for washing up.”

Izzy wandered the space, trailing her fingers along the rough-hewn walls. The tension he’d noticed in her shoulders had melted away, replaced by an easy curiosity. She pushed through the one remaining door to find a small bedroom. Cole stepped up behind her as she surveyed the two small mattresses, more like army cots than beds.

“I told you it was rustic,” he said.

She glanced at him sideways, the corner of her mouth rising in a way that created a dimple he never saw when she was in uniform. “And I told you it’s perfect.”

They brought in supplies from the truck, moving around each other with a natural choreography. Cole stowed groceries while Izzy arranged their gear. No words needed, just the quiet sounds of bags being unpacked and cabinet doors closing.

He knelt at the fireplace, arranging kindling and smaller logs. The familiar motions allowed him to steal glances as Izzy explored the cabin’s nooks—examining old photos on the walls, running her hand along the worn spines of paperbacks on the shelf.

Nanook’s whine at the door drew them outside. The malamute bounded through knee-deep snow, disappearing briefly before erupting in a shower of white powder. Izzy laughed, the sound fluttering through the pines like a breeze before being captured by the mountainside. When a stray snowball caught Cole’s shoulder, he turned to find her already packing another, eyes bright with challenge.

The impromptu battle ended with them pressed together against a pine tree, breathing hard, snow melting in their hair. Cole brushed a few flakes from her cheek, savoring the way she leaned into his touch.

Back inside, they moved around the small kitchen in perfect sync. Cole chopped vegetables while Izzy seasoned the soup. Their arms brushed as they worked, and he found himself deliberately seeking those small points of contact, addicted to the quiet intimacy of the moment.

After dinner, Cole stoked the fire, adding another log to the flames. The crackling warmth filled the cabin’s main room, casting dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls. Nanook lay near the hearth, his coat still glistening from their earlier snow play.

He handed Izzy a glass of red wine and settled beside her on the worn leather sofa. She curled her legs under her, cradling the glass between both hands as if absorbing its warmth. The firelight caught her profile, softening the lines of concentration that usually marked her features.

“So what did you find at the Preston ranch?” The question slipped out before he could stop himself.

Izzy’s shoulders tensed. “I thought the rule was no shop talk.”

“I’m still not sure where the delineation is.” He kept his tone gentle. “What does the private you do? Play golf?”

She took a slow sip of wine. “No, I don’t play golf. Do you?”

“Occasionally. I’m a member of Mirage Country Club.”

“That place used to be an old shed.”

“And now it’s a newer shed.”

“Maybe you can teach me then.”

“It would be my pleasure. If you ever get more free time.” Cole sipped his wine and watched the flames dancing. “I’ve noticed you working closely with Tam and Jenny on this thing. Not that I’m complaining—they’re good people. But won’t the other deputies resent outside help?”

“The poor ones will.” Izzy’s tone carried an edge of bitterness. “The good ones understand that expertise matters more than a badge.”

Cole watched her face, noting how the shadows deepened around her eyes. “Is alienating half your team an effective strategy?”

She went still, and for a moment he thought he’d pushed too far. Then she set her wine glass down and turned to face him fully.

“I wasn’t fired from the FBI,” she said quietly. “But they made it clear I should leave. Said I’d lost the trust of my colleagues and would never get it back.” Her fingers traced patterns on the sofa arm. “They were right.”

“How were they right? What happened wasn’t your fault. Mark was the one who⁠—”

“You know why.” The words came out sharp, brittle. “Because trust is everything. In the army, in law enforcement. Hell, maybe in life.” She took a shaky breath. “You know how it is. If your colleagues don’t trust you, you’re worse than useless—you’re dangerous.”

Cole reached for her hand, but she pulled back.

“Learning that lesson cost me everything. Well, a lot, anyway. That’s why I’m selective about who I work with now,” she continued. “If I’m going to be sheriff of this county, I need people I can trust. Only those people.”

“Even if it means taking on the Prestons? Hawkins?” Cole studied her face in the firelight. “Is challenging powerful people the right move?”

“Should I favor some people over others?” Her eyes met his, fierce and direct. “Is that the kind of sheriff you want?”

“No.” The answer came without hesitation. “But I worry . . .” He paused, weighing his words. “I’ll be honest, there’s a level of selfishness in my question. If you lose the election, will you leave?”

The question hung between them, heavy with unspoken implications. Izzy was quiet for so long that Cole thought she wouldn’t answer.

“I didn’t want to come here,” she finally said. “Darkness was the last place I wanted to be.” A small smile touched her lips. “But I’ve found more reasons to stay than I expected.”

She reached for his hand then, her grip firm and certain. “I’m going to win this election, Cole. Not by playing their games or compromising what’s right. But because this county deserves better than the old guard’s version of justice.”

The fierce determination in her voice stirred something in Cole—pride mixed with concern, admiration tangled with fear. He squeezed her hand, feeling the strength in her grip, the unwavering conviction behind her words.

“And the people who want a better town won’t just come along for the ride; they’ll be driving it. Everyone else is just in the way.”

They sipped their wine and watched the fire dance before them. Cole glanced at Izzy and noted a distant look in her eyes. “Let me check your wound.”

She met his gaze, a flicker of something—hesitation? Anticipation?—crossing her features. “It’s fine.”

“Please,” he said. “You’ve been pushing yourself hard these past few days.”

Izzy sighed but nodded, shifting on the sofa to face him. Cole’s fingers found the hem of her sweater, and he paused, suddenly aware of the intimacy of the moment. The cabin’s silence wrapped around them, broken only by the crack and pop of burning wood and Nanook’s steady breathing from his spot by the fire.

He lifted the sweater, his knuckles brushing against the warm skin of her side. Izzy’s breath caught, but she raised her arms to help him remove it. The bandage on her shoulder stood stark white against her skin in the firelight.

Cole’s medical training took over as he examined the wound, his fingers gentle as he peeled back the tape. It all looked clean, no sign of infection. But his focus wavered as he noticed the goosebumps rising on her skin, the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat.

His hand moved of its own accord, tracing the edge of the scar. The injury was healed and stitches gone, the dressing no longer necessary. Now the recovery had to happen within. The professional mask slipped away as he leaned forward, pressing his lips to the wound. He felt Izzy’s sharp intake of breath, her hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.

Cole raised his head, finding her face inches from his. The firelight caught in her eyes, reflecting something wild and wanting. He closed the distance between them, capturing her lips with his. The kiss started gentle, questioning, but quickly deepened as Izzy responded, her fingers threading through his hair.

Heat bloomed between them as Cole pulled her closer, careful of her injury. Izzy made a soft sound of pleasure that sent electricity down his spine. Her hands wandered down him, feeling how ready he was.

“Wait.” Cole rose like he was doing a push up. “I don’t have any protection.”

Izzy smiled. “When you’re married and have a career, you take precautions. I never stopped. I don’t know why.”

“You were hopeful.”

“Habit, I’d say. There hasn’t been a lot of hopeful for the past year. Until now.”

Izzy put her hands on his jaw and pulled him down into her embrace. He moved to drop to his forearms, but when his hand brushed her shoulder, she flinched, a small gasp of pain escaping.

Before Cole could pull back, Nanook was there, shoving his massive head between them with a concerned whine. The malamute’s cold nose pressed against Izzy’s bare shoulder as he checked on her, tail rigid with uncertainty.

Cole laughed softly, resting his forehead against Izzy’s. “I think that’s enough excitement for now.” He reached for her sweater. “You’re still healing.”

He expected argument or frustration, but Izzy surprised him. She caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For caring enough to stop.”

Cole scavenged a blanket from the bedroom, and they lay together watching the dying fire, the flames having moved from frantic and agitated to fluid and graceful. Izzy dozed off against his chest, her breathing deep and even. The wine glasses sat empty on the floor, and Nanook’s soft snores filled the quiet cabin.

He shifted, drawing her closer as the temperature dropped. She mumbled something unintelligible and burrowed into his chest, her hand curling into his shirt. The intimate gesture made his heart squeeze.

The fire’s glow painted her features in soft amber, smoothing away the lines of worry that seemed permanently etched there during work hours. Her dark hair spilled across his arm, and he caught the faint scent of her shampoo—something clean and herbal that reminded him of summer rain.

When her breathing deepened further, Cole carefully slid his arm under her knees. He lifted her with ease, cradling her against his chest. Her head tucked naturally into the curve of his neck, and he paused, savoring the weight of her in his arms.

The bedroom felt colder than the main room. Cole laid her gently on one of the narrow beds and unbuttoned her jeans, slipping them down her lithe legs and dropping them at the end of the cot. He left her socks on and pulled the thick quilts up to her chin. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

Later, lying alone on the other bed, Cole stared at the ceiling. His body hummed with residual electricity from their kiss, from the feel of her skin under his fingers. The memory of her soft gasp played on repeat in his mind.

He’d been with other women since Amber, had even tried dating seriously once or twice. But this feeling—this overwhelming need to protect while simultaneously wanting to be consumed—this was new. Dangerous. Intoxicating.

His training had taught him to recognize addiction, to understand its warning signs. The way his heart raced when she entered a room. How his day felt incomplete without seeing her. The constant urge to touch, to be near. By any clinical definition, he was in trouble.

Cole rolled onto his side, watching Izzy’s silhouette in the darkness. Her steady breathing matched Nanook’s, who had settled on the floor between their beds like a furry guardian. He felt a sensation he didn’t comprehend. A lightness in his mind and his muscles, something that might have been akin to hope. It wrapped around it him and pulled him down into sleep.

He woke to sunlight filtering through frost-covered windows and the sound of coffee being ground. He lay still for a moment, orienting himself in the unfamiliar space. The other bed was empty, its covers neatly folded.

In the main room, Izzy stood at the counter wearing his flannel shirt over her leggings, her hair loose around her shoulders. She worked the manual grinder with her good arm, Nanook sitting at attention beside her, no doubt hoping for breakfast scraps.

“You found the coffee.” Cole’s voice was still rough with sleep.

“Secret weapon.” She gestured to the grinder with her chin. “Always pack your own.”

He moved to stand behind her. His hands settled on her hips, and she leaned back against his chest, still cranking the grinder. The simple acceptance of his touch, the way she fit against him, made his heart beat harder.

“Let me help with that.” He reached for the grinder, but she shook her head.

“I’ve got it. But you could start the stove.”

They moved around each other in the small kitchen space, a dance that felt natural despite its newness. Cole fed kindling into the wood stove while Izzy measured coffee into the percolator. The scent of both filled the cabin.

“Hungry?” Cole pulled eggs and bacon from the small cooler.

“Starving.” Izzy had found plates and utensils, setting them out on the scarred wooden table. “But Nanook might be hungrier.”

The malamute’s tail thumped against the floor at the mention of his name. Cole laughed and measured out the dog’s breakfast, adding an extra scoop for the cold morning.

They ate at the table, sharing sections of yesterday’s local newspaper Cole had brought along. Izzy’s bare feet were propped in his lap, her toes occasionally curling against his thigh as she read. The comfortable silence felt like a gift.

“Want to try snowshoeing?” Cole asked as they cleaned up breakfast. “There’s a nice loop trail that follows the creek.”

Izzy’s eyes lit up. “I haven’t been since I was a kid.”

Cole helped her bundle up, noting how she still favored her injured shoulder while pulling on layers. He adjusted the straps of her snowshoes, his fingers lingering on her ankle. “Let me know if using the pole is too much. We can stick to the road where the snow is packed and you don’t really need them.”

“I will.”

Outside, the morning sun had turned the snow into a field of diamonds. Their breath formed clouds in the alpine air as Cole demonstrated the basic walking technique. Izzy picked it up quickly, though he noticed she used her good arm more with the poles.

Nanook bounded ahead of them, disappearing into snow drifts like a hunting fox. His joy was infectious, and Cole found himself grinning as the dog rolled in the fresh snow.

“Show-off!” Izzy called as Nanook pranced past them, his coat collecting snowballs.

They followed the creek’s meandering path, the only sounds their breathing and the crunch of snow beneath their feet.

When they reached a small clearing, Izzy stopped to catch her breath. She leaned on her poles, her cheeks flushed from exertion and cold. A strand of hair had escaped her hat, and Cole removed his glove and reached out to tuck it back, letting his fingers trace the curve of her ear.

She caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm—the same gesture from last night, but somehow weightier in the morning light.

Nanook chose that moment to shake vigorously, sending snow flying in all directions. Izzy laughed, and the dog bounded over to them, clearly proud of himself.

“You’re impossible,” Cole told him, but scratched behind his ears, anyway. Nanook’s tail wagged, spreading more snow across their legs.

They continued along the trail, moving slower now as Izzy’s shoulder began to tire. Cole stayed close, ready to steady her if needed, but she held her rhythm. For the moment, he believed that she would overcome any obstacle, that an election would be a breeze for her.

The malamute continued his joyful exploration, perfectly at home in the winter wonderland. Every so often, he would circle back to check on them, his brown eyes bright with excitement. Cole had never seen him so animated, so purely happy.

But it was Izzy who captured his attention. The tension that usually lived in her posture had melted away, replaced by an easy grace as she found her stride. Even with her injured arm, she moved through the snow with growing confidence, stopping occasionally to examine animal tracks or interesting ice formations along the creek.

This version of her—relaxed, curious, unguarded—felt like a precious secret. One he desperately wanted to protect.

They wandered the loop back to the cabin, followed by a pair of ravens. Cole refreshed their coffee while Izzy shed her snow-crusted outer layers. Her movements were slower now, the morning’s exertion evident in the careful way she rotated her arm. Still, her eyes held a lingering contentment that made him feel something similar.

They packed up in comfortable silence. Cole watched as Izzy folded his flannel shirt and placed it on his bed, smoothing the fabric with careful fingers. He wanted to tell her to keep it, but something held him back. He doused the fire, and Izzy tossed their breakfast scraps onto the snow, where the ravens bounced around, taking the offering but wary of a trap.

The sun hung low as they wound their way down the mountain road, painting the snow-covered peaks in shades of gold and rose. Nanook dozed in the back seat, worn out from his adventures. Cole glanced at Izzy in the passenger seat. She’d been quiet since they left the cabin, her gaze fixed on the passing landscape.

As they descended, he noticed the subtle changes in her posture. Her shoulders drew back, spine straightening. The closer they got to Darkness, the more the sheriff’s mask slipped back into place. The soft, playful woman from their snowshoe trek disappeared beneath layers of professional armor.

His phone buzzed. Izzy reached for it in the center console, checking the display. “It’s Wahlberg.”

Cole answered through the truck’s bluetooth. “What’s up, Elliot?”

“Doc, is the sheriff with you?” Wahlberg’s voice crackled with urgency.

“My battery died,” Izzy cut in, all traces of their peaceful morning vanishing. “What’s up?”

“Boss, there’s been a fire.”

“We’re about twenty minutes out. Did you call the fire department?”

“They’re on scene, but Sheriff, the fire . . .”

A deep furrow creased Izzy’s brow. “What is it, Elliot?”

“It’s at the library. Someone tried to burn down the reading room.”

Chapter

Twenty

The school parking lot strobed red and blue as Cole’s truck rounded the final corner. Izzy’s heart sank at the wisps of smoke curling against the darkening sky, black tendrils stark against the snow-covered mountains beyond. The peaceful contentment of their weekend evaporated instantly.

Ben MacGill directed two volunteers rolling a hose at the library’s entrance while Wahlberg kept the growing crowd of onlookers back. Pickup trucks and cars lined both sides of the street, their occupants braving the cold to witness the drama unfold. Tamara stood wrapped in a thick coat, her hands pressed to her mouth as she watched.

Through the gathering dusk, Izzy spotted Hawkins leaning against his cruiser, arms crossed. He made no move to assist, seemingly content to observe Ben’s firefighting efforts from a distance. Their eyes met before he looked away, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

The acrid smell of smoke hit her as Cole killed the engine. Her shoulder throbbed, a reminder of her not-quite-healed injury, but the pain felt distant compared to the anger building inside.

Cole’s hand settled on her forearm before she could reach for the door handle. She turned to find his eyes full of quiet support, his touch grounding her racing thoughts. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. The gentle pressure of his fingers said everything: I’m here. We’ll figure this out. You’re not alone.

Izzy covered his hand with hers for a moment, drawing strength from the connection, before stepping out to face whatever waited outside.

Izzy strode toward the library entrance, cold asphalt in the valley replacing the romantic snow of her day in the mountains. The winter air carried the lingering scent of smoke mixed with the chemical tang of fire suppressant. Her muscles tensed as Ben MacGill approached, his face grim in the emergency lights.

“Sheriff.” Ben wiped soot from his hands. He looked like a fireman: tall, broad, with a granite chin. “Fire’s out. Caught it early enough—minimal structural damage.”

“Thank you, Captain. What happened?”

“Someone broke in through the back door.” Ben gestured for her to follow. “Jimmied the lock.”

They rounded the corner of the building. The metal door hung askew, its frame splintered. Izzy’s gaze swept the gathering crowd, cataloging faces. Through the sea of concerned citizens, she caught Hawkins watching her, his expression unreadable in the strobing lights. He pushed off his cruiser and walked toward his vehicle’s driver’s side, pausing only to give her a slight nod before climbing in. The message was clear—he wanted her to see him leaving.

“I need this scene secured,” Izzy told Ben.

“Deputy Wahlberg is on that.”

“Good. Thanks. Let’s take a look, Ben.”

Izzy followed Ben into the building, their boots crunching on broken glass and wet debris. The familiar corridor felt alien in the harsh emergency lighting, casting strange shadows across the water-stained carpet.

As they approached the reading room, Izzy’s stomach clenched. The window lay in jagged pieces across the floor, and black smoke stains marred the wall above it.

“Three devices at first guess,” Ben said, pointing to distinct burn patterns. “Crude Molotov cocktails. They broke the window, then threw them in.” He traced the trajectory with his flashlight beam. “One hit here, one there, and the third . . .” He moved his light to show a scorched section of shelving. “That one actually did the most damage. Pure luck it didn’t catch properly.” Ben shifted to look at Izzy. “Well, not luck, exactly.”

“What do you mean, not luck?”

Izzy followed Ben into the reading room, her nose wrinkling at the acrid smell. The emergency lights cast harsh shadows across the walls, transforming the once-cozy space into something alien and hostile.

“Look.” Ben’s flashlight beam swept across empty shelves and vacant display cases. “Three Molotovs should have done the trick. With the amount of old paper and wood in here, this should have gone up like kindling.” He traced the scorch marks with his light. “But there was nothing to burn.”

Izzy frowned as she surveyed the room. The glass-fronted cabinets stood open and bare, their contents safely stored in Jenny Wahlberg’s dining room. The map drawers gaped empty, cleaned out just days before the attack.

“Someone went to a lot of trouble,” Ben continued, “to burn up an empty room.” He turned to face her, his expression thoughtful. “This is not a random act of vandalism. This looks like arson to cover up a theft. The entire collection is gone.”

Relief flooded through Izzy, followed by a cold dread. If they’d hadn’t moved the collection . . . . She studied Ben’s face in the harsh light, weighing her options. The captain struck her as steady and reliable. Now she needed something more.

“The room was empty because I had everything moved out.” The words came out quiet but firm. “We relocated the collection for safekeeping during the ongoing investigation.”

Ben’s eyebrows rose slightly. “That was good timing.”

“I need to keep that quiet for now, Ben. The fewer people who know where those materials are, or that we even moved them, the better.”

He nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. “You were expecting trouble.”

“I didn’t expect this.” Izzy moved closer to one of the burn marks, careful to avoid disturbing any evidence.

Ben played his flashlight over the empty meeting table. “But it’s possible that the perp didn’t see that the collection was gone. The lights were off when we got here. I think they might have tossed the Molotovs and run, expecting the books to ignite. Which suggests they wanted to get rid of something that was in here.”

“You doing my job for me now, Ben?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to⁠—”

“I’m kidding.” Izzy tapped his shoulder. “I appreciate the insight. And I think you’re right. If it’s related to our investigation, then this suggests there was something here that the perpetrator wanted destroyed.”

“Something they didn’t get when they killed Gary Chávez.”

“Or didn’t know was here until now.”

“Sheriff.” Ben’s tone grew serious. “My volunteers have already been through this room. They’re good people, but . . .”

“But they talk,” Izzy finished for him. “And in Darkness, word travels fast.”

“Like wildfire.” Ben’s mouth quirked at his own joke, but his eyes remained serious. “By morning, half the town will know the collection was gone before the attack.”

Izzy pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. The peaceful bubble of her weekend with Cole seemed a lifetime ago. “They’ll know it was gone, but they might suspect burglary.”

“True. But do you want them thinking that? With all due respect, Sheriff, there are some people asking questions about you.” Ben shrugged apologetically. “I’m not sure you want to bring that kind of heat.”

Izzy nodded, her mind already racing ahead to damage control. Someone had been desperate enough to commit arson, thinking they could destroy evidence. Instead, they’d only confirmed its importance. But now the clock was ticking—not just on preserving that evidence, but on keeping its location secret.

“I’m aware of the talk, Ben. But I’m not prejudicing a case to make people feel better about me. If they’re talking about my incompetence, then they’re not asking where the collection really is, and until I know what was so important that someone would try to burn the library down, I’m okay with people looking the wrong way.”

“That’s brave.”

Izzy smiled. “That’s what a fireman thinks is brave?”

“I’m trained to run into burning buildings, Sheriff.” He shook his head with wide eyes. “Dealing with people trying to stab me in the back is way outside my comfort zone.”

“Trust me, Ben, it’s outside mine, too. But we have a job to do. Can I depend on you?”

“Yes, ma’am, you can.”

“Ma’am? Weren’t you one year ahead of me at school?”

“I was. I remember you.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Cole’s a lucky guy. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Is that all you’re saying?” She smiled at him, and she could see him analyzing her in the glow of his flashlight.

“No, actually, it’s not. The town’s also lucky. The county, too. We need to drag this place into the twenty-first century, and honestly, Dab Hawkins is a decent guy, but he’s not the one for that job.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Do. Now, I need to clean up here and get my team home. They don’t get paid to be here.”

“Got you. And Ben, I appreciate you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ben led Izzy out of the building and into the strobing lights of the cold parking lot. Izzy needed to get Wahlberg to pass the message around that the fire was out and onlookers should get out of the cold and go home. She found Elliot chasing after a woman who had stepped under the crime scene tape he was putting out again.

The slap of sensible oxford shoes on wet pavement cut through the noise of the crowd. Izzy watched Davina Williamson marching toward her, the historian’s vintage cat-eye glasses glinting in the emergency lights. Her normally pristine bob was disheveled, as if she’d been running her fingers through it repeatedly.

“Sheriff Llewellyn!” Davina’s voice carried across the parking lot with the sharp crack of a ruler against a desk. Several onlookers turned to watch. “What have you done?”

Izzy kept her expression neutral as Davina closed the distance between them, her messenger bag swinging wildly at her hip. The pendant she always wore bounced against her cardigan with each determined step.

“Ms. Williamson⁠—”

“Don’t you ‘Ms. Williamson’ me.” Davina’s face was flushed, her pale green eyes magnified by both her thick glasses and obvious distress. “I trusted you with our history. With irreplaceable documents that tell the story of this county, this town. And now?” She gestured wildly at the smoke-stained building. “Now it’s all destroyed!”

Izzy remained silent, aware of the growing audience. Davina’s volume increased with each unanswered accusation.

“Do you have any idea what we’ve lost? Maps from the settlement of the county, correspondence between founding families, records that can never be replaced!” Davina’s hands trembled as she clutched her bag closer. “Your father would never have allowed this to happen. He understood the importance of preserving our heritage.”

The mention of her father stung, but Izzy kept her face impassive. Let Davina draw her own conclusions about the collection’s fate. The fewer people who knew the truth, the better.

“Your silence is telling, Sheriff.” Davina’s tone dripped with disdain. “This level of incompetence borders on criminal negligence. The Board of Supervisors will hear about this immediately.”

Izzy’s gaze flickered to where Supervisor Watanabe stood behind the crime scene tape, his arms crossed as he observed the scene. “Well, there’s one right there if you’d like to speak with him.”

“Not him.” Davina’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll be speaking directly with President Preston. She needs to understand exactly what kind of person she appointed to protect this county’s interests.”

The historian spun on her heel, her circle skirt swishing dramatically as she stormed toward her car. Izzy watched her go, noting how Davina’s righteous anger seemed to energize rather than drain her. The woman was already pulling out her phone before she reached her vehicle, no doubt preparing to make that call to Elaine Preston.

As Davina’s figure disappeared into the sea of onlookers, Izzy turned her gaze back to Supervisor Watanabe. Even from a distance, Izzy could feel the weight of his stare, the unspoken questions hanging in the air between them.

She signaled for him to cross the tape, watching as he ducked under it with a fluid grace that belied his age, his steps measured and purposeful as he approached her.

“Sheriff.” He greeted her with a nod. “This is quite the situation you have here.”

Izzy kept her chin held high despite the growing tension in her neck. “It’s under control, Supervisor.”

Watanabe’s eyebrows rose. “Is it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like a potential disaster.” He glanced around. “There are some important people who aren’t happy about this, Sheriff. People with influence.”

Izzy felt her jaw clench, her fingers itching to curl into fists at her sides. She forced herself to take a slow, measured breath before responding.

“I’m aware of the concerns, Supervisor. But my priority is the investigation, not politics.”

Watanabe studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. “I understand that, Sheriff. But you need to see the bigger picture here. The decisions you make, the way you handle this case . . . It all has implications beyond just solving a crime.”

Izzy furrowed her brow, her gaze locked onto his. “Do I have your support, Supervisor?”

The hint of a smile played at the corners of Watanabe’s mouth. “If you do the job right, Sheriff. I want to see the sheriff’s office modernize, but it needs to happen the right way. Your FBI background could be a real asset here, but you need to prove yourself first.”

The words were a mixed message, equal parts support and warning. Izzy nodded slowly, her mind already racing ahead to the challenges that lay before her. This investigation was bigger than just finding a killer or preventing evidence from being destroyed. It was about navigating the complex web of politics and power that seemed to permeate every corner of Mirage County.

“I appreciate your candor, Supervisor.” Izzy kept her tone even, betraying none of the turmoil she felt inside. “I’ll keep that in mind as we move forward.”

Watanabe nodded, his expression softening. “You have a tough road ahead of you, Sheriff. But if you play your cards right, you could do a lot of good for this county. But some friendly advice? Ms. Williamson is close with Supervisor Preston, and I have no doubt that is who she was calling when she left. She will inevitably be back, and when she is, I suggest you throw her a bone.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his figure swallowed up by the crowd. Izzy took a deep breath once more as she pivoted to the scene before her. The fire was out, but the real battle was just beginning. And she was determined to come out on top, no matter what it took.

Movement caught her eye, and she found Cole standing by his truck, rubbing Nanook’s head through the open window. Their gazes met across the parking lot, and in that silent exchange, she read his concern, his support, and something deeper that made her breath catch. He gave her a small nod, and she returned it, drawing strength from the simple gesture.

But she couldn’t dwell on that comfort, not now. Not when she could feel the weight of watchful eyes from the dispersing crowd, each person carrying away their own version of tonight’s events. The truth about the collection’s location needed to stay buried, at least until she understood what Gary had discovered in those dusty pages that was worth killing for.

Chapter

Twenty-One

Izzy eased her Explorer up to the Preston ranch house. Shadows stretched long across the weathered facade in the midmorning sun, highlighting every crack and imperfection. The two-story home had looked imposing during her previous visit, but now its grandeur felt hollow, like an aging actress clinging to past glory.

Before, she had noticed patches of paint curling away from the window frames, but on second assessment, she saw that one of the decorative shutters hung askew, and dead leaves collected in drifts against the wraparound porch.

Izzy killed the engine but remained in the driver’s seat, studying her reflection in the rearview mirror. She adjusted her collar, smoothed back a few loose strands of hair, and checked that her badge sat straight on her chest. The summons from Supervisor Preston had been terse—a curt message relayed through her secretary demanding Izzy’s immediate presence at the ranch.

Stepping out of the SUV, she rolled her shoulder carefully, then squared her stance and lifted her chin. Whatever Elaine Preston had in store, Izzy refused to show weakness.

She rapped her knuckles against the heavy oak door, its once-pristine varnish now dulled and cracking.

The door swung open to reveal Elaine Preston, her steel-gray hair swept into an elegant updo, not a strand out of place. Her navy sheath dress spoke of careful tailoring and expensive taste, while her pearl necklace caught the morning light. But behind her perfect presentation, a layer of dust coated the crystal chandelier in the foyer. The oriental runner leading into the house had worn thin in spots, its intricate pattern faded to ghostly echoes of its former vibrancy.

“Sheriff Llewellyn.” Elaine’s lips curved into a politician’s smile. “Please, come in.”

Izzy stepped across the threshold, her boots sinking into the carpet’s threadbare pile. The wallpaper, an elaborate damask pattern that must have once been cream and gold, had yellowed with age. Water stains crept down one corner where the roof had likely leaked. A fine film of dust coated the mahogany side table, except for clear circles where picture frames had recently sat. The frames themselves were gone now, leaving behind only their shadows. The air held a musty undertone beneath Elaine’s expensive perfume, speaking of closed rooms and neglected housekeeping.

Elaine led Izzy into a formal sitting room, gesturing to a Victorian settee while taking her own seat in a high-backed chair. The position gave her the higher ground, a detail that didn’t escape Izzy’s notice.

“I understand you paid my husband a visit.” Elaine’s voice carried the sharp edge of a blade wrapped in silk. “Questioning him about Gary Chávez.”

“That’s correct.”

“And you didn’t think to inform me first?”

Izzy met Elaine’s cold stare. “No, ma’am, I didn’t. The investigation required speaking with Mr. Preston directly.”

“The proper protocol, Sheriff, would have been to come through my office.” Elaine’s fingers tightened on the arm of her chair. “As President of the Board of Supervisors⁠—”

“With all due respect, Supervisor Preston, your position doesn’t grant oversight of active criminal investigations.” Izzy’s voice remained calm, yet resolute. “I followed standard procedure for interviewing potential witnesses.”

A muscle twitched in Elaine’s jaw. “You’re new here, Sheriff. Perhaps you don’t understand how things work in Mirage County.”

“But I’m not new, Supervisor, and you know that. I understand exactly how things work. That’s why I’m doing them differently.”

“Different isn’t always better.” Elaine’s smile thinned. “In the future, I expect you to come to me first before approaching any member of my family. It’s a courtesy I’m sure your father would have extended.”

“My father isn’t sheriff anymore,” Izzy said. “And while I appreciate the suggestion, I’ll continue to conduct investigations as I see fit within the bounds of the law.”

“The law can be . . . interpretable.” Elaine’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “As can terms like fit for duty.”

The implied threat hung in the air between them. Izzy let the silence stretch, studying the woman who’d orchestrated her appointment. The polished exterior couldn’t quite mask Elaine’s desperation to keep control.

“That’s an interesting perspective, Supervisor Preston.” Izzy leaned forward. “But consider how it might look if word got out that county officials were attempting to influence criminal investigations. The kind of scrutiny that could bring attention from state agencies.”

Elaine’s fingers whitened against the chair’s fabric. “I’m merely suggesting⁠—”

“You hired me because of my FBI background.” A steely undertone crept into Izzy’s tone. “You made quite a show of bringing in experienced federal law enforcement to modernize the department. How would it reflect on the board if you now tried to prevent me from using that experience?”

“I assumed you understood chain of command.”

“Did you?” Izzy allowed a small, knowing smile to play across her lips. “Or did you hire me because you heard about my husband’s death? Thought I’d be too broken to cause problems?”

The color drained from Elaine’s face. “I don’t know what you’re implying⁠—”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating facts. You wanted someone qualified enough to look good on paper but damaged enough to control.” Izzy stood, smoothing her uniform. “You miscalculated.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees as Elaine’s mask of civility cracked. Her eyes glittered with barely contained fury as she realized her mistake—she’d given real authority to someone who wouldn’t be cowed.

Izzy shifted her weight, redirecting the conversation before Elaine could recover her composure. “I need to ask where you were last evening.”

“Are you accusing me of something?” Elaine’s voice carried an edge of indignation, but her fingers remained white-knuckled on the chair.

“As I explained to your husband, I need to rule people out as much as rule them in. Standard procedure.”

Elaine lifted her chin. “Robert and I had dinner at Florentine’s in Harris. Any number of other patrons can confirm our presence there from six until nearly nine.” She barely drew breath before continuing. “Ranger was home with his wife and children—his wife can verify that. And Jefferson was up at his cabin all night.”

The rapid-fire delivery of alibis for her entire family caught Izzy’s attention. Most people struggled to remember their own whereabouts with such detail, let alone account for multiple family members without hesitation.

“I didn’t ask about the rest of your family,” Izzy said carefully.

“Well, I assumed you would.” Elaine’s smile returned, brittle and sharp. “I’m simply being thorough, Sheriff. Isn’t that what good law enforcement requires?”

“And where were you prior to your dinner engagement?”

“Prior?”

“Yes. The fire was lit shortly before four.”

“Before four? I was at the office. My husband would have been at the American Legion post then, until he collected me for dinner from City Hall. I had documents to read from Monday night’s meeting.” Elaine rose from her chair, smoothing her dress. “Given recent events, the board feels direct oversight of this investigation is necessary. We’ll be appointing an independent reviewer to assess your case notes and evidence handling procedures.”

The statement landed like a slap. Izzy stood firm. “That won’t be happening.”

“Ms. Williamson has raised serious concerns about your handling of historical documents.” Elaine’s tone dripped with manufactured concern. “And your choice to rely on a schoolteacher and a deputy’s wife for consultation, while ignoring our county’s most qualified historian⁠—”

“Tamara Ramos and Jenny Wahlberg are providing valuable local context.”

“They’re civilians with no investigative experience.” Elaine’s lips pressed into a thin line. “The board has authority over all county departments, Sheriff. Including yours.”

“The sheriff’s office operates independently of the board of supervisors.” Izzy met Elaine’s gaze steadily. “That independence is protected by state law.”

A cold smile spread across Elaine’s face. “That protection applies to elected sheriffs, my dear. You’re an appointee. My appointee.” She leaned forward. “And until you win an election—if you win an election—you serve at the board’s pleasure.”

The threat hung heavy in the air between them.

Izzy clenched her teeth but kept her expression neutral. Elaine was right about one thing: her position was more precarious than an elected sheriff’s would be. But that didn’t mean she would roll over.

“The California Constitution guarantees the independence of the Office of Sheriff,” Izzy said carefully. “Not the individual holding the position. My authority comes from the office itself, whether I’m elected or appointed.”

“Then you can take the county to court, if you wish, and see what that does to people’s opinions of how you are spending their tax dollars. But Ms. Williamson will be allowed to assess the evidence you have collected.”

Izzy thought of Supervisor Watanabe’s advice about throwing Davina a bone. She drew in a measured breath. “Ms. Williamson can view the case notes and the evidence we collected from the deceased’s home.” Izzy spoke in a monotone voice. “But she’ll do so under deputy supervision, and she’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement regarding any evidence pertinent to the investigation.”

“That’s not⁠—”

“That’s my final offer.” Izzy rose from the settee, standing to attention despite the twinge of pain. “The investigation itself remains under my sole authority. If you attempt to interfere with that, I’ll resign immediately and hold a press conference explaining exactly why.”

Elaine’s perfect mask slipped for just a moment, revealing a flash of genuine anger. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” Izzy met her gaze unflinchingly. “Fire me if you want, but understand what that means. Every decision you’ve made about my appointment will be questioned. Every complaint about corruption and good old boys’ networks will seem validated. And the state will take a very close look at why you removed a sheriff in the middle of a homicide investigation.”

The two women stared each other down. Izzy saw the calculation happening behind Elaine’s eyes—weighing the political cost of backing down against the risk of pushing too far.

“You’re making a mistake.” Elaine spat.

“No, you made the mistake.” Izzy moved toward the door. “You thought you were getting someone desperate enough to play by your rules. Instead, you got someone with nothing left to lose.”

They both recognized the moment for what it was: a declaration of war. Whatever tentative peace had existed between them shattered like the library windows, leaving only jagged edges and the promise of blood to come.

Izzy bid Elaine good day and left down the worn porch steps, each creak beneath her boots echoing the tension coiled in her muscles. The morning sun again caught the peeling paint, revealing patches of bare wood beneath—like the conversation had stripped away Elaine Preston’s carefully maintained veneer. A breeze stirred dead leaves across the once-manicured lawn, now patchy and overgrown in spots.

The door slammed behind her with enough force to rattle the loose shutter. Izzy didn’t turn around, but she could feel Elaine’s eyes boring into her back through the dusty windowpanes. The woman’s rage was practically radiating through the glass.

Izzy climbed into her vehicle and sat for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel as she processed the confrontation. Elaine’s threats weren’t empty—the woman wielded real power in Mirage County. But her obvious desperation to control the investigation only strengthened Izzy’s resolve to uncover what the Prestons were hiding.

The Explorer’s engine roared to life, gravel spitting as Izzy pulled away from the ranch house. In her rearview mirror, she caught a final glimpse of Elaine Preston’s rigid silhouette in the window, still watching, still seething.

Izzy pulled out along the long private road back to the highway but stopped at the fork where the road cut away to the northwest. She saw a man on a horse trotting her way. She didn’t need to see the brooding eyes to know who it was. His broad posture and black cowboy hat gave him away.

Izzy let the SUV idle as he approached, seemingly not in any hurry to do so. When he got near, Izzy cut the engine so as not to spook the horse, although she wasn’t sure if the animal was used to vehicles. She dropped the window, and Jefferson Preston eased alongside. He looked down at her with a tight jaw and those eyes that gave nothing away.

He put his hand to the tip of his hat. “Ma’am.”

“Mr. Preston.” Her perspective was disconcerting, looking up at him on his mount, the blue sky and Ryall’s Peak behind. He looked like the cover of a romance novel, not a cold-blooded killer. Izzy gulped and then cleared her throat. “I was just talking to your mother about the fire at the library in Darkness.”

“Because she’s on the county board, or you’re driving around telling everyone in town?”

“Neither, really. Your name keeps coming up.”

“My name?” He looked indifferent to the idea.

“The Preston name. But also yours, here and there.”

“Here and there?”

“Yes. Where were you last night?”

“Am I a suspect?”

“Everyone’s a suspect until I rule them out.”

“But you’re here talking to me, not everyone else.”

“Like I say, your name keeps coming up. So where were you?”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“Do you have one?”

“The family has a guy in Harris.”

“That’s your call, but you’re not charged with anything. I’m just asking a simple question.”

He looked down at her for way too long, his eyes boring into her like an x-ray into her soul.

“I was here last night. Alone. Again. You’ll find that’s the answer to your question most nights. So I’ll pretty much never have an alibi for any crime that is ever committed in the county.”

“You don’t get out much.”

“No.”

“Why’s that? You’re the heir to the Preston legacy. Seems like you’d be quite the catch.”

“That would be a reason for other people to be out. Not me.”

“Doesn’t the firstborn usually produce the next heir?”

The corner of his mouth lifted as if he found her amusing.

“I’m sorry.” Izzy shifted in her seat. “That was uncalled for.”

Jefferson seemed to shrug. “I enjoy the solitude. People . . . I don’t get them. Not the way my mother does, not like my brother.” He pulled on the reins as if revving the engine of a car. “You have anything else? I have work to do.”

“Don’t let me keep you. I know where you are if I need to speak with you.”

He again touched the rim of his hat. “Yes, you do.”

The horse turned away as if it knew it was time to go, and they trotted away toward the main house, in no hurry at all.

Izzy puffed her cheeks and blew out her air, then started the engine. Once on the highway and with a single bar of coverage, she called Wahlberg, asking him to prepare the conference room for Davina Williamson’s visit.

“And Elliot, get a copy of the minutes from the last Board of Supervisors’ meeting.”

Chapter

Twenty-Two

The LED lights created rainbow circles on the conference room table as Izzy arranged the documents. She placed Gary and Miguel’s notebooks in the center, flanked by the case file and autopsy report. At the end of the table, she left a file box holding items retrieved from Gary Chávez’s camper.

A rap at the door made Izzy straighten, rolling her injured shoulder in what was now becoming a habit, as Davina Williamson appeared in the doorway. The historian’s well-worn leather messenger bag seemed to hang perpetually at her side, bulging with what Izzy assumed were her own reference materials.

“Ms. Williamson.” Izzy gestured to the chair across the table. “Thank you for coming.”

Davina’s gaze swept over the arranged documents, her lips pressed into a thin line. She removed a pair of white cotton gloves from her bag and pulled them on.

“I trust these materials have been properly preserved?” Davina adjusted her glasses.

“They’ve been handled according to evidence protocols.” Izzy kept her tone neutral. “I’ve laid out the case file, autopsy report, and the notebooks recovered from Mr. Chávez’s residence. Given your expertise, you may want to focus on the historical documents rather than the medical examiner’s findings.”

Davina’s shoulders stiffened. “I’ll determine what requires my attention, Sheriff.”

“Just want to warn you, is all. It doesn’t make for very pleasant reading.” Izzy had made the decision not to stonewall Davina. She was a font of local knowledge, and despite her attitude and link to Elaine Preston, she might find something that the rest of them had missed.

Davina settled into the chair and opened the first notebook, her gloved fingers tracing the edge of each page before turning it. Her methodical examination reminded Izzy of a jeweler inspecting stones for flaws.

Izzy observed as Davina’s expression shifted while reading Gary’s notes about the diseños. The historian’s eyebrows drew together, and she reached into her bag for a small notebook of her own, jotting down observations in perfect Palmer Method script.

“These references . . .” Davina paused, adjusting her glasses again. “Where did Mr. Chávez access this information?”

“That’s part of what we’re trying to determine.”

Davina’s pen scratched across her notepad. She moved to the second notebook, and Izzy noticed how her fingers lingered over the different handwriting. The historian’s breathing quickened slightly, though her face remained composed.

“The penmanship in this section . . .” Davina flipped between pages, comparing the two styles. Her free hand drifted to the silver pendant at her throat, fingers worrying the metal as she read.

Izzy leaned against the wall. The historian’s precision felt almost ceremonial, like a priest handling sacred texts. But beneath her professional detachment, something in the documents had clearly caught her attention.

The afternoon light shifted, lengthening the shadows across the table. Davina had yet to touch the autopsy report, her focus entirely consumed by Gary and Miguel’s historical research. Her pen moved constantly, recording observations in her own notebook with the same careful attention she gave to the evidence before her.

Izzy decided to test a theory. “We found these in Gary’s camper.” She kept her voice casual. “From what we can piece together, Gary was searching for something related to his uncle Miguel’s disappearance twenty years ago.”

Davina’s pen paused mid-stroke. “Or searching for what his uncle was searching for.”

The quick response confirmed Izzy’s suspicion that the historian knew more than she let on. “You’re familiar with Miguel Chávez?”

“I’m familiar with most historical research conducted in this county.” Davina adjusted her glasses, a gesture Izzy was beginning to recognize as a tell.

“What do you remember about his disappearance?”

“Only what circulated through town.” Davina’s fingers traced the edge of the notebook. “The prevailing narrative suggested he abandoned his family to avoid parental responsibilities. But I cannot verify the accuracy of such claims.”

“Like José Chávez?” Izzy pushed off from the wall. “Another Chávez man who supposedly ran from his obligations?”

Davina’s hand went to her pendant. “The parallels hadn’t escaped my notice.”

“Seems convenient, doesn’t it?” Izzy circled the table. “These stories about men running away. Makes for a tidy explanation when someone goes missing.”

“You’re suggesting these accounts are fabricated?” Davina’s tone sharpened.

“I’m suggesting that history isn’t always what it appears to be.” Izzy stopped beside Davina’s chair. “What was life really like here in those early days?”

Davina set down her pen. “Mirage County was characterized by significant population movement in its formative years. Men arrived seeking employment, homesteads, or their fortunes. Many ventured to the gold fields with genuine intentions of returning, but perished in the attempt.” She paused, adjusting her glasses again. “Some did return when silver was discovered here in the 1860s. Most never came back at all.”

“Making it easy to explain away a disappearance.”

“Perhaps.” Davina’s fingers drummed against the notebook. “But absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence, Sheriff. Without documentation, we can only speculate about motivations.”

“True. Did you know Miguel or Gary Chávez at all?”

“Gary, no.”

“But Miguel?”

Davina took a breath so deep her shoulders raised up before falling. “I recall him at a couple of historical society meetings.”

“Where?”

“Mostly at the library in Harris, I would say.”

Izzy frowned. “Mostly?”

“He may have joined the occasional meeting here in Darkness.”

“Which would have been held where?”

Davina adjusted her glasses again. “At the library.”

“In the reading room?”

“Yes.”

Izzy stood across the table from Davina. “Do you remember what Miguel’s interest was?”

“He had a family story about the settlement days, built off the José Chávez tale. Many families concoct these kinds of fables. If you believed every story about a family having someone on board the Mayflower, you’d have to believe the Pilgrims arrived on a vessel the size of a cruise liner.”

“But the Chávezes don’t think they were on the Mayflower.”

“No. The Chávez story was an alternate history about how they could have, would have, should have been the prominent family in the county. Again, lots of families have theories about things like this. It’s often used by disaffected young men as a complaint against the world for all their ills. It’s easier to blame than to get off your haunches and put in the hard work.”

“But José Chávez was here back at the beginning, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, that’s documented. But the best conspiracy theories riff off a kernel of truth. Miguel wanted to believe that José was the rightful owner of land in the valley. You see these references to diseños in his notebook? These were maps that were drawn up as part of claims, so many families who have such old maps in their attics think they have such claims.” Davina shook her head with a dismissive smirk. “But many diseños were shown to be nothing more than maps of an area rather than being attached to a claim. Some were used for navigation, some for possible mining claims, others just for posterity. There were some used to attempt fraud. Land claims required a lot more than just a map, and it’s the lack of those other documents that defeats these family stories. People want to believe they’re related to royalty. No one ever fantasizes about being the char lady.”

“But absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence, Ms. Williamson.”

“Touché, Sheriff. But it’s moot. Land claims were settled a century ago. Rights were settled and land has changed hands over and over and courts have decreed that there is no basis to contest these things now. So, anything Miguel might have claimed is legally moot, and therefore nothing more than attempting to justify his lot in life.”

Izzy flipped open Gary’s notebook to a marked page. “What about these references to Grainger Preston? They appear multiple times in both notebooks.”

“The Preston family has been instrumental in shaping this county since its inception.” Davina’s tone carried the cadence of someone who had delivered this lecture many times. “Grainger Preston established one of the largest cattle operations in the region. His influence extended beyond ranching into water rights, mining interests, and local governance.”

“And his relationship with José Chávez?”

“I’ve never seen any documented evidence, but it was a small community, so it is likely they knew each other.” Davina’s hand went to her pendant. “Landowners and laborers, employers and employees. The historical record shows the Prestons provided work opportunities for many local families.”

“Including the Chávez family?”

“Undoubtedly, though I fail to see the relevance to your current investigation.”

Izzy tapped Miguel’s notebook. “Miguel disappeared while researching this history.”

“Correlation does not imply causation, Sheriff. As a trained investigator, you should appreciate that principle.”

“I do.” Izzy leaned forward. “Just as I appreciate how historical research and criminal investigation share common ground. We both follow trails of evidence, piece together narratives from fragments, look for patterns in seemingly unrelated events.”

Davina’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “An interesting comparison.”

“Both disciplines require us to question accepted narratives.” Izzy watched Davina’s reaction carefully. “To look beyond the stories people want us to believe.”

“Perhaps.” Davina removed her glasses, cleaning them with deliberate care. “But historical research demands rigorous documentation. Speculation without supporting evidence is merely storytelling.”

“And what if someone wanted to ensure certain evidence never came to light?”

Davina replaced her glasses. “Are you suggesting the Preston family somehow orchestrated the destruction of historical records?”

“I’m suggesting that power gives people the ability to shape narratives.” Izzy met Davina’s gaze. “And I’m suggesting someone set fire to the reading room for a reason.”

“That’s quite an accusation.”

“It’s an observation. One that applies to your field as well as mine.” Izzy gestured to the notebooks. “We both know documents can be altered, destroyed, or hidden.”

Something flickered in Davina’s eyes—recognition, perhaps, or concern. She looked down at the notebooks again, her fingers tracing the different handwriting styles.

“Your point about methodology is well-taken,” Davina conceded. “Both our fields require careful documentation and critical analysis.”

“And both require us to consider multiple interpretations of the evidence.”

“Yes.” Davina’s voice softened. “Though I maintain that extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof.”

“Agreed.” Izzy closed Gary’s notebook. “Which is why I’m grateful for your expertise in reviewing these materials. Fresh eyes often see things others miss.”

The tension in Davina’s shoulders eased slightly. “Your approach to this investigation is more thorough than I expected.”

“Truth matters,” Izzy said simply. “Whether it’s historical or criminal.”

“Indeed.” Davina gathered her notes. “Though truth can be an elusive target, particularly when examining events from the distant past.”

“Or the recent past.” Izzy watched as Davina pushed the autopsy report to the side. “Sometimes the hardest truths to uncover are the ones people are still trying to hide.”

“Well, if I could have some time to review these materials.” Davina tapped the notebook in front of her.

“Of course. If you find anything you feel is relevant to my investigation, just knock on my door. And if you need anything, just ask Adrianne. Once you’re done, let her know. We’ll need to lock up the evidence again.”

Davina lifted her chin. “I don’t know yet if it will be done today.”

“We need to secure the evidence overnight, regardless. Adrianne can have a deputy access it again for you tomorrow if need be.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

“No. Thank you, Ms. Williamson. Anything that helps us solve this case is appreciated.”

Chapter

Twenty-Three

The late afternoon sun painted the eastern hills in amber, casting long shadows across Izzy’s desk. She leaned back in her chair, her mind circling back to the conversation with Davina.

Documentation. They agreed that both their fields demanded it. Every piece of evidence cataloged, every source cited, every detail recorded for posterity. Which made Izzy think more about her own father’s investigative style and what records he kept about Miguel Chávez’s disappearance.

Izzy pulled up the department’s digital database on her computer. She was told the system had been implemented five years ago when the new sheriff’s facility was built, with older cases gradually being entered as time and budget allowed. She typed “Miguel Chávez” into the search field and hit enter.

No results found.

She tried variations—"Chávez, Miguel," “M. Chávez”—but the screen remained stubbornly empty. Twenty years wasn’t that long ago. Her father had been sheriff then, and Izzy recalled her dad often sitting at the dining table transcribing notes into case files. To her teenage eye, the first Sheriff Llewellyn had been nothing if not methodical in his work.

Izzy pushed back from her desk and walked to the windows. The desert stretched vast and empty beyond the town limits, the kind of space where a person could vanish without a trace. But cases didn’t vanish. Reports weren’t filed in thin air. Izzy’s mind drifted to her previous case, her first in the job. Records had been poor on that one—as it turned out, deliberately so. Had this office always been so sloppy?

She returned to her computer and broadened the search parameters. Missing persons cases from a three-year period. Nothing. Incident reports mentioning the Chávez family. A handful of minor infractions, none involving Miguel or Gary.

The frustration built, and she felt herself grinding her jaw. Her father would have documented everything—witness statements, evidence logs, search parameters. Even if the case went cold, the paperwork would exist. Should exist.

Unless someone didn’t want it found or didn’t want it taken down in the first place.

She clicked through to the archives directory. Many older files were still paper-only, stored for a period as outlined in the California Penal Code, depending on the nature and severity of a crime. As Miguel’s missing person’s case was technically never closed, the files should be kept indefinitely. But even if the paper was still somewhere in storage, there should at least be a reference number, a case designation, something to indicate where the physical files might be located.

Nothing.

Izzy sighed loudly. This wasn’t just a dead end—it was as if the trail had never existed at all.

She took the stairs down to the first floor, her footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. The sun had dipped low enough that the lobby’s glass walls reflected the interior rather than the desert beyond, creating a mirror effect that doubled the emptiness of the space.

Adrianne sat at the duty desk, the glow of her computer screen highlighting the roses printed on her muumuu. She looked up as Izzy approached, her perpetual smile warming her round face.

“Adrianne, I need to pick your brain about something.”

“Of course, Sheriff.” Adrianne’s fingers stayed poised over her keyboard. “What can I help you with?”

“I’m looking for case files from when my father was sheriff. Specifically about twenty years ago.”

“Ah.” Adrianne’s hands dropped to her lap. “You won’t find those in the system.”

“So I discovered. What happened to the old files?”

“They’re still at the old sheriff’s office.”

Izzy blinked. “The old office?”

“The one down by the cemetery.” Adrianne’s smile widened. “You don’t remember it?”

“I—” Izzy felt heat creep up her neck. “I went there once or twice, but I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Most have. Los Angeles Department of Water and Power owns the ground under the building, so the county let them take over the building rent-free as an office for their aqueduct maintenance teams—on the proviso that we could leave records in some of the unused space.”

“And all the old files are still there?”

“Everything before the move.” Adrianne adjusted her reading glasses. “When we got the federal grant for this building, it covered construction and new systems. But digitizing the old records? That had to come from our budget.”

Izzy let out a sarcastic laugh. “Let me guess, the money wasn’t there.”

“There are always other priorities.” Adrianne’s tone remained neutral, but something flickered behind her smile. “The old files stayed put. We just closed the door and moved here.”

“Next to the cemetery, you say?”

“Building’s about half a mile down, on the far side of the cemetery conifers. Looks like a concrete bunker with windows.” Adrianne paused. “You’ll need the key.”

“Where’s that?”

Adrianne opened her desk drawer and removed a ring of keys. She selected an old brass one and worked it free. “I keep a spare. Never know when we might need to reference something.”

Izzy took the key, its weight solid in her palm. “You’ve been down there recently?”

“Not in a while. We sometimes have to reference files for parole reviews and things like that.” Adrianne’s eyes met Izzy’s. “Sometimes folks still ask about old cases.”

“Like the Chávez family?”

“Mmm.” Adrianne’s expression gave nothing away. “The filing system’s old school—everything chronological by year, then alphabetical within months. Missing persons had their own section, though. Red tabs on the folders.”

“Thank you, Adrianne.”

“Sheriff?” Adrianne called as Izzy turned to leave. “The files are in the old cells, and the power’s been off in there since we moved. You’ll want to take your jacket.”

Izzy drove the short distance down the last road before the town gave way to the desert scrub. The old sheriff’s office loomed against the darkening sky, a squat cinderblock fortress painted institutional beige. She parked beside a late-model Subaru, her headlights sweeping across windows filmed with desert dust. The building’s façade bore the ghostly outline of removed lettering, a shadow where Mirage County Sheriff once proclaimed authority to all who approached.

Wind whistled through the cemetery’s conifers next door as Izzy crossed the cracked parking lot. The key felt cold in her palm as she pulled open the metal door and stepped into a fluorescent-lit hallway where the walls had been refinished with fresh drywall and industrial carpet lined the floor.

A woman looked up from behind a desk in what had once been the dispatch office. Her modern ergonomic chair and dual monitors seemed out of place against the building’s bones.

“Can I help you?”

“Sheriff Llewellyn.” Izzy redundantly pointed to the star on her uniform. “I need to access some old case files.”

The woman’s expression shifted from surprise to understanding. “Through here.” She led Izzy past cubicles where a handful of employees typed at computers. “The sheriff’s office keeps their archives in the back. We don’t go in.”

They passed through double doors into a section of the building that hadn’t been renovated. The transformation was immediate—institutional green paint, scuffed linoleum, the ghost of cigarette smoke that no amount of time could fully erase. The musty smell hit Izzy.

Weak winter sunlight filtered through grimy windows. The years melted away. Here was the water fountain where she’d stopped for a drink that time she’d brought her dad lunch. There was the bench where she’d waited while he finished paperwork, her legs too short to reach the floor.

The memories ambushed her with their clarity. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind: “The sheriff’s office is no place for little girls.” Ainara had preferred they stay away, worried about their exposure to the darker side of life. But sometimes their father’s schedule had made visits unavoidable, and Izzy was always curious about what he did and what other people did to end up there.

Izzy’s fingers traced the wall as she walked, feeling every bump and imperfection in the painted cinderblock. As a teenager, she’d thought this place impressive, important. Now she saw the wear, the dated fixtures, the institutional sameness of it all.

She paused outside what had been her father’s office. The door stood open, revealing a room now used for storage. But in her mind’s eye, she saw the heavy wooden desk, the corkboard covered in notices, the coffee mug perpetually at his elbow. Sheriff Lew had been larger than life then, a figure of authority and justice.

The reality was more complicated. She’d learned that long ago, but standing here brought the knowledge home anew. Her father had been a good man, a fair lawman. But he’d also been human, capable of mistakes, of oversights, of choices that might not stand up to modern scrutiny.

Izzy moved past the office, following the corridor deeper into the building’s rear. The woman stopped by the holding cells, their steel bars reflecting what little light penetrated this far. According to Adrianne, that was where she’d find the files—stored in the very cells that had once held prisoners.

Her boots echoed on the floor, the sound bouncing off concrete walls. She’d only been back here once, on a dare from a middle school friend. The cells had terrified her then, even empty. Now they represented something else entirely—the possibility of answers, of understanding what had happened to Miguel Chávez and how it connected to Gary’s death.

The woman moved to an electrical panel, flipped a lever, and the musty space lit up. “I’ll leave you to it.” Her footsteps receded, leaving Izzy alone in the corridor.

Izzy stepped forward and pulled open the door to a cell. It was not this that she would need the key for. Someone had encased the old cells in sheetrock from the inside, leaving the bars where they were. Perhaps it had been too hard or too expensive to remove them. But beyond the cell bars was a regular door fitted into the drywall.

Izzy opened the lock and pushed the door open.

Metal shelves lined every wall of the converted cell, reaching from floor to ceiling. Cardboard boxes and manila folders crammed every available space, with additional boxes stacked on the floor where there was no more shelf room. The air hung thick with the musty odor of aging paper and deteriorating cardboard, mixed with a metallic tang from the old cell bars.

Izzy pulled her phone out for its flashlight. The overhead fluorescent barely penetrated the cramped space, leaving deep shadows between the overcrowded shelves. A layer of dust covered everything, disturbed only by occasional footprints showing where someone had retrieved more recent files.

This was what happened when budgets got tight—proper storage became an afterthought. Digital systems and modern facilities looked good on grant applications, but the mundane reality of preserving decades of records got pushed aside. Someone should have transferred all this to the new building, properly cataloged and stored. But that would have meant overtime hours, dedicated staff, climate control systems—expenses that always seemed to get cut first.

Following Adrianne’s directions, Izzy worked systematically through the shelves. The filing system started in the front right corner with the most recent records, working backwards chronologically. She traced her fingers along the folder tabs, moving deeper into the stacks as the dates retreated further into the past.

The dust grew thicker as she went, coating her fingers. Her breathing quickened as she neared the timeframe she needed. The red tabs Adrianne mentioned began appearing more frequently—missing persons’ cases filed separately from other records marked with blue or green.

The metal shelving creaked as she shifted boxes to access the folders behind them. Her flashlight beam caught glimpses of names and cases she remembered hearing about at the dinner table, investigations that had occupied her father’s time. She was getting close now, very close to the period when Miguel Chávez disappeared.

Izzy’s fingers found the tab marked “Chávez, Miguel” and pulled the thick folder free. Her father’s handwriting covered the label. The weight of the file surprised her—this was no cursory investigation.

She settled cross-legged on the floor, her flashlight propped against a box to illuminate the pages. The sweet scent of old paper filled her nostrils as she opened the cover. Her father’s case notes started with the initial missing person’s report, filed by Miguel’s wife. The details were meticulously recorded—date, time, last known whereabouts, clothing description.

Sheriff Lew had conducted multiple interviews in those first crucial days. He’d spoken with Miguel’s employers, friends, family members. Each conversation was documented with the same careful attention to detail that Izzy remembered from childhood. Times, locations, key points, all noted in his steady hand.

The investigation expanded. Search parties combed the desert. Deputies checked hospitals and morgues. Her father had even coordinated with law enforcement in neighboring counties, as well as engaging the CHP, casting a wide net for any sign of Miguel.

Izzy flipped through financial records. Her father had traced Miguel’s bank accounts, credit cards, phone records. Nothing indicated planned departure—no large withdrawals, no unusual purchases, no suspicious calls. Miguel had simply vanished.

Miguel’s truck had been discovered in the parking lot of the train station in Truckee, California. The location near Lake Tahoe gave easy access to the San Francisco Bay Area to the west, and Anywhere, USA to the east via the Amtrak line to Chicago. Izzy’s dad noted no record of a train ticket purchase, but his conclusion was that it would have been easy to buy with cash.

She went back through the file more slowly, looking for anything that might have been missed or glossed over. But each lead had been followed, each possibility explored. Sheriff Lew had even noted weather conditions during the searches, terrain covered, equipment used.

The thoroughness brought a mix of pride and relief. Whatever had happened to Miguel Chávez, her father hadn’t swept it under the rug. He’d given it the full attention it deserved.

But that relief twisted into frustration as she reached the end. Despite the comprehensive investigation, the case had gone cold. No body was found. No evidence of foul play emerged. His bank accounts were never accessed. Miguel had walked away from his life—or someone had made him disappear without leaving a trace.

According to the witness statements, Miguel had spent time at the library, though what exactly he was looking for remained unclear. The timing felt significant given Gary’s death in that same library twenty years later.

Izzy rubbed her eyes, fighting the ache building behind them. Her father’s integrity showed on every page of the file. He’d done everything by the book, followed every protocol. Yet Miguel’s family had still blamed him for the lack of resolution, had seen conspiracy where there was only the frustrating reality that sometimes cases went unsolved despite best efforts.

She closed the file, her jaw tight. Good police work didn’t guarantee answers. You could do everything right and still fail to crack a case. That was the hardest lesson—one her father had learned, and one she was learning again now.

The beam of her flashlight caught the dust swirling in the air as she returned the file box to its shelf and tucked the folder under her arm to take to the office. Her father’s investigation had been thorough. Whatever Gary had been looking for, whatever had led to his death, it wasn’t because Sheriff Lew had failed to investigate Miguel’s disappearance properly.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

Davina adjusted her vintage glasses and leaned closer to Gary’s notebook, her fingers hovering above the pages without touching them. The conference room’s LED lights cast harsh shadows across the evidence spread before her, but she refused to compromise proper documentation by working in dimmer conditions.

She clicked her tongue at the sight of coffee rings on one of Gary’s papers. Such carelessness with documents made her blood pressure rise. Despite finding some common ground with Sheriff Llewellyn, Davina couldn’t forgive her negligence in allowing the destruction of the reading room collection.

The scratch of her fountain pen against her own notebook filled the quiet space. It was slow work, noting dates, references, and connections between the documents. Through the walls came the muffled sounds of deputies moving around, their boots echoing on the tile floors.

Gary’s writing was messy, but showed a surprising grasp of historical context. His notes referenced events with unexpected precision. The second set of handwriting was neater but equally well-informed. Both writers referenced documents she knew to have been in the reading room, though she couldn’t recall Gary as a regular visitor. Perhaps Ms. Ramos would know.

Davina paused her writing to adjust the arrangement of papers on the conference table. Everything had to be in chronological order, properly aligned. She’d developed her own system over decades of archival work, and she wouldn’t compromise it now just because these were criminal evidence rather than historical documents.

A diseño from the evidence box caught her attention. The Spanish and Mexican land survey maps were crude by modern standards but contained vital details about early property boundaries. Gary had not marked the map but had made extensive notes in the notebook, marking locations that corresponded to modern landmarks. The young man had done his research properly. She had to give him that.

Davina’s fingers traced the edge of the diseño, memories surfacing of Miguel Chávez standing in the main branch library in Harris two decades ago. He’d paced between the stacks, talking about Spanish land grants and the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, his enthusiasm matching her own passion for historical accuracy. Unlike most visitors who treated the library as a quaint museum, Miguel had understood the documents’ significance.

The transition to American statehood had wreaked havoc on California’s property records. Spanish and Mexican land grants required validation by U.S. courts, a process ripe for exploitation. Wealthy settlers with political connections and English-speaking lawyers had acquired vast tracts through strategic marriages and legal maneuvers, while original grant holders lost everything in endless court battles.

She’d documented dozens of similar stories over the years. The McAndrews claimed their grandfather’s gold claim had been jumped by the Wesleys. The Moreno family insisted their ancestors’ cattle ranch had been stolen through forged documents. Every family in the county nursed some grievance about lost land or opportunities, their resentment aimed at the Prestons, who’d emerged from that chaotic period with their holdings intact and expanded.

Sheriff Llewellyn’s earlier observation about their shared methodology had surprised her. Most law enforcement officials dismissed Davina’s insistence on proper documentation as obsessive, but Izzy had recognized the parallel between preserving historical records and maintaining a chain of evidence. Perhaps the new sheriff wasn’t entirely hopeless.

Then the burned reading room slipped back into Davina’s mind.

She sighed and returned to her notes. Historical research required patience and precision. One couldn’t simply jump to conclusions based on family legends or convenient narratives. Every claim needed verification through multiple sources. Every document needed proper context. She’d learned early in her career that the most compelling stories often crumbled under careful scrutiny.

The Chávez boy’s notes showed promise. Unlike the wild theories she usually encountered, his research followed a logical progression through verifiable sources. Like his uncle Miguel, he’d understood that truth lay in the details.

Davina held the diseño in her white cotton gloves despite it being in a plastic evidence bag. The map’s yellowed paper held familiar markings—boundary lines, terrain features, and a style that she’d seen countless times before in her research.

Her trained eye followed the cartographer’s strokes, noting the placement of creeks and ridgelines that still defined the county’s geography. The Preston holdings dominated the central portion, their boundaries clearly marked by natural features that had endured for generations. She’d seen numerous other copies of this particular region over her career, different perspectives on the valley that dominated the county.

There was nothing new here. The courts had settled these boundaries more than a century ago. The Prestons and all the other landholders of the time had filed their claims properly, navigated the legal system successfully, and emerged with clear title to their lands. Every few years, someone would discover these old maps and imagine they’d found evidence of historical wrongdoing. But the documentation always led to the same conclusion: the property transfers were legal, if not entirely fair to everyone involved.

She’d explained this to Miguel years ago when he’d pursued similar research. The injustices of that era were well-documented but legally resolved. No amount of historical investigation could change the court decisions that had shaped modern property lines.

Davina set aside her pen and began gathering her materials, ready to conclude her review. But something nagged at her. She’d approached this like any other historical research project, but these weren’t just historical documents—they were evidence in an active murder investigation.

She spread the papers out again, this time viewing them through a different lens. Not as an archivist studying the past, but as someone examining clues to a recent crime. Her eyes darted between Gary’s notebook and the diseño, seeing the annotations in a new light.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips. The connection crystallized with sudden clarity. Gary hadn’t been researching history for academic interest—he’d been looking for something specific. Something valuable enough to kill for.

She glanced at the novel lying near the evidence box, and beside it an old library catalog card in its own evidence bag. She had checked everything else, so she opened the evidence bag containing the Hemingway work. It was well-loved but not old or valuable. A dog-eared Penguin Classic paperback. Her hands trembled slightly as she shuffled through the pages. A piece of paper dropped out—an old receipt, the kind of thing people used as an impromptu bookmark. She looked at the paper and noted the details, her heart racing as she confirmed what she suspected. The boy’s research had led him to something concrete, something that existed in the present day.

Her heart raced with the thrill of discovery, but this was different from her usual historical breakthroughs. This wasn’t about documenting the past; it was about understanding something was still playing out. She’d been asking the wrong questions, looking at these materials as historical artifacts rather than pieces of a modern puzzle.

The right question wasn’t what happened in the 1850s. The question was: what had Gary Chávez found in those old documents that made him dangerous to someone in the present day?

Davina’s hands smoothed across the diseño’s protective covering, her cotton gloves sliding on the plastic. She needed to speak with Sheriff Llewellyn immediately.

She glanced at her vintage wristwatch, startled to find it was already past seven. The winter darkness pressed against the windows, and the office had grown quiet around her while she’d been absorbed in her work.

Davina rose from the conference table, smoothing her circle skirt, and peered down the empty hallway toward Sheriff Llewellyn’s office. The door was closed, interior dark. The lobby below was silent. Her fingers found the silver pendant at her neck, twisting it as she considered the implications of what she’d discovered. This wasn’t the sort of information that could wait until morning, but neither could it be shared carelessly.

Methodically, she packed her notebook and pens into her leather messenger bag, making certain each item returned to its designated pocket. She slipped the bookmark back into the book and set the novel aside. The evidence remained spread across the table in chronological order, each document positioned exactly as she’d arranged it during her examination.

She made her way down to the duty desk, where Deputy Martinez sat reviewing reports.

“I’ve finished my initial review,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite her racing thoughts. “Sheriff Llewellyn indicated the evidence should remain secured overnight.”

Martinez nodded. “I’ll be here until morning shift. I can lock up the conference room.”

“Excellent.” Davina adjusted her glasses. “I’ll need to return tomorrow to complete my documentation. The sheriff authorized continued access.”

“No problem, Ms. Williamson. I’ll make a note for day shift.”

She paused at the exit, looking back toward the conference room where Gary’s research lay spread across the table. Martinez’s keys jingled as he stood to secure the room, and Davina pushed through the door into the cold evening air.

It was never possible to reach the right conclusions when asking the wrong questions, and this was a series of wrong questions, but she knew someone who would know the right question and, with that, could lead her to the answer.

Davina got in her car feeling that surge of energy that came with discovery. History might take centuries to unwind, but she needed answers right now. She pulled out of the lot and headed for the person who could provide them.

It was full dark by the time Izzy pulled her SUV into the driveway of the Chávez home. Light spilled from the windows onto the winter-brown lawn.

She sat for a moment, the case file from her father’s investigation heavy in her hands. She had found more questions than answers in her father’s case notes and didn’t relish telling David Chávez what she knew she must.

She approached the front door. The scent of cooking drifted through the evening air—something with chilies and garlic that made her stomach growl. The porch light flickered on, casting shadows across the weather-worn welcome mat. Before she could knock, the door opened.

David Chávez filled the doorframe, his stocky frame squared as if bracing for impact. His dark eyes fixed on her uniform first, then her face, his expression guarded but not hostile. The lines around his mouth deepened as he recognized her.

“Sheriff.” He didn’t step back to invite her in, but he didn’t close the door either.

“Mr. Chávez, I need to speak with you and Elena about Miguel’s case.” Izzy kept her voice low. “I found my father’s investigation files.”

His body tensed at the mention of his brother’s name. The warm light from inside cast half his face in shadow, making his expression harder to read. Somewhere behind him, Elena called out in Spanish, asking who was at the door.

David stepped aside, letting Izzy enter. Elena emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Sheriff,” she said, her downturned mouth becoming a flat line, perhaps the closest she could get to a smile. “Please, sit.”

The living room walls held decades of family history—school photos, birthday parties, fishing trips. Gary’s grin beamed down from several frames. And there, next to the window, Miguel’s face watched her from behind glass, his eyes holding her in focus as she moved through the room.

Izzy settled into an armchair while David and Elena took the sofa. The folder lay heavy in her lap as she opened it, paper rustling in the silence.

“My father conducted a thorough investigation,” she said. “He interviewed twenty-three people in the first week alone. He coordinated with law enforcement across three states. The CHP helped search highways and rest stops. Search parties covered over fifty square miles of terrain.”

“Of course you’d defend him.” David’s words carried two decades of bitterness. His fingers dug into the sofa cushion. “Everyone knows Lew Llewellyn protected the Prestons.”

“I’m not defending anyone, Mr. Chávez. I’m telling you what’s in these files.” Izzy pulled out the vehicle report. “They found Miguel’s truck at the Truckee train station. Security cameras showed it arriving at 2:47 a.m., but the footage quality was too poor to identify the driver. The station connects to San Francisco and Chicago. My father checked both routes.”

David’s shoulders remained rigid, but his eyes fixed on the papers in her hands. Elena leaned forward.

“Bank records showed no activity,” Izzy continued. “No large withdrawals, no suspicious purchases. His phone records were clean. Dad even had deputies check hospitals and morgues within a hundred-mile radius.”

The tension in David’s jaw eased. His gaze shifted from the file to the photo of Miguel on the wall, then back to Izzy. Some of the hostility faded from his expression, replaced by something more contemplative.

Izzy spread the photos from Gary’s investigation across the coffee table. “Your son was looking into something, Mr. Chávez. Maybe the same thing Miguel was researching before he disappeared.” She tapped a photo of Gary’s notebook. “He didn’t make just random notes. They’re focused, methodical. Like he was following a trail Miguel left.”

David’s expression shifted, the hard lines around his mouth softening. He picked up one of the photos, studying it in the warm lamplight, then handing it to Elena.

“Investigations are messy,” Izzy continued. “People often don’t tell the truth, which means sometimes we don’t get the result we want. We don’t find the truth. But I think they did. I think Miguel found the truth about something from the past, and I think Gary learned the truth about Miguel. I want to find the truth about both of them, but I need your help. I need to understand Miguel better.”

David glanced at his wife, who offered him a soft nod. He sat back and looked at Izzy. “Miguel was always different from me. While I tried to fit in, to be the good son with the American name, he embraced who we were.”

Elena touched her husband’s arm, and he drew a deep breath. “Our father named me David because he thought it would help me be more American. But Miguel—he got our grandfather’s name at my mother’s insistence. And with it, all the old stories.”

“What stories?” Izzy leaned forward, watching David’s face as decades-old memories surfaced.

“About José, our forefather. How he settled this land under Mexican rule, built something from nothing.” David’s voice grew stronger, his earlier hostility giving way to pride. “Miguel would sit for hours listening to our grandfather and great-grandfather talk about the old days, about the treaties that were supposed to protect our rights when California joined the Union.”

Elena squeezed David’s hand. He squeezed back, his eyes distant.

“It became an obsession with Miguel. He’d spend hours at the library, digging through old records. Said he was going to prove José never abandoned his family like the stories claim.” David’s jaw tightened. “Then he started talking about the Prestons.”

The tension crept back into David’s shoulders. “Miguel learned something about them, something that he took to Hank. Confronted him right there on Main Street, in front of everyone. Hank called him a troublemaker, said some families knew their place and others needed to learn it.”

Izzy pulled out her notebook. “When was this?”

“A week or two before he disappeared.” David’s voice dropped. “Just like José disappeared. History repeating itself—that’s what people whispered. Another Chávez who didn’t know when to keep his head down.”

Elena murmured something in Spanish that Izzy didn’t pick up, her fingers white where they gripped David’s hand.

“They say José supposedly left for the gold fields. But Miguel?” David’s eyes met Izzy’s. “There were no gold fields. His best life was here. He had a new baby. A wife. He was planning to build a house that spring. He wasn’t afraid of what the future held. He was excited by it. Tell me, Sheriff, does that sound like a man who’d walk away from everything?”

“No, Mr. Chávez, it does not.”

“But your father thought so.”

“I don’t know what he thought.” Izzy sighed. “All I have is the case file, and that gives facts, not feelings. And I’ll be honest, that bothers me because it’s hard to disappear. We need money to survive and ID to get a decent job. But there’s no evidence of Miguel stockpiling cash, and he never took anything from their checking account. His social security number was never used to apply for a job or benefits, so any work he got would have been under the table and, therefore, poorly paid, most likely. So I agree, that doesn’t seem like a better life than what he had here.”

Izzy leaned back and sighed. She found herself rubbing her shoulder, so dropped her hand to her lap. “But Sheriff Lew knew all that too. And he would have been suspicious about it. But clearly, he had no evidence to move forward with. But there is some. Gary tells us that.”

They sat in silence for a moment, then Izzy cleaned up her papers and stood. “I won’t promise you something I can’t be sure I can deliver, so I won’t tell you I’ll find the truth. But I will keep looking, and I won’t stop.”

David and Elena stood as one. “That’s what your father said. But he stopped. How can you be so sure the Prestons didn’t tell him to?”

Izzy nodded. “Because I knew him. He didn’t stop because of the Prestons. The case went cold because he died and no one else in the sheriff’s office kept it going.” She stepped away from the chair. “If you think of anything, no matter how small, please call me.”

They followed her to the door, and she assured them she would be in touch, then Izzy walked through the cold night to her Explorer.

Izzy tossed the folder from her father’s investigation onto the passenger seat and hit a contact on her phone. Wahlberg picked up.

“Sheriff, are you still at work?”

“Don’t start on me, Elliot. Not you, too.”

“No, boss. If you’re not busy, you need to come over.”

The streets of Darkness lay quiet in the winter evening, pools of light from streetlamps casting orange circles on the asphalt. Izzy guided her SUV through the residential neighborhood, past darkened houses and empty yards. The conversation with David Chávez echoed in her mind, his words about Miguel’s confrontation with Hank Preston adding another layer to an already complex puzzle.

She turned onto Oak Street, where Wahlberg’s small California bungalow sat nestled between similar homes, its cream-colored paint barely visible in the darkness. Light spilled from the windows onto a neatly trimmed lawn, and through the gauzy curtains she could see movement inside.

The warmth radiating from the house struck a sharp contrast to the heavy conversation she’d just left behind. Where the Chávez home had held decades of pain and loss, this place hummed with life and purpose. Voices drifted through the walls—Jenny’s laugh, Tam’s animated tone.

Izzy stepped into the Wahlberg home, the scent of cumin and chili powder enveloping her. Jenny sat at the dining table, her light brown hair falling across her face as she bent over a stack of papers. The table had disappeared beneath notebooks, maps, and documents spread in organized chaos. Elliot sat opposite, sipping on an iced tea.

The house felt lived-in, comfortable—photos of Elliot and Jenny’s wedding day hung on the walls, throw pillows askew on the sofa, a half-empty cup of tea cooling beside Jenny’s elbow. It was everything the sterile sheriff’s office wasn’t.

Jenny looked up, her green eyes bright with excitement. “Sheriff, I think I found something.”

She had the focused intensity of a bloodhound on a scent, but there was something else there too—a fierce determination that reminded Izzy of a Doberman protecting its territory.

Tam emerged from the kitchen, the sight of her friend easing some of the tension. She carried a plate loaded with fresh tacos, steam rising from the warm tortillas.

“Sit,” Tam commanded, setting the plate in front of an empty chair. “You haven’t eaten—don’t try to deny it.” She moved back to the kitchen, her words carrying over her shoulder. “And I’m packing some for Joe. Those TV dinners he lives on aren’t good for anyone.”

Izzy sank into the chair, realizing just how hungry she was as the aroma of seasoned meat and fresh cilantro hit her nose.

Wahlberg took a bite and chewed his taco. “Boss, I followed up on those alibis like you asked. About the supervisor’s meeting the night Gary died—you were right. Elaine Preston was there until almost midnight.”

“She didn’t mean to let that slip, but it means Robert Preston wasn’t home with his wife that night.” Izzy felt the pieces shifting in her mind. “He has no alibi.”

“Like Jefferson.” Wahlberg wiped his mouth with a napkin. “But I checked the Chevron security footage like you asked. No sign of Jefferson Preston’s truck coming into town that night.”

“But a local would know better than to take the highway through town,” Izzy said.

Wahlberg nodded. “Turn off at Post Street, take the back roads. No cameras out there.”

“Check the footage again. Look for Robert Preston’s truck this time.”

“Will do.” Wahlberg chomped into his taco again. “Oh, there’s one more thing. I spoke to Matt Muller again. He confirmed that Gary had worked on the Preston’s machinery a few weeks ago.”

“They told me Matt did all their work himself,” said Izzy. “But they claimed they were out on the ranch and didn’t see him.”

“They lied. Matt said Gary not only did the repair but was complaining about them micromanaging his work, like they didn’t trust him to know his job.”

“Hard to micromanage if you’re out in the fields.”

Wahlberg raised his eyebrows and polished off his taco, looking to Tam. “These are fantastic.”

Tam smiled. “Plenty left.”

Elliot shot up and jogged into the kitchen to make himself another.

Izzy took a bite of hers. The homemade tacos had been exactly what she needed. She turned her attention to Jenny on the other side of the table, who was almost bouncing in her seat, waiting for Elliot to finish his update.

“We’ve been going through everything systematically.” She gestured to the stacks of photocopied documents—duplicates of what Davina was examining at the office. “Tam and I divided it by time period. I took Gary’s research, she took Miguel’s.”

“And?” Izzy asked.

“It’s like two different investigations that overlap.” Tam settled into a chair beside Jenny. “Miguel’s notes focus heavily on the 1800s—José’s time. Land grants, water rights, territorial disputes. But Gary’s research, while it references those old documents and maps, seems more focused on events around the time Miguel disappeared.”

Jenny nodded eagerly. “Look at these entries.” She pulled out copies of the two notebooks they’d found in Gary’s camper. “Miguel’s stuff—it’s all about historical records. But Gary’s notes? They’re about people. Conversations. Places where Miguel went in those last weeks.”

“He was retracing his uncle’s steps,” Izzy realized.

“Exactly.” Tam spread out more papers. “Miguel was researching José’s claim to the land. But Gary was investigating what happened to Miguel, about whatever he found.”

The excitement in the room was palpable as theories began taking shape. Jenny pulled out another document. “And look at this—Gary made notes about the train station where they found Miguel’s truck. Times, distances, possible routes. He was methodically working through every detail of his uncle’s disappearance.”

Elliot stepped back into the room with another taco halfway to his mouth. “Like he didn’t believe Miguel just walked away.”

Izzy leaned forward, her mind racing. “The truck in Truckee opens up two possibilities—west to San Francisco or east to Chicago. Twenty years later, Gary tells his mother he’s going to a 49ers game⁠—”

“Which we found no evidence of,” Wahlberg added, straightening in his chair.

“Right.” Izzy tapped her fingers on the table. “No ticket stub, no photos, nothing on his phone. But what if he wasn’t at a game? What if he went to San Francisco for another reason?”

Jenny’s eyes lit up. “Following Miguel’s trail?”

“Maybe.” Tam spread out the calendar where they’d marked Gary’s movements. “Without more evidence, it could be coincidence.”

Izzy nodded. “It might be nothing more than that, but that’s why we dig. Because it doesn’t explain why Miguel didn’t come back. Something in San Fran connects these three men—José, Miguel, and Gary. We just need to find it.”

“Maybe that’s what Gary figured out,” Wahlberg said. “That Miguel went there and stayed.”

“Or someone wanted people to think he went there,” Jenny suggested.

“Either way,” Tam said, “Gary might have found the answer. And if he did⁠—”

“It got him killed,” Wahlberg finished grimly.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

Cole parked his truck three blocks away and moved through the dark streets like he was on patrol in Kandahar. The winter chill bit through his jacket as he approached the large house tucked behind large pines. His breath frosted in the air while he waited at the kitchen door, checking over his shoulder out of habit.

The door opened just enough for him to slip inside. Erin’s face was half-hidden in shadow, but Cole’s trained eye caught the fresh bruising around her temple. She shuffled to a kitchen chair while he set his backpack on the granite counter and removed his Cubs ball cap.

“Let me check your pupils.” Cole clicked on his penlight. Her right pupil contracted normally, but the left remained sluggish. “Any nausea? Dizziness?”

“Both.” She gripped the edge of the table. “Can’t keep food down. Everything’s . . . fuzzy.”

Cole frowned. The symptoms pointed to a concussion, possibly severe. He needed proper equipment, continuous monitoring, brain scans to rule out bleeding. But Erin shrank back when he mentioned the hospital, shaking her head.

“He’ll find me there. The nurses talk. Someone will let it slip.” Her fingers twisted in her lap. “Please, Dr. Barrow. You promised.”

“I promised confidentiality, yes. But listen, with head trauma like this—” Cole ran a hand through his hair in frustration. His medical training screamed at him to get her proper care. Yet he knew the moment he broke her trust, she’d never seek help again. “There are places you can go. At least let me tell Sheriff Llewellyn. She can help protect you.”

“No.” Erin’s voice cracked. “No police. No sheriff. I told you. He has friends everywhere in this town. Please, just help me get through tonight.”

Cole stared at his medical backpack, feeling the weight of opposing obligations press down on him. His oath to do no harm seemed to cut both ways—the harm of inadequate treatment versus the harm of betraying her trust and driving her further into isolation.

Cole pulled out his stethoscope, listening to her breathing while weighing his options. The cold metal against her back made her flinch. Her pulse was rapid, likely from anxiety and pain.

A soft creak from the stairs made them both freeze. Cole’s military training kicked in—he cataloged possible exits while keeping his movements slow and deliberate. Erin’s eyes darted to the doorway, her whole body tensing.

A small figure emerged from the shadows. The girl couldn’t have been more than four, her blonde curls mussed from sleep. She clutched a worn teddy bear, its fur matted and loved. Her Disney princess nightgown hung past her bare feet, making her seem even tinier against the dark doorframe.

“Mommy?” Her voice wavered, thick with sleep.

Erin’s hand flew to her bruised temple, trying to hide it. “Baby, you should be in bed.”

The girl’s eyes fixed on Cole, wide and uncertain. She shuffled closer to her mother, teddy bear held like a shield.

“Are you a policeman?” she whispered.

“No, sweetie. This is the doctor.” Erin pulled her daughter close. “He’s just checking on Mommy’s headache.”

Cole noticed how the child’s eyes darted to the windows, checking the shadows like someone far older would. She pressed against her mother’s leg, small fingers twisting in the fabric of her mother’s sweater.

“Does your head hurt like last time?” The girl’s lower lip trembled.

“Just a little, baby.” Erin stroked her daughter’s hair. “Let’s get you back to bed before—” She swallowed hard. “Before you get too tired.”

Erin bent to pick up the child, wrapping her arms around with a grimace. She didn’t seem to be able to bear the girl’s weight, so she changed tack and took her daughter’s hand, leading her away.

Cole watched them disappear around the corner, the girl clinging to her mother’s hand. Their footsteps faded, along with the soft murmur of a mother comforting her child.

Erin returned alone, her steps unsteady.

“You couldn’t lift her.” He kept his volume near a whisper. “I need to examine you properly.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s nothing. Just sore from—” She looked away. “From falling.”

“Please. Let me examine you properly.” Cole gestured to the kitchen chair. “I can’t help if I don’t know the full extent of your injuries.”

She hesitated, fingers playing with the hem of her sweater. The kitchen clock ticked in the silence while she weighed her options. Finally, she gave a short nod.

Cole turned his back while she removed her sweater and shirt, maintaining her dignity. When he turned around, his clinical detachment wavered for a moment. Dark bruises mottled her torso, some fresh purple, others fading to sickly yellow. The pattern triggered memories of similar injuries he’d treated in Afghanistan—the distinctive marks of battlefield engagement often mirrored those of systematic abuse.

“Deep breath, please.” He pressed gently along her ribcage, checking for fractures. She winced, but complied. “Any trouble breathing? Sharp pains?”

She shook her head slowly.

Cole moved around her chair and, as the light hit her, he noted the bruises on her biceps. He touched her shoulder softly, adjusting her position so he could see the other arm in the light.

Then he stepped back. “What happened to your arms?”

“I don’t know. He grabbed me, I guess.”

“Hands don’t cause those bruises. They’re rope marks.”

She turned her face from him to hide the tears welling in her eyes. “I tried to run.”

“And?”

“He hog-tied me.” She stared at the floor. “Tied my hands and feet together behind my back.” Her tone remained eerily matter-of-fact. “He said if I tried to leave again, he’d string me up like a deer carcass.”

Cole’s pulse quickened. “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday.” She swallowed. “Before the headache.”

“You need to leave.” Cole handed her shirt back, turning away while she dressed. “There are shelters, organizations that can help. People who can protect you and your children.”

“He’ll find us.” She pulled the sweater over her head, hiding the evidence of abuse.

“Let me call Sheriff Llewellyn. She can⁠—”

“No.” Erin’s tone sharpened with fear.

“At least let me give you some numbers. Resources.” Cole pulled out his prescription pad, writing quickly. “People who can help when you’re ready.”

She took the paper, folding it carefully before slipping it into her pocket. Her hands trembled.

“Does he ever hit the children?”

She shook her head and winced at the pain it caused. “No,” she groaned. “He talks about it, but only to hurt me. But he’s never laid a hand on them.”

“Yet.” Cole said. “You need to leave for them, even if you won’t do it for yourself.”

“Maybe. Not yet. But maybe soon.”

Cole pressed two bottles of pills into Erin’s hand. “Ibuprofen for the pain, and these will help with sleep.” He kept his voice low, conscious of little ears that might still be awake upstairs. “Call me any time—day or night.”

She clutched the bottles to her chest, eyes darting to the windows. “Thank you.”

Cole packed his backpack, movements controlled despite the anger churning in his gut. He’d seen enough combat trauma to recognize when someone was trapped in a war zone. This woman’s battlefield just happened to be her own home.

The winter air hit him as he slipped out the kitchen door, sharp enough to clear his head. His breath frosted in front of him as he navigated the dark streets back to his truck, muscle memory from too many similar visits keeping him in the shadows.

Cole cranked the heater once inside his Ram but didn’t start driving immediately. His hands gripped the steering wheel while he wrestled with his conscience. The rope marks on her arms gnawed at him. The same distinctive pattern he’d seen on Gary Chávez’s body. Plenty of men in the county knew how to use ropes. That wasn’t the issue. But seeing the same marks on Erin made Cole wonder how close she was to ending up like Gary. Too close to ignore.

But doctor-patient confidentiality wasn’t just an ethical guideline—it was the foundation of trust that allowed people like this woman to seek help at all. If he betrayed that trust, how many others might suffer in silence, afraid to reach out?

Yet he’d promised Izzy honesty. No secrets between them, not after what she’d been through with Mark. And he believed she could help. She might be the only one who could.

Cole pulled away from the curb, subconscious taking him toward home while his mind churned. The truck’s headlights swept past familiar landmarks—the shuttered grocery store, the empty playground, the Methodist church with its ever-present Prayer Changes Things sign. He thought of the little girl upstairs, learning to check windows and shadows like a soldier in a combat zone, prayers not doing much for her at all.

Cole found himself turning south instead of heading home. Joe’s house glowed warmly in the darkness, lights still burning despite the late hour. He killed the engine and sat watching the house, thinking of Izzy inside.

She’d trusted him with her own vulnerabilities, let him tend her wounds both physical and emotional. That trust felt precious and fragile. The last thing he wanted was to damage it by keeping secrets.

Cole rested his forehead against the steering wheel. The right path wasn’t clear, but he knew one thing with certainty: he needed to see Izzy. Even if he couldn’t share everything, he needed her presence, her strength, her unwavering moral compass.

Cole pulled himself out of the truck and headed for Joe’s front door. He knocked softly, conscious of the late hour.

Izzy opened the door, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She wore an oversized Yankees T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, and the sight of her so at ease and unguarded made his whole body relax for a moment.

“Hey.” She stepped back to let him in.

The house lay quiet, Joe’s bedroom door closed at the end of the hall. The TV murmured in the background, some late-night talk show host’s monologue providing white noise.

Cole followed her to the kitchen, where a half-empty mug of tea sat on the counter. She lifted it, grimacing at the cold liquid before dumping it in the sink.

“Want some coffee?” She reached for the pot.

“No.” Cole leaned against the counter, watching her movements. “I need to tell you something.”

Izzy turned, studying his face. “Okay.”

“But I have to betray a trust to do it.”

“That makes it tough.”

Cole nodded, staring at the tiled floor. “We promised to be honest.”

“We did. That doesn’t mean we have to share everything.”

His head snapped up. “It doesn’t?”

“No.” She took both his hands in hers. “We have professional responsibilities, both of us. I can’t tell you every little detail of every investigation I do. You can’t tell me who just got a cancer diagnosis if they don’t want people to know.”

“Then is it really honesty?”

“Yes. Us being honest means not hiding things. It means trusting each other and believing we can.”

“That’s the dilemma.”

“You don’t trust me?” She frowned.

“I do. It would be a no-brainer if I didn’t.” He dropped her hands and ran his hands form his hair. “But I need someone else to trust me in order to do my job, and telling you might break that.”

“Is this the person you’ve been sneaking around town to see?” Izzy asked.

Cole’s spine stiffened. “What?”

“The visits you make after dark.”

Anger flared in Cole, hot and unexpected. “You’ve been having me followed?”

“No.” Izzy leaned back against the counter, but her posture remained open. “Wahlberg saw you one night when he was walking with Jenny. He was torn about telling me, but he felt it might be a problem you weren’t willing to share.”

“And you didn’t confront me about it?” The anger drained away, replaced by confusion.

“I trust you, Cole.” Izzy’s dark eyes held his. “I figured you had your reasons. I assumed if it was relevant to me, you’d tell me when you could.”

The simple statement of trust took his breath away. After everything she’d been through with Mark’s betrayal, her willingness to wait for Cole to come to her spoke volumes.

He opened his mouth to explain about Erin. But before he could speak, Izzy’s phone buzzed on the counter.

She grabbed it. “Sheriff Llewellyn.”

Cole watched her face harden into sheriff mode as she listened. Her jaw set hard and her breathing grew shallower. She bumped off the counter as the speaker continued on the other end, then she lowered the phone and killed the call. She looked at him.

“That was Wilson. There’s been another murder. At the library.”

Chapter

Twenty-Six

The winter night pressed against Izzy’s skin as she climbed out of her patrol vehicle. Her breath clouded in front of her face as she surveyed the library’s silhouette, illuminated only by Deputy Wilson’s headlights cutting through the darkness.

Cole’s truck pulled in behind her, the engine ticking as it cooled. The sound carried across the empty school parking lot, unnaturally loud in the midnight silence. Nanook jumped down from the crew cab and Cole attached a lead, then they walked to Izzy, Cole’s face drawn tight.

Wilson stood by the rear entrance, his hand resting on his holstered weapon. The door gaped open behind him, a black void in the brick wall. His posture was rigid, controlled—different from his usual casual demeanor.

“Tell me.” Izzy’s volume matched the hushed atmosphere.

“I was doing my rounds.” Wilson’s words came out in a measured fashion. “After everything that’s happened, I’ve been driving by the library more frequently. Tape was down, door was open.”

He stopped, jaw working. The shadows from his vehicle’s headlights carved deep lines in his face.

“And?” Izzy prompted.

Wilson shook his head. “Better if I show you.” He gestured toward the open door. “Inside.”

“Did you call for medical support?” Izzy glanced at Cole.

“No, ma’am. Not yet,” said Wilson. “Kept the lights off too. Figured we didn’t need the whole town showing up.”

Izzy nodded, a flutter of approval warming her. Wilson had shown good judgment—a rare commodity in her office lately. “Smart thinking.”

The praise seemed to steady him. He drew his flashlight and led them toward the entrance. Cole tied Nanook to a handrail and Izzy led him into the library.

She followed Wilson down the dark corridor, her flashlight beam cutting through the shadows. The acrid smell of smoke still lingered from the recent fire, making the air heavy and thick. She stepped across debris, bits of ceiling tile and fragments of glass that hadn’t been cleared away.

The reading room door hung crooked on its hinges. Wilson paused at the threshold, his hand trembling as he swept his light across the doorway. “In there.”

Izzy moved past him, her beam joining his. The light caught the edges of scorched walls, creating grotesque shadows that danced across the fire-damaged surfaces. Empty shelves stood like skeletons against the walls, their glass fronts shattered and blackened.

Then the light found her.

Davina Williamson hung from the exposed rafters, suspended in the same way as Gary Chávez. Her vintage clothing, usually so precisely arranged, was disheveled. Her signature cat-eye glasses were gone, giving her face an oddly vulnerable look.

“Holy hell.” Cole’s whisper carried in the stillness.

Izzy forced herself to look—really look—past the initial horror of finding someone she knew. Davina’s hands hung at her sides, fingers slightly curled. The rope disappeared into the darkness above.

Wilson’s flashlight beam wavered. “It was pretty obvious she was dead. That’s why I didn’t call paramedics. It seemed . . .”

“You did the right thing calling me first.” Izzy kept her tone steady despite the bile rising in her throat. She turned to Wilson. “Call the fire station. Have whoever’s on duty bring the paramedic van, no lights or sirens.” She paused, considering the darkened room. “And after that, go to the office and bring the work lamps. I don’t trust the wiring in here after the fire.”

Wilson nodded, already pulling out his phone as he backed away from the doorway. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, leaving Izzy and Cole alone with Davina’s body.

Izzy reached for her own phone, scrolling to Wahlberg’s number. The call connected after several rings.

“Boss?” Wahlberg’s voice was thick with sleep.

“Elliot, I need you at the library.” Izzy moved away from the doorway, giving Cole space to examine the scene. “Another body.”

A rustling sound came through the line, followed by a muffled conversation—probably Jenny asking what was wrong.

“Who?” Elliot asked.

“Davina Williamson.”

“Shit.” The word came out sharp, fully awake now. “I’ll be there in ten.”

Izzy ended the call and slipped the phone back into her pocket. The beam of her flashlight caught the edges of Davina’s pendant—the one she’d claimed was made from Mirage County silver. It glinted dully in the darkness, drawing Izzy’s eye to the rope around Davina’s neck.

Wahlberg arrived, and Izzy watched him place crime scene tape across the library’s rear entrance attached to orange cones, the yellow plastic catching the glow of his headlights. The midnight air had grown colder, frost beginning to form on the grass. Their breath came out in white puffs as they worked.

MacGill’s crew arrived behind Wilson, the work lamps carried in the fire department van, and Wilson and MacGill set them up around the perimeter of the reading room. The harsh light cast strange shadows through the fire-damaged doorway, making the scene inside feel like a twisted theater set. Davina’s body rotated slightly in the artificial light, her shadow stretching and warping across the scorched walls.

Izzy pulled on nitrile gloves, the snap echoing in the empty space. She circled the room, taking in details she’d missed in the chaos of discovery. Unlike Gary’s scene, there was no chair knocked over, no desk pushed aside. Nothing that could have given Davina the height needed to reach the rafters.

“Someone hoisted her.” Izzy’s voice carried in the quiet room. “Or multiple someones.”

Wahlberg moved around the perimeter with his camera, the flash creating stark moments of daylight. Each burst illuminated new details—scuff marks on the floor, drag patterns in the soot, disturbances in the debris that didn’t match firefighter movements. Izzy directed him to get shots of the floor near where the rope had been tied to the stacks. There were few footprints in the soot, as the firefighters had not needed to access that area, which meant any prints might belong to the killer.

The rope disappeared into the shadows above, and Izzy tracked its path with her flashlight. It looped over the same beam used in Gary’s death, but the knots looked different somehow. She was no knot expert.

“Same rope?” Izzy asked Cole.

“Similar weight, but no, I don’t think so.” Cole moved closer to examine the bindings. “This one looks shinier. See how it catches the light?”

Izzy nodded. The rope had an artificial sheen that wasn’t present in Gary’s case. “Nylon, but not treated like a lasso? Wahlberg, get close-ups of the rope.”

The camera flashed again.

The work lamps cast Izzy’s shadow across the floor as she surveyed the scene again. This felt different from Gary’s death. More deliberate. No pretense of suicide. More message than murder.

The question was—what had Davina discovered that was worth killing for?

After all the aspects of the scene were tagged and photographed, Izzy watched as MacGill and his partner laid out the heavy plastic sheeting, its crackle loud in the hushed room. Wilson positioned himself by the rope, waiting for her signal. The work lamps cast harsh shadows across their faces, making everyone look ghostly and drawn.

“Ready?” Wilson gripped the rope with gloved hands.

Izzy nodded. “Gentle as you can.”

The rope creaked as Wilson cut through it. MacGill and his colleague guided Davina’s body down gently, lowering her onto the plastic. Her vintage skirt settled around her legs, the fabric rustling against the sheeting.

Cole stepped forward, crouching beside the body. His gloved hands examined Davina’s head, turning it slightly to catch the light.

“Here.” Cole gestured for Izzy to look. “Impact wound at the base of the skull. Someone hit her hard—or she was thrown against something.”

Izzy leaned closer. The injury was partially hidden by Davina’s precisely cut hair, but unmistakable once spotted. “Before or after death?”

“Before, I’d say. There’s bruising.” Cole shifted his attention to the rope still hanging around Davina’s neck. His fingers traced the knot work, comparing it to something in his memory. “This isn’t the same as Gary’s rope. It’s a lasso knot—Dr. Pickett called it a honda knot—but made with standard nylon rope. Nothing specialized about the material.”

Izzy processed this information, fitting it into the growing puzzle. “So someone’s copying the method, but didn’t have access to the same equipment.”

“Look.” Cole pointed to Davina’s legs. Angry red marks scored the skin below her skirt hem. “These are fresh scrapes. She was dragged across something rough. Concrete maybe.”

Izzy studied the marks, then looked back at the drag patterns she’d noticed in the soot. The width matched perfectly. “She wasn’t killed here.” The realization settled cold in her stomach. “They brought her here after death, staged it to mirror Gary’s scene.”

The work lamps threw everything into stark relief—the scrape marks, the head wound, the different rope. Someone wanted them to see the connection to Gary’s death. But they’d gotten the details wrong.

“Wahlberg.” Izzy turned to her deputy. “Get shots of those scrapes. And close-ups of the head wound before we move her.”

The camera flashed, documenting each piece of evidence. Each flash illuminated another detail that proved this scene was constructed, arranged to tell a story that wasn’t quite true. Just as Gary’s scene had been, but in a completely different way.

Izzy straightened from examining the scrapes on Davina’s legs. “How did she get here?”

Wilson shifted his weight. “Her car’s in the back lot. That little Toyota she drives.”

“Show me.”

Izzy followed Wilson through the dark corridors, pausing to scratch Nanook’s ears as she passed him at his guard post. The dog’s tail wagged once, but he held his alert posture, watching the door.

The rear parking lot was empty except for Davina’s beige Corolla, its pale paint ghostly in the periphery of the headlights aimed at the building. As they approached, Izzy noticed the driver’s door wasn’t fully closed.

“Don’t touch anything.” Izzy pulled fresh gloves from her pocket. She used a single finger to ease the open door, noting the keys still hanging in the ignition. “Wilson, get the fingerprint kit from your car. I want prints from the steering wheel, door handles—especially the rear ones.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wilson jogged away toward his patrol car on the other side of the building.

Izzy’s flashlight beam caught the worn leather of Davina’s messenger bag slumped in the passenger seat. Using her gloved hands, she carefully lifted the bag onto the hood of the car.

The main compartment held Davina’s notebook—the one she always carried for her historical research. She kept meticulous notes, just like Izzy’s father had. So maybe whatever had brought her to this end was noted there.

Izzy opened the book, finding the most recent entries. Davina’s handwriting filled the pages with names, dates, and locations, all connected by neat arrows and annotations.

Three names jumped out immediately:

Grainger Preston

Hank Preston

Robert Preston

The last name was underlined three times, the pen strokes dark and deliberate against the paper.

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

Izzy slammed the Explorer’s door and fired up the engine, tossing Davina’s messenger bag onto the passenger seat. The engine roared to life as she punched the accelerator, peeling out of the parking lot. Wilson’s concerned face glowed into his trunk’s light as he collected a print kit, but faded behind her as she hit the main road.

She flipped on the lights and siren, the familiar whoop cutting through the winter night. The speedometer climbed past a hundred as she shot down the empty highway toward the Preston ranch. Her hands gripped the wheel tight enough to make her knuckles ache, but she barely noticed. Robert Preston’s name burned in her mind, underlined three times in Davina’s neat handwriting.

Thirty-eight minutes later, the ranch entrance appeared in her headlights, and Izzy yanked the wheel hard, the Explorer’s tires squealing as she turned onto the long driveway. Dust billowed behind her as she raced up the five-mile stretch, the vehicle’s suspension protesting each bump and rut.

Light spilled from the windows of the main house, warm yellow squares cutting through the darkness. Izzy skidded to a stop in the circular drive, leaving the Explorer’s lights flashing blue and red patterns across the grand facade. Her boots pounded up the front steps, and she hammered her fist against the heavy wooden door.

Robert Preston yanked it open, his face twisted with anger. “What the hell do you think⁠—”

“Did you kill Davina Williamson?” The words burst from Izzy’s mouth.

Robert’s expression didn’t change. No shock, no surprise at the news of death. His lip curled slightly. “Are you crazy, Sheriff? I heard that’s what happened with the FBI. They kicked you loose because you’d lost your marbles, right?”

“Did you kill her?”

“No.” His voice was cool, controlled.

“Where have you been all evening?”

A smile touched his lips as he stepped back from the doorway. “Please, come inside.”

Izzy’s hand instinctively moved toward her weapon as she followed him in. Robert closed the door with deliberate care and led her through the foyer. The smell of coffee and cinnamon wafted from ahead, along with the murmur of conversation.

Robert guided her into a formal dining room where at least a dozen people sat around a massive table. Coffee cups and half-eaten slices of pie dotted the white tablecloth. Izzy recognized several faces from Board of Supervisors’ meetings.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Robert’s words carried across the room. “Our sheriff has just accused me of committing a murder this evening. Would anyone care to provide me with an alibi?”

The room fell silent. Forks clinked against china as they were set down.

“Murder?” one of the guests asked. “Who died?”

Izzy’s jaw clenched, but Robert answered before she could speak. “Apparently Davina Williamson.”

A chair scraped against hardwood. Elaine Preston stood, her face pale. “Is it true? Is Davina dead?”

Izzy’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”

Murmurs rippled through the gathered guests. Elaine’s voice cut through them. “We can’t even feel safe in our own homes now, thanks to you, Sheriff.”

“She didn’t die at home,” Izzy said, then immediately regretted the words. She had no proof where Davina had died.

“Where did she die?” Elaine’s eyes narrowed.

“She was found at the library.”

“The library?” Elaine said. “What is happening down there? And your best guess was to accuse my husband of killing someone fifty miles away?” Elaine’s perfectly manicured fingers pressed against the tablecloth as she leaned forward. “I made a mistake, Sheriff. I thought you might be up to this job. I was blinded by your father’s long service. But your career is over. You’ll be removed at the next supervisor’s meeting, if not earlier.”

Izzy wanted to argue that she hadn’t accused Robert—she’d asked him a question. But the distinction felt meaningless now. Her gaze caught Supervisor Watanabe’s across the table. His expression carried the weight of profound disappointment, like a teacher who’d caught a favorite student cheating.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Izzy’s words sounded hollow in her ears. “I have a crime scene to process.”

She turned on her heel and strode out, leaving the dinner party’s whispers behind her.

Izzy slumped into the Explorer’s driver’s seat, her hands trembling as she gripped the wheel. The dining room windows glowed behind her, frames of yellow light filled with moving shadows. She scanned the gathered vehicles—Robert’s truck, Elaine’s Mercedes, a row of high-end SUVs and sedans. No sign of Jeff’s pickup or Ranger’s distinctive red Bronco. She ran the guests at the table through her mind. The sons were not there.

Her phone felt heavy in her hand as she pulled it from her pocket. The screen showed three missed calls from Wilson. She slipped it into its cradle and hit redial.

“Wilson.” His voice crackled through the speaker.

“Did you collect those prints?”

“Yeah, got sets from the steering wheel and both front door handles. Working on the rear ones now. Where are you?”

Izzy started the engine. “Never mind that. I need you to get Ranger Preston’s address in Darkness and drive over there. Check his alibi for tonight.”

“You think he⁠—”

“Just do it,” Izzy cut him off, then softened her tone. “And Wilson? Be careful. These people have influence.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Find Wahlberg too. Have him use the keys from Davina’s car and check her house. We need to know if that’s where . . .” The words stuck in her throat. “If that’s our primary scene.”

“What about the prints?”

“Bag everything and lock it in my office. Only you and Wahlberg touch that evidence. Understood?”

“Copy that.” Wilson paused. “Sheriff?”

“Yeah?”

“Watch your back.”

Izzy ended the call and glanced at Davina’s messenger bag on the passenger seat. The leather seemed to mock her—what secrets had Davina discovered that were worth killing for? And what had Izzy just done, bursting into that dinner party like a rookie deputy fresh from the academy?

She threw the Explorer into reverse and pulled away from the house. The blue and red lights still painted accusations across the Prestons’ windows. Izzy killed them as she turned onto the main drive, leaving only her headlights to guide her through the darkness.

Izzy drove to the fork in the road and turned away from the highway and out toward the tight valley. The Explorer’s headlights caught the edges of Jefferson Preston’s mailbox—a simple metal box on a wooden post, no family name emblazoned like the grand entrance to the main ranch. Izzy turned onto the narrow dirt track, following it for a couple of miles, through a stand of Sierra willows until the cabin appeared ahead.

The structure sat alone in a natural clearing, its weathered wood siding blending with the dark desert landscape. No grand pillars or wraparound porches here—just a modest cabin with a metal roof and a small, covered porch. The kind of place tourists might rent for a weekend getaway, not where Izzy expected to find a Preston living full-time.

She killed the engine, and darkness swallowed the scene. No lights showed in the cabin’s windows. The cold air bit at her face as she climbed out and walked over to where Jefferson’s truck sat dark and empty beside the porch. Izzy pressed her palm against the hood—cold metal met her touch, but that meant little. Engines cooled fast in the high desert winter.

A mechanical whine cut through the night, coming from behind the cabin. Izzy’s hand moved to her weapon as she followed the sound, picking her way around the corner. A metal shed stood about fifty yards from the main building, light spilling from its partly open door.

The whine grew louder as she approached—a woodworking tool, maybe a lathe or sander. Izzy eased the door wider. Jefferson stood at a workbench, his back to her, wearing protective earmuffs as he guided a piece of wood through a band saw. Sawdust covered his flannel shirt, and more dusted the floor around his boots.

Izzy moved around the edge of the shop until she entered his peripheral vision. Jefferson’s eyes flicked to her, but his expression didn’t change. He finished his cut before switching off the saw and pulling the ear protection down around his neck.

“What are you making?” Izzy asked.

“Rocking chair.” Jefferson gestured to a half-assembled frame leaning against the wall.

“Been here all night?”

“Yeah.” He set the cut piece aside. “Something wrong with that?”

“Davina Williamson was murdered tonight.”

Jefferson’s eyes widened, but his face remained hard to read. “The historian?”

“You know her?”

“Everyone knows Davina.” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “How’d she die?”

“Similar to Gary Chávez.”

Something flickered across Jefferson’s face. “That’s a shame about Gary. I liked him.”

“I thought you didn’t know him?”

“When did I say that?”

Izzy realized he never did. “Your father said you didn’t know him.”

“I can’t speak for my father.” Jefferson picked up a piece of sandpaper. “But I never said that.”

Izzy studied his profile as he worked the wood. “So you did know him?”

“Not well. But he did good work. Honest. Didn’t pad his hours like some mechanics.” Jefferson ran the sandpaper over the piece of wood. “He fixed equipment here a few times. Pleasant guy. Kept to himself mostly. Didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

As he spoke, Izzy assessed him. No traces of blood on his clothes or boots, and no soot. There was plenty of time to have changed clothes, but if he killed Davina Williamson, then he was a cool customer and a serious psychopath.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” she asked.

Jefferson’s shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “No one asked.” He looked up at her. “Why do you ask now?”

“Why aren’t you at your parents’ dinner party?”

“I told you, I don’t get people. Small talk and fancy food isn’t my idea of fun.”

“What is your idea of fun?”

“You asking me on a date?” His eyes bore into her.

Izzy put her hands on her hips. “You’re pretty sassy for a guy who doesn’t do people.”

Jefferson shrugged again. “You’re easy to talk to. You say what you mean. Mostly.”

“Why mostly?”

“Because you’re here telling me Ms. Williamson is dead, but you’re not asking me if I did it.”

“People who kill other people don’t usually tell the truth about it.”

Jefferson ran his hand along the grain with care.

“So did you kill Davina Williamson?” she asked.

He looked at her again. “No, ma’am.”

Izzy stepped back toward the door. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

She guided the Explorer back onto the main road, Jefferson’s words echoing in her mind. The cabin’s lights disappeared in her rearview mirror as she accelerated toward the highway. Her phone rang through the vehicle’s speakers.

“Wilson, what have you got?”

“Just left Ranger Preston’s place. He says he’s been home all evening. Wife backs up his story, but . . .”

“But?”

“Something felt off about her.” Wilson paused. “Can’t put my finger on it exactly.”

Izzy merged onto the highway, the Explorer’s headlights cutting through the darkness. “Break it down for me.”

“Well, it’s almost ten. She said the kids were getting baths when I showed up—seems late for little ones.” Wilson cleared his throat. “But what really struck me was, I’ve never seen her before.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know they have kids. See them at school events, you know? But her? Never laid eyes on her before tonight.” Wilson’s confusion carried through the line. “Not at the grocery store, not at church, nowhere.”

Izzy thought of Jefferson in his workshop, choosing solitude over the grand ranch house. “Some people are private, keep to themselves.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Wilson didn’t sound convinced. “Just seemed strange, is all.”

Her phone beeped with another incoming call. “Thanks, Wilson. I’ve got Wahlberg on the other line.”

She switched calls. “What did you find?”

“I’m at Davina’s house.” Wahlberg’s voice was tight. “This is definitely our primary scene.”

“How can you tell?”

“There’s a wet stain on the carpet that looks like blood. Pretty big one.” She heard him moving around. “I’m taking samples now and photographing everything.”

“Good. Seal it up when you’re done.”

“Boss?” Wahlberg stopped her before she could end the call. “This isn’t random anymore, is it?”

“No.” Izzy watched the mile markers flash past. “I don’t think it ever was.”

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

Izzy woke before dawn, her eyes gritty from a sleepless night. The bedroom felt like a prison, the walls closing in with each passing second. She pulled on running shorts and a light jacket, lacing up her shoes with trembling fingers.

The morning air hit her face as she stepped outside, sharp and clean. Her muscles protested the first few steps, reminding her of injuries not fully healed. She ignored the pain, focusing on the steady rhythm of her feet against the pavement.

Left, right, left, right. The cadence of her stride matched her heartbeat as she picked up speed. Houses blurred past, their darkened windows like empty eyes watching her flee. The sun hadn’t yet crested the horizon, leaving the streets bathed in pre-dawn gray.

Her lungs burned as she pushed harder, faster. South toward the edge of town, then east down a dirt service road toward the aqueduct. Sweat trickled down her back despite the cool air. Each footfall sent tiny shockwaves through her healing wounds, but the physical pain was almost welcome—a distraction from the hollow ache.

Elaine Preston’s words echoed in her head with each step: Your career is over. The thought drove her faster, her feet pounding against the pavement with increasing force. She glanced sideways toward the sheriff’s office, its windows dark and silent. How many more times would she walk through those doors as sheriff?

The image of Cole and his cabin in the snow floated through her mind, taunting her with its simplicity, its promise of peace. That perfect day felt like it belonged to someone else now, someone who still had a future here.

She pushed herself harder, her breathing ragged. The physical strain couldn’t drown out the voices in her head—Elaine’s smug certainty, Hawkins’s barely concealed satisfaction, the board members’ careful neutrality. Each memory drove her faster, harder, until her legs trembled with exhaustion and her lungs screamed for mercy.

Izzy’s feet carried her along the dirt roads, looping north around the outskirts of Darkness. The rising sun painted the eastern sky in deepening shades of blue, casting long shadows across the sagebrush desert landscape. Her breath caught as the first rays illuminated the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada, their majesty untouched by the turmoil below.

She ran back into town from the north end, cutting off the highway and into the surface streets of the small town. Her pace slowed as she found herself at the iron gates of the cemetery. She hadn’t planned to come here—hadn’t visited since returning to Darkness. The morning frost still clung to the grass between the headstones, creating a crystalline blanket that retained her footprints.

The path to her father’s grave emerged from muscle memory despite her solitary visit. Row after row of markers passed until she stood before the simple granite headstone. Sheriff Lew Llewellyn. The gold badge emblem carved into the stone caught the early morning light.

Izzy stared at the dates etched beneath his name. The silence of the cemetery pressed against her ears, broken only by her still-ragged breathing. This peaceful corner of Darkness felt worlds away from the political machinations threatening to end her career, yet standing here made everything feel more immediate, more visceral.

Her father’s presence seemed to fill the space between heartbeats. The weight of his legacy, of all he’d built and all she stood to lose, settled across her shoulders like a physical thing. She reached out, fingers hovering over the cold stone, but couldn’t bring herself to touch it.

Izzy sank to her knees in the frost-covered grass, soaking her legs with morning dew. Her fingers traced the letters of her father’s name, the granite cold against her skin.

“I don’t know what to do, Dad.” Her voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. “They’re going to take it all away. Everything you built, everything you stood for.” The rising sun warmed her as she bowed her head. “I tried to do it right. To be the kind of sheriff you were. But maybe I’m not cut out for this. Maybe I should have stayed away.” The words stuck in her throat. “People are dead because I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t fast enough.”

The morning breeze stirred her hair, carrying the scent of sage and pine. For a moment, she could almost hear her father’s deep laugh, could picture his eyes crinkling as he leaned back in his chair.

“What would you tell me?” She pressed her palm flat against the cold stone. “How did you handle it when the politics got ugly? When people tried to force your hand?”

In her mind, she heard him speak, clear as day: “Do what’s right, baby girl. The rest will sort itself out.”

Izzy closed her eyes, but there were no more tears. “But what if doing what’s right means losing everything? My job, my home . . .” She swallowed hard. “Cole.”

The memory of her father’s steady presence filled a hole inside her. She could almost feel his hand on her shoulder, hear the quiet strength in his voice telling her to trust her gut, to follow the evidence wherever it led.

“I’m scared, Dad,” she whispered. “It’s time to admit defeat and move on, but I don’t know where to go.”

Movement to her side pulled Izzy from her reverie. She knew the shape of the silhouette, the way he put weight on his right leg more than his left. Her shoulders tensed, but she didn’t turn around.

He didn’t speak, didn’t move closer, just stood sentinel as she remained kneeling before her father’s grave.

“How?” she whispered.

“Saw you come in off the highway.”

She turned back to the headstone. “I failed him.” Her fingers were still tracing the letters. “Everything he built, everything he stood for⁠—”

“Stop.” Cole stepped forward, close enough that she felt the heat radiating from him. “This isn’t about your father, Izzy. It’s not about his legacy or what he would have wanted.”

Izzy’s hand stilled on the cold stone. “Then what is it about?”

“It’s about you.” Cole moved so his shadow fell across the grave marker. “Who you are. What you stand for. The kind of sheriff you want to be, not the kind your father was.”

The morning breeze stirred her hair as she absorbed his words. They settled inside, displacing some of the weight that had been crushing her.

“I’ve been in this town long enough to know your father was a good man, a good sheriff. But he wasn’t perfect,” Cole continued, his voice carrying a gentleness that made Izzy’s heart ache. “No one is. And you don’t have to be either.”

Izzy’s fingers curled against the cold, wet grass. The morning frost had begun to melt, dampening her skin.

“You’re not just Sheriff Llewellyn’s daughter, Izzy. You’re Izar Llewellyn—you’re your own person. Think about what you want your own legacy to be.”

His words struck something deep inside her. Memories flooded back—standing in front of the mirror at Quantico, adjusting her holster before her first day of training. The weight of her first FBI badge in her palm. The fierce determination that had driven her through every obstacle, every setback.

She’d joined the Bureau because she believed in justice, in protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves. That drive hadn’t started with her father’s legacy—it had been her own. She’d chosen law enforcement not because it was expected, but because she couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

Izzy traced her father’s name one last time. She’d come to Darkness carrying the weight of Mark’s betrayal, thinking she needed to prove herself worthy of her father’s badge. But Cole was right—this wasn’t about living up to Sheriff Lew’s legacy. This was about creating her own. But was that legacy one of failure?

Cole stepped in close. “Most people lead lives that are dictated to them because it’s easier. It hurts less, or so it seems. But an old colonel of mine told me something in Afghanistan when I doubted what we were doing there. He said, ‘All it takes for evil to prevail is that good people do nothing.’ We turn a blind eye. We accept events as inevitable because the odds are against us.”

He put his hand on Izzy’s shoulder. “You might leave, or you might stay. You might win, or you might lose. I might be in your life forever or gone tomorrow. Those are choices you can make or events you can allow to affect you. But I promise you will remember this day. Because it’s the day that you, Izar Llewellyn—strong, determined, beautiful Izzy—define who you really are.”

Cole’s hand squeezed her shoulder. Then it was gone. His footsteps moved away across the frost-covered grass, growing fainter until they faded entirely.

Izzy listened to the morning silence settle back around her. The sun had climbed higher, pulling the shadow of her father’s grave away from her. Cole’s absence left a physical space beside her, but his words remained, echoing in her mind with startling clarity.

She traced her father’s name one final time, feeling the rough-cut edges of each letter. The stone felt different now, less like a weight pressing down on her and more like an anchor holding her steady while she found her footing.

A breeze stirred the grass around the headstone. Izzy closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. Cole had known exactly what she needed—not answers or solutions, but the space to find them herself. His quiet support felt more valuable than any advice he could have offered.

The morning frost had melted beneath her knees and chilled her, but Izzy barely noticed the discomfort. Her mind was already racing ahead, examining her situation through new eyes. Not as Sheriff Lew’s daughter trying to preserve his legacy, but as Sheriff Izzy Llewellyn deciding what kind of leader she wanted to be.

What kind of human she wanted to be.

The answer was clear, the choice obvious. But it was also the tough road. The one paved with thorns. Her instructor’s words on the Quantico obstacle course echoed in her mind: “Easy choice, hard life. Hard choice, easy life.”

Izzy closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. She saw Mark again, but this time it wasn’t the night he died. It was their wedding day. His easy grin as she walked down the aisle, her mother on her arm. Then, he was replaced by an image of Gary Chávez, smiling down from his mother’s living room wall. And Miguel, more serious in expression but joy in his eyes.

Joy extinguished.

Lives lost, and the only residue left behind was pain. And it would stay that way, for them and for others, for as long as bad people were allowed to do as they pleased.

Izzy stood and glanced down at her father’s memorial. Then she turned in place, taking in the glorious mountains, their white peaks glowing. These monoliths looked impenetrable, yet here Izzy stood, in a valley where those peaks should have remained. A valley born of glaciers and earthquakes, and relentless, onward pressure, a refusal to yield.

Izzy put her fingers to her lips and then touched them to the top of her father’s headstone. She set her jaw firm. He had created his legacy through his actions. Now it was her turn. This was no time to wilt and yield.

It was time to fight.

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

The morning air had shifted from crisp to cool as Izzy walked back to Joe’s house. Her muscles still ached from her fire fueled run, but her mind felt sharper, clearer than it had in days.

She stripped off her running clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water soothe her tired body. As steam filled the bathroom, memories of her father surfaced—not the painful ones of his death, but ordinary moments she’d taken for granted. The sight of him at the dining table, head bent over his notebook, transferring the day’s events into proper reports.

The memory sparked something. She’d watched him do this countless times, his careful attention to detail as he transformed rough field notes into precise documentation. It was standard procedure—keeping preliminary observations separate from official reports that might end up scrutinized in court.

Izzy turned off the water, her thoughts crystallizing. She’d moved the reading room collection to Wahlberg’s house instead of securing it at the sheriff’s office. The decision had been instinctive, born from a deep-seated mistrust of certain elements within her own office. Someone was feeding information to the Prestons—she felt it in her bones.

As she dried off, another thought struck her. What if her father had faced the same dilemma? What if he’d kept a separate set of notes away from prying eyes at the office? There were no such notes in his effects. Someone in the old building would have cleared out his desk, and his mother wanted no memory of this place.

Izzy wrapped herself in a towel, mind racing. Anything left at work or accessible to her mother was likely destroyed. But what if there was another option? What if his notes still existed, untouched and forgotten?

Izzy got dressed and drove the route that had an unfamiliar look yet was burned into her subconscious. She tugged her uniform straight, checking her appearance in the rearview mirror before stepping out of her SUV. The one-story craftsman looked different than she remembered—fresh paint in sage-green instead of the faded blue of her childhood, and the yard had been transformed with drought-resistant landscaping.

Memories, both good and bad, threatened to cascade over her as she approached the front door, but she pushed them away. The porch steps still creaked in the same spots. She reached for the doorbell, hesitating for a moment as she realized that it had never been there in her day. How many times had she bounded up these steps after school, calling out to her mother, the screen door slamming behind her?

The chime echoed inside. Footsteps approached, and the door opened to reveal a woman in her thirties, dark hair pulled back in a bun.

“Can I help you, Sheriff?” The woman’s eyes flickered to Izzy’s badge.

“Hi, I’m Izzy Llewellyn. I actually grew up in this house.” Izzy gestured at the entryway behind the woman.

Recognition dawned on the woman’s face. “Oh! I’m Sharon Green-Davies. We’ve lived here about five years now, since we moved to town. Would you like to come in?”

Izzy stepped into the familiar foyer. The walls were a warm cream instead of her mother’s preferred white, but the bones of the house remained unchanged. “Thank you. I know this is unusual, but I was wondering if you keep anything in the attic?”

“Just Christmas decorations, really.” Sharon shrugged. “Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all. I’m actually wondering if my dad left some old stuff up there. He passed away about twenty years ago.”

Sharon’s expression softened. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that. But I’ve just moved back. You might have heard.”

“I did. I’m glad to see a woman in charge. This town’s a little testosterone-y at times.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Actually, I do. I wanted to raise the kids somewhere smaller, you know?”

“I enjoyed growing up here.” The comment made Sharon smile as if she’d made the right choice. “Would it be possible for me to take a look upstairs?”

“The access is awkward—no pull-down ladder, I’m afraid.”

“I remember. . .” Izzy left the sentence hanging.

“I think Ike has a ladder.” Sharon led Izzy out to the garage. It was full of junk, more like Joe’s than the Wahlberg’s.

Izzy carried the ladder to the tight hallway.

“I’ll hold it steady for you,” Sharon offered. “While you’re up there, would you mind passing down the Christmas decorations?”

“No problem.”

Izzy climbed up and removed the access panel, then clambered up into the musty space, ducking to avoid the low-slung ceiling. Weak light filtered through the gable vents, casting long shadows across the plywood flooring. Several plastic tubs labeled XMAS were stacked near the access point. She grabbed the first and passed it down to Sharon, and followed with the other two.

She clicked on her flashlight, sweeping the beam toward the darker corners. The space narrowed where the roof met the walls, creating shadowy crevices perfect for hiding things. Izzy crawled toward the far corner, careful of loose insulation.

Her light caught something tucked into a corner above the eaves—a cardboard box, yellowed with age. Her heart quickened as she pulled it closer. The box was unmarked, sealed with brittle packing tape that crumbled at her touch.

Inside, she found several notebooks bound with rubber bands. She opened one, the pages wavy from years of temperature fluctuations. Her father’s distinctive handwriting filled the pages—neat block letters mixed with his characteristic scrawl when he wrote in haste.

She gathered the box and backed toward the ladder opening. Sharon helped steady her descent.

“Did you find something?” Sarah asked.

Izzy nodded, clutching the box to her chest. “Yes, some of my dad’s old diaries. Thank you for letting me look.”

Izzy replaced the access panel and returned the ladder. Sharon walked her to the door. “You’re welcome to come back if you need to check again.”

Izzy moved toward the steps, then turned back. “Sorry, Sharon, but can I ask a personal question?”

Sharon raised an eyebrow. “I suppose.”

“What brought you to Darkness?”

“My husband’s an engineer for the LA Department of Water and Power, working on the aqueduct.”

“You meet many people in town?”

“Some. DWP people mostly.”

Izzy gave her a rueful smile. “Yeah. It feels a bit us and them, huh?”

“People are very nice, but yeah. It can be hard to break in.”

Izzy’s expression softened around the eyes. “We should do something about that, Sharon.”

Sharon smiled. “I’d like that.”

Izzy nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

Izzy carried the box to her SUV, setting it carefully on the passenger seat. Her hands trembled as she started the engine. After all these years, her father’s private thoughts and observations had been waiting in that attic, just out of reach, holding who knew what secrets about the cases that had haunted their family for decades.

Izzy pulled into Joe’s driveway, the box of notebooks secure beside her. Her grandfather’s truck wasn’t there—probably at his weekly dominos game at the senior center. The silence of the empty house wrapped around her as she entered with a boxful of memories in her grasp.

She set the box on Joe’s dining table, running her fingers over the cardboard edges. The coffee maker gurgled as she prepared a fresh pot, the scent filling the kitchen. While it brewed, she removed the notebooks and arranged them chronologically based on the dates written on their covers.

The coffee was black and bitter, just the way her father had always taken it. Izzy settled into a chair, pulling the relevant notebook closer.

She found the first entry about Miguel Chávez. Her father had noted the public confrontation between Miguel and Hank Preston outside the feed store. According to witnesses, Miguel had accused Hank of theft, screaming that the Prestons had stolen everything. Hank had remained calm, telling onlookers that Miguel was drunk and delusional.

Izzy’s coffee grew cold as she read on. Miguel had approached her father privately after the incident, claiming he had proof that the Prestons had stolen the land from his family. The official case file contained none of this—only the bare facts of Miguel’s disappearance.

Her father’s notes grew more detailed. Miguel had insisted that there was an even darker secret buried in the Preston family’s past. He claimed that Grainger Preston, the family patriarch, had murdered José Chávez to secure the land rights. The accusation wasn’t in any official report.

Izzy’s pulse quickened as she turned another page and saw the words “Dead Man’s Hollow”—the same location mentioned in Gary’s notebook. She flipped through the remaining pages, searching for more details about the location, but found nothing else. Just that single notation, as mysterious now as it had been in Gary’s writings.

Further on, she found another cryptic note: “PLC ledger.” It was underlined twice, with no additional context or explanation.

At the bottom of one page, written in different ink as if added later, was a simple instruction: “Ask Rick Schatz.” Her father had drawn a box around the name, marking it as significant. Izzy sighed. The name rang a bell. She just couldn’t remember from where.

She had been at Joe’s dining table for several hours, surrounded by her father’s notebooks, when her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen—Adrianne from the office.

“Hey, Adrianne.”

“Sheriff, I wanted to check if you’re okay.” Adrianne’s usual cheerful tone held an edge of concern.

“I’m fine, working on the case from home for a bit.” Izzy’s fingers traced the edge of her father’s notebook. “Why do you ask?”

“There are . . . discussions happening. People wondering if you’re coming back.”

Izzy straightened in her chair. “I haven’t gone anywhere, Adrianne. I’ll be there shortly.”

She gathered the unread notebooks into a neat stack and returned them to the old box, which she slipped under her small bed. Izzy put the one relevant to Miguel’s case in her backpack and carried it out. The drive to the office felt different today—her father’s words, and Cole’s too—had given her new purpose, a direction she’d been lacking.

The office fell quiet as she entered. Deputies ducked their heads or suddenly found paperwork fascinating. Izzy walked past them, head high. Let them look away. She knew where she stood now—those who supported her, those who worked against her, and those waiting to see which way the wind would blow.

The evidence locker was cool and quiet. Izzy signed out Davina’s personal effects, carrying the box to her office. She spread the items across her desk—Davina’s notebook, her phone, her keys. Izzy sat and opened the notebook.

She flipped through the pages until a familiar name jumped out at her: Rick Schatz. The same name from her father’s notes. On the following page, Davina had written PLC and underlined it twice, just as her father had done. On a subsequent page, Davina referred to PLC again and expanded it out to read Public Land Commission.

Her brow furrowed as she saw another name beneath the PLC notation: Brett Maxwell. Davina had drawn a small arrow connecting Maxwell’s name to the PLC reference, though the significance wasn’t immediately clear.

Izzy leaned back in her chair, the parallel discoveries in her father’s and Davina’s notes setting her mind racing. Two decades apart, both had been pursuing the same thread of investigation.

Izzy glanced out the window at the failing light. She wanted to know what some of these notations meant, and she had a team for that. Izzy locked Davina’s effects away in a file cabinet but kept the notebook, which she put with her dad’s book into her backpack. She grabbed her coat and strode downstairs to the dispatch desk.

Adrianne offered her a warm smile.

“Is Wahlberg in?”

Adrianne shook her head. “On patrol.”

“Good. Seen Undersheriff Hawkins?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was circling the wagons.” Her eyebrows curved in concern.

“Walking around in circles? That sounds like Hawkins.”

The older women smiled. “Don’t let them beat you down, Sheriff. We need you. You have no idea how much.”

“I’ve got some idea, but don’t worry. If you’re not going anywhere, neither am I.”

Izzy pulled up to the Wahlbergs’ cozy home. Christmas lights hung from the eaves, though they weren’t lit in the late afternoon light. The patrol SUV was missing from the driveway, confirming what Adrianne had told her about Elliot being on duty.

Jenny opened the door before Izzy reached the porch. “I saw you pull up. Come in. I just made coffee.”

The house smelled of fresh brew and something sweet—maybe cookies. Jenny led the way to the kitchen where a Mr. Coffee machine sat on the counter next to two mugs.

“Elliot told me what happened at the library.” Jenny poured the coffee. “How are you holding up?”

“Better now that I might have something.” Izzy set her backpack on the kitchen counter and extracted the two notebooks. “I found my father’s private case notes from twenty years ago.”

Jenny’s eyes widened. “From Miguel’s disappearance?”

Izzy nodded, following Jenny to the dining table where they’d set up their makeshift investigation center. “Hidden in our old attic. My father kept a separate set of notes outside the official case file.”

“Smart.” Jenny settled into a chair. “Given what we know about information leaks in the office back then.”

“Some things never change.” Izzy opened both notebooks. “My father documented conversations with Miguel that never made it into the official report. He documented how Miguel accused Hank Preston of theft—claimed the Prestons stole the land from his family.”

Jenny leaned forward. “That rumor was practically town lore.”

“There’s more. Miguel told my father that he could prove Grainger Preston murdered José Chávez.” Izzy tapped the page. “And look at this—Dead Man’s Hollow. The same place mentioned in Gary’s notes.”

Jenny shook her head. “I’ve been looking, but I can’t find any reference to it. It’s not on any current maps, and I haven’t found it in the historical documents we saved from the reading room.”

“What about this name—Rick Schatz? It appears in both my father’s notes and Davina’s notebook.”

Jenny frowned, then pulled out her phone. Her fingers flew across the screen as she typed out a text. Almost immediately, her phone buzzed with a response.

“Tam knows him,” Jenny said, looking up. “He runs The Sierra Tribune.”

Izzy sat back, coffee forgotten. “The free weekly? But that’s just . . .” She waved her hand, searching for the right words. “Local interest stories and obituaries. Joe picks it up from the distribution bin at Donnelly’s Market.”

“They say small-town news guys know everything,” Jenny suggested. “I mean, why would both your father and Davina make note of him?”

Izzy shrugged. “What about the other name in Davina’s notes—Brett Maxwell?”

Jenny shook her head, her brow furrowed. “Never heard of him.”

“Both my father and Davina made notes about PLC ledgers too.” Izzy tapped the matching entries in both notebooks. “Davina refers a couple of times to the Public Land Commission.”

“Oh, Tam was working on those,” Jenny said, just as the front door closed with a soft click.

“Tam was working on what?” Tamara’s voice carried from the entryway.

Izzy twisted in her chair. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“It’s library time.” Tam dropped her bag by the door and shrugged off her coat. “But we don’t have a library anymore because the sheriff made it a crime scene. I asked Wen to take care of both classes—they’re watching a movie about the gold rush.”

“The PLC ledgers,” Jenny prompted. “The sheriff’s dad referenced them.”

“The sheriff’s dad?”

Izzy explained how she had found her father’s notes in the ceiling of her childhood home. Tam crossed to the side table where boxes of documents sat carefully arranged. She pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and selected a leather-bound volume, setting it on a foam book wedge.

The ledger’s spine crackled as Tam opened it with care. She flipped through pages marked with colored paper strips, her movements careful. The paper was thick and yellowed, covered in flowing cursive script that had faded to brown.

“Here.” Tam’s gloved finger traced an entry. “August 1852. Land claim filing for G. Preston, Harris township, California.” She looked up at Izzy. “The claim particulars correspond to the Preston ranch, including the parcels they later sold to the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power.”

“There was another name,” Izzy said. “Brett Maxwell. Does that mean anything to you?”

Tam’s eyes widened. With careful movements, she turned back to the ledger’s first page. Izzy leaned forward to read the elegant script:

California Land Claims, Mirage County

Public Land Commission, San Francisco, CA

Commission Officer: Brett Maxwell

Chapter

Thirty

The morning sun cast long shadows across Hope Street in Harris as Izzy parked her SUV outside The Sierra Tribune office. The newspaper occupied a narrow storefront wedged between a tax preparation service and a vacant space that still bore the faded outline of Andy’s Shoes on its window.

Inside, the office smelled of paper and coffee. Stacks of newspapers lined one wall, while mismatched filing cabinets crowded another. The front counter displayed free copies of the current edition alongside business cards and local event flyers.

“Sheriff Llewellyn.” A man emerged from a back office, coffee mug in hand. His silver hair was cropped short, and wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. Though his button-down shirt had seen better days, his bearing suggested someone who’d inhabited grander newsrooms. He offered his hand and Izzy shook it.

“Rick Schatz,” he said. “What brings you to the Tribune?”

“I’m looking into an old case.” Izzy studied the man before her. Despite his casual demeanor, his eyes held the sharp focus of someone who’d spent decades observing and analyzing. “The disappearance of Miguel Chávez.”

Schatz gestured toward his office. The small space was dominated by a desk buried under papers and manila folders. An ancient computer monitor displayed a half-written article. Photos of local landmarks and events covered one wall, while framed front pages from significant stories lined another.

“Twenty years ago now.” Schatz settled into his chair. “Not much of a story, really. Man drives away, never comes back. Happens more often than people think.”

Izzy sat in a wooden chair that creaked like it had been around for Watergate. “There was an incident before that, between Miguel and Hank Preston.”

“Ah, that.” Schatz leaned back. “Heard the rumors, but it wasn’t news. No charges filed, no official statement. Just town gossip.”

“You didn’t think it was worth investigating?”

“Sheriff, small-town papers like mine are dying. I pick my battles.” He took a sip of coffee. “These days, I’m lucky if I can keep the lights on covering school board meetings and high school sports.”

“My father had a note to ask you about something.” Izzy watched his reaction. “Any idea what that might have been?”

“Lew was a good man.” Schatz set down his mug. “You all left not long after I got here. I came to Mirage County after my divorce—had a bit of a breakdown after and needed to get out of Sacramento. Somewhere quieter.”

His candor surprised her. “That must have been difficult.”

“It was what it was.” Schatz shrugged.

“Not many men talk about those things.”

“Better to talk about them than bottle them up. That’s what my therapist said, anyway.”

“How far back do your paper’s archives go?”

“All the way to the beginning.” Pride crept into his voice. “Every week since 1853.”

“Does the name ‘Dead Man’s Hollow’ mean anything to you?”

Schatz’s brow furrowed. “Sounds like something from a western. John Wayne maybe?” He shook his head. “Other than that, no. Never heard of it.”

Izzy shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chair, studying the man across the desk. His ordered demeanor seemed at odds with the chaotic organization of his newsroom. “What’s your relationship with the Prestons?”

Schatz’s fingers wrapped around his coffee mug, but he didn’t pick it up. “Cordial, I suppose. Have to be, covering county business. I see a bit of Elaine at supervisor meetings, budget hearings, that sort of thing.”

“People read that?”

“Nah.” He chuckled. “Most folks just want the sports scores and obits. But someone has to keep track of where the tax dollars go, even if nobody cares.”

“And what do you make of them?” Izzy kept her tone neutral. “The Preston family?”

Schatz’s expression turned thoughtful. “They’re the noblesse oblige of our little corner of the world.” At Izzy’s raised eyebrow, he added, “Or, in less generous terms, the overlords.”

Izzy studied the photos on Schatz’s wall. Local landmarks, county fairs, school graduations—a visual history of Mirage County’s small triumphs and daily routines.

“Did the Tribune ever run anything about José Chávez?”

Schatz barked out a laugh that made her jump. “A man heading to the gold fields in the 1850s? That wasn’t news, Sheriff. That was Tuesday.”

“But he left his family behind.”

“So did half the men in California.” Schatz shook his head. “Nobody knows exactly when José took off. Could’ve been right around when we started publishing, maybe just before. Either way, one more fortune seeker wouldn’t have been worth the ink.”

“Even with the Preston connection?”

“What connection?” Schatz removed his glasses and pointed the arm at Izzy. “Far as anyone knew back then, José Chávez walked away to seek his fortune, like countless others. The Prestons were here then, but all that Grainger-José stuff, there was never anything to it. Not that I saw.”

“That’s not how his descendants tell it.”

“Sheriff, every family that didn’t strike it rich has a story about how they were cheated out of their fortune.” Schatz’s voice held the weariness of someone who’d heard it all before. He slowly put his glasses back on. “Doesn’t make them true.” Schatz removed and cleaned his glasses with a tissue. “Doesn’t make them wrong, either.”

Izzy leaned forward in her chair. “What about the Public Land Commission hearings? Did the Tribune cover those?”

“Ah, the PLC.” Schatz’s expression brightened with academic interest. “They established that in 1851. Hearings ran from ‘52 through ‘56, after which everything went through the courts.” He gestured at the wall of archived papers. “The Tribune started in ‘53, so we would have been around during the latter stages. But I’ve gone through those old sheets—fascinating stuff, really—and there’s not much coverage of hearings in this area. Most local matters must have been settled by then. I always figured it explained why the paper was started when it was.”

“Why’s that?” Izzy watched his face.

Schatz smiled. “The founder worked with the commission before starting the paper.”

The pieces clicked into place. “What was his name?”

“Brett Maxwell.” Schatz’s tone carried a hint of pride. “He established quite a legacy here. The Tribune’s been independently owned and operated ever since.”

Izzy kept her expression neutral, though her pulse quickened at the connection. The same Brett Maxwell who’d signed off on Preston’s land claim had founded the local paper—right after those claims were settled.

“Were the Prestons early investors in the Tribune?”

“No.” Schatz’s reply was immediate. “Maxwell was sole founder, publisher, and owner for thirty years. Ran it until his death in 1883.”

The directness of his answer caught her attention. Most people hedged when discussing Preston involvement in anything. “That must have required significant capital.”

“Now you’re asking the right question.” Schatz’s eyes lit up with the enthusiasm of someone sharing a favorite topic. “Where did a low-level bureaucrat get the money for a printing press? We’re talking about serious investment for 1853. The kind of money that could buy half the valley.”

“The kind of money the Prestons had.”

“That’s the interesting part.” Schatz reached for a leather-bound volume from his shelves. “I’ve gone through every scrap of paperwork from the founding. No trace of Preston money. But—” He tapped the book’s worn cover. “The early coverage was remarkably favorable to certain landowners.”

“The Prestons.”

“Among others.” He shrugged. “But yes, certainly them.”

Izzy leaned forward. “What about now? Does the Tribune still give the Prestons favorable coverage?”

“When Hank died a few years back, he got a few extra column inches in his obit.” Schatz’s mouth quirked into a half-smile. “But that’s about it. Elaine’s made it clear she doesn’t always agree with my editorials.”

“How so?”

“Let’s just say the Board of Supervisors’ meeting coverage isn’t always what she’d prefer.” He lifted his coffee mug in a mock toast. “But that’s the privilege of being independently owned. We print what we think matters.” He let out a rueful laugh. “Even if no one reads it.”

Izzy nodded. “Are those early editions available online?”

“No.” He shook his head. “We only went digital about fifteen years ago. Everything before that is on microfiche at the Harris library.”

Izzy rose from her chair. “Rick, thank you for your time.”

“Mind if I ask you a question on the record?” Schatz adjusted his glasses.

“Of course.”

He leaned back in his chair like he was summing her up. “Are you going to run for sheriff in the election?”

“Yes, most definitely.” The words came out stronger than she’d intended.

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Most definitely.” Izzy moved to the door and reached for the handle.

Schatz stood and took Izzy’s eye. “Do you think you’ll win?”

A smile tugged at her lips as she looked back at him. “That’s up to the good people of Mirage County.”

“Only the good people?” Schatz’s eyebrows rose.

“Yes.” Izzy’s smile didn’t waver. “Everyone else should be very worried. I’m like Santa that way.”

Izzy parked in front of the Harris library, its brick facade a stark contrast to the modern glass entrance. The building was squat and low but stretched the full city block. Inside, the air carried that distinct library smell—old paper and wood polish.

At the reference desk, a woman in her sixties looked up from her computer. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized Izzy’s uniform. “Sheriff Llewellyn. What brings you here?”

“I need to access your newspaper archives. The microfiche collection.”

The woman’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Davina used to help researchers with the archives.” Her voice cracked. “She knew the system better than anyone.”

Two other librarians drifted over, their faces showing a similar mix of grief and suspicion.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Izzy said.

“Like you found who killed the Chávez kid?” The question came from an elderly man who’d emerged from between the stacks. His weathered face bore deep lines of skepticism. “Or are you waiting for someone else to die first?”

The accusation hung in the air. “I understand your frustration. But I promise you, we’re following every lead.”

“Davina was a local treasure.” The reference librarian’s voice dropped lower. “If you don’t find who did this—” She swallowed hard. “People can’t sleep safely in their own beds.”

Izzy nodded with a somber expression. “I need to see the Tribune archives from 1853 to 1856.”

The reference librarian nodded. “The microfiche readers are in the basement. I’ll show you.”

The basement air felt thick and stale as Izzy followed the librarian to a long table with three microfiche readers on it. The librarian powered one of the machines up, then disappeared into the dark spaces surrounding them. Izzy looked around at the cream-painted brickwork. The basement was a rare architectural feature in the valley, having been dug into the volcanic ground during the cold war, and it had the cold feel of a bunker.

The librarian returned with a cardboard box full of microfiche sheets and showed her how to place the fiche on the glass. projecting faded text onto the screen. She adjusted the focus, showing the tiny print of The Sierra Tribune’s earliest editions. The librarian left Izzy alone as she squinted at the old type.

An hour slipped by as she scrolled through endless columns of dense text. Her neck ached from hunching over the reader, but the reading was as Rick Schatz had suggested. The Preston name appeared with striking frequency, always accompanied by glowing praise. Their cattle operation, their land acquisitions, their influence in county affairs—the paper documented it all with unwavering admiration.

One article detailed Grainger Preston’s bold vision for developing the region, while another praised his decisive leadership in local politics. The reverence bordered on sycophantic. What caught Izzy’s attention wasn’t just the constant praise, but how quickly the Prestons had risen to prominence. Within months of arriving, they wielded influence that typically took generations to build.

Between articles about cattle prices and church socials, she found editorials warning about foreign elements threatening the American character of the region. The xenophobic undertones grew more overt in pieces about Mexican land claims, describing them as dubious and obstacles to progress. Even in 1853, xenophobia sold newspapers.

Izzy’s shoulders tensed as she connected the dots. The timing was too perfect—Maxwell left his position with the Land Commission and immediately launched a newspaper that championed Preston interests while undermining Mexican claims. She could almost see the deal being struck: Preston’s money buying not just a printing press, but a mouthpiece to shape public opinion.

The question that gnawed at her wasn’t whether Preston had bankrolled Maxwell’s venture into journalism—that seemed clear enough. What troubled her was what Maxwell had done to earn such generous backing. What decisions had he made while serving on the Land Commission that were worth the price of a newspaper?

Chapter

Thirty-One

It was mid-afternoon by the time Izzy pulled into the Wahlbergs’ driveway, hunger nipping at her stomach. Her phone had buzzed on the drive back from Harris with a text from Jenny: Found something.

“You hungry?” Jenny asked, as Izzy closed the front door.

“You’re a mind reader.”

“No, I just haven’t had lunch. I got caught up. Ham and cheese okay?”

“Perfect.”

Jenny plated sandwiches with an oatmeal cookie, then sat at the dining room table, surrounded by papers and her laptop. Her eyes sparkled with the excitement of discovery.

“You’re not going to believe this.” Jenny pushed her hair behind her ears. “That library card we found in Gary’s camper? I’ve been tracking it down.”

Izzy dropped into a chair, her body heavy from the hours hunched over the microfiche reader. She held her sandwich inches from her mouth so she could speak first. “What did you find?”

“It’s not a Dewey system catalog number.” Jenny pointed to the card. “This is a Library of Congress classification, which suggests an academic library. But below the typed numbers, there’s a second number, handwritten—that’s an in-house system for special collections.”

“How did you figure that out?”

“Started calling university libraries.”

“How did you know where to start?”

Jenny put her sandwich down so she could animate with her hands. “I figured if Gary took this card from the library, then it had to be driving distance. So best guess, LA or Bay Area. But then, I remembered that the Public Land Commission was based in San Francisco, so I played a hunch that a college in the Bay Area would have a collection relevant to Gary’s search.”

Izzy swallowed. “How many did you have to call?”

“One.”

Izzy raised an eyebrow. “One?”

Jenny smiled. “The card’s from the Bancroft Library at Berkeley.”

Izzy sat up straighter. Her mind flashed to Gary’s supposed trip to see the 49ers. No ticket stub. No photos. Nothing to prove he’d gone to Santa Clara at all.

“What’s at the Bancroft Library?” Izzy asked.

“The catalog number—” Jenny’s fingers flew across her laptop keyboard. “It’s from their diseño collection. They have an entire section dedicated to Mexican land holdings in California—the ones that were supposed to transfer after the war.”

“Can you access it online?”

Jenny shook her head. “The collection’s too old and fragile. No digital copies, no check-outs. You have to view everything in person.”

“He went there.” Izzy held her sandwich in one hand and waggled her index finger on the other. “Where is the catalog card?”

Jenny grabbed a box from the sideboard. “Elliot boxed up everything Davina had been looking at in your office and brought it back here. All the things from Gary’s trailer and the stuff Davina had left on the table.”

“She left stuff on the table . . .”

“Yes. So?”

“Why would she do that? She was a stickler for securing records.”

“Elliot said that Martinez locked up the conference room for her because she was coming back the next day.” Jenny’s jaw dropped. “Only she . . .”

“Didn’t.” Izzy stared into the middle distance as she thought it through for a moment. “I wish I’d asked Elliot to take a photo of the room before he cleared it. I’d love to know what she was looking at that made her leave.”

“He did,” said Jenny. “He boxed the stuff from the table separately. This is it.” She removed the cardboard lid and pulled a piece of paper from inside. It was a printout of a photo. Wahlberg had taken a shot of the table as Davina had left it. A smile crept onto her lips. “We’ll make an investigator of that boy yet.”

Izzy looked over the photo. There was nothing she hadn’t seen before. The two notebooks lay closed, a small evidence bag of clothing. The old novel. Izzy searched the picture for something out of place, like the children’s books where she had to find the thimble and the small cat and the trumpet, all hidden in plain view. But there was nothing she hadn’t seen before.

Until there was. A bookmark sticking out of the pages of the old Hemingway book.

“Get the novel from Gary’s camper—the one Davina was looking at when she . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

Jenny retrieved the book from the evidence box.

“There’s a bookmark in this photo,” said Izzy. “I don’t recall a bookmark. Did Davina put it there?”

Jenny handed the bag to Izzy. She carefully opened it and removed the book, flicking to the page marked by a piece of paper. A receipt. Izzy started reading the page: He had pushed his straw hat hard down on his head before he hooked the fish and it was cutting his forehead.

Izzy skimmed across the text and found nothing that stuck out to her. Then she returned to the receipt and turned it over in her hand. “Gas station in Vacaville,” Izzy read. “A couple of weeks ago.”

“Davina’s?”

“Can’t say. It’s a cash sale. We’ll want to check the station’s video, but she had no reason to go there in the last few weeks. But Gary did.”

Jenny frowned. “But it wasn’t there before.”

“I think it was. I think the receipt was inside the book. I do that all the time—store my bookmark between two other pages. I missed it. That’s on me.” Izzy glanced at Jenny. “That’s why we work in teams, not as individuals. Different eyes see different things.”

Jenny’s eyes opened wide. “So Gary did go to Berkeley.”

“He drove up past Tahoe to Sacramento, then down I-80 to Berkeley.” She traced the route in her mind. “You wouldn’t go that way to Santa Clara. It’s quicker to go south around the mountains, then back up.”

“So he never went to the 49ers game?” Jenny asked.

“My gut says no.” Izzy stared at the receipt. “He went to Berkeley. To look at something in a library. Something that got him killed.”

“Why did say he went to a football game? I mean, visiting Berkeley is hardly outrageous.”

“Because he knew when Chávez men start digging into Preston business, they have a tendency to disappear. I bet he didn’t want his parents to worry.”

Jenny’s brow creased. “Davina knew, didn’t she? What he found.”

“What are the odds the local historian has never been to the Bancroft Library?”

“Close to zero.”

Izzy nodded. “Exactly. She knew where Gary went, and I think she had some idea of what he found. And she told someone about it. The wrong someone.”

They finished lunch, and then Jenny printed out a photo of the catalog card and of Gary’s map. Izzy took the printout and her cookie back to the office.

The squad room was quiet when she walked in. Izzy assumed that Hawkins was continuing to put together the duty roster and handle the morning briefings—all perfect opportunities for him to make her look bad to the deputies still on the fence. Izzy knew she should care about that, especially if she wanted to win over her crew and the local population, but there was more important work to do.

Like solving this case. And that meant going to San Francisco. She flopped into her office chair and jumped online to take a quick look at flights. There were several every week from Harris to Oakland, the closest airport to Berkeley, but today’s had already departed and the next wasn’t until the day after tomorrow. So that meant driving through the mountain pass around Tahoe, and in this weather, that was eight hours—minimum. That was not something to do at night, and leaving early the next morning wouldn’t get her to the university until closing time.

There was one other option. She reached for the phone, but then hesitated. It was too much, too big an ask. But then, she was low on options and days from being fired. She snatched up the phone and called.

“Darkness Medical Clinic.”

“Hey, Serena, it’s Izzy Llewelyn.”

“Hi, Sheriff. He’s free. I’ll put you through.”

There was a pause before Cole came on the line. “You okay?”

“And a howdy doody to you, too.”

“Sorry, but a call from you usually means trouble.”

Izzy smiled. “There was a time in my life when I would have called that a compliment, Dr. Barrow.”

“You sound like you’re in a better place, Izzy.”

Izzy spun her chair around to look out the window at the high desert valley. “The only way is up. But I’ve got a big favor to ask.”

“Name it.”

“I need to get to the Bay Area tomorrow, early.”

His tone dropped an octave. “Please tell me you’re not driving.”

“That’s the last resort. I was wondering if you might be open to flying me.”

“In my chopper?”

“Unless you have an executive jet hidden somewhere.”

“That wouldn’t help. I don’t have a fixed wing license. But the problem is, the Robinson can’t fly over the mountains. The operating ceiling is too low. So we’d have to go around the range, and that means we’d have to stop for fuel. It will save some time, but not a lot.”

“A few hours might make all the difference,” said Izzy.

“Yeah, hold the line a second, can you?”

“Um, okay⁠—”

The line played a message about getting a flu shot and kept playing it for several minutes. Izzy was about to hang up when Cole came back.

“Okay, I got you a ride.”

Izzy spun back around her to desk. “A ride?”

“In an airplane. It can get you over the mountains. You’ll be there in ninety minutes. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

And with a click, he was gone.

Chapter

Thirty-Two

The morning was clear and cold as Cole’s truck rumbled down the empty streets of Darkness. Izzy clutched her coffee, letting the warmth seep into her hands. The heat hadn’t kicked in yet, and her breath fogged the passenger window.

“So who’s this guy?” she asked.

“His name’s Spud.”

“Spud?”

“That was his call sign. He flew in the army when I served.”

“And now he sits around waiting for you to call so he can fly people places?”

Cole smiled. “We went through a bit together, and he lives to fly. Though he’d tell you different.”

They turned onto the access road leading to the airfield. A collection of hangars and outbuildings huddled against the morning chill, their metal sides dull in the shadow of distant hills where the sun was yet to crest.

“I warn you, he’s different,” Cole said. “An acquired taste. Lives out past Mojave on his own spread. Carved an airstrip right into the desert.”

“Sounds isolated.”

“That’s how he likes it. Flies supply runs in Alaska during summer months. Makes enough to keep to himself the rest of the year.”

The truck’s headlights swept across a wind sock, hanging limp in the still morning air. As Cole parked, Izzy caught movement in the southern sky—a small aircraft approaching, its navigation lights bright against the dark blue.

“That’ll be him now.” Cole killed the engine.

They climbed out into the cold morning. The distant drone of the aircraft grew louder as it lined up with the runway. Izzy watched it touch down lightly, a textbook landing that spoke of thousands of hours in the cockpit.

The Cessna 172 taxied toward them, its white paint pristine against the weathered tarmac. The pilot cut the engine, and silence settled over the airfield.

“Thanks for this,” Izzy said, turning to Cole. “And for yesterday, at the cemetery. What you said about doing what’s right for me.” She paused, searching for words. “And for giving me space to figure things out.”

Cole’s eyes softened. “If you need to talk it through, I’m here.”

The Cessna’s door opened with a metallic click. A lean figure in a worn flight jacket emerged, his movements sharp despite obvious fatigue around his eyes. He gave Cole a quick nod before scanning the surroundings, his gaze never quite settling.

“Spud,” Cole called out. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Anything for you, Doc.” Spud’s voice was quiet but carried clearly in the morning stillness. He turned to Izzy, studying her with the same restless attention he’d given the airfield. “Sheriff Llewellyn, is it? Cole says you need a lift to Berkeley.”

Izzy smiled. “I’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah, I reckon you would.”

Spud moved with the laconic ease of someone who’d performed the same tasks thousands of times. He dragged the fuel hose across the tarmac, his flight jacket hanging loose on his lean frame. Despite the early hour, his sandy-brown hair looked windswept, as if he’d flown the hour from Mojave with the windows open.

“Let me pay for that.” Izzy handed over her credit card, noting how he took it without making eye contact.

“As you wish.”

While the fuel pumped, Spud performed his pre-flight checks, each inspection accompanied by a slight nod or murmured confirmation to himself. The routine seemed to settle him, his shoulders relaxing incrementally with each completed task.

Once they were fueled and ready, Spud and Izzy climbed up into the cockpit and Cole backed away from the aircraft.

Inside the cockpit, Spud handed her a set of David Clark headphones, their green ear cups worn from years of use. “Channel’s already set,” he said, adjusting his own headset. “Tower frequency for Harris.”

The seat creaked as Izzy settled in. The instrument panel stretched before them, a mix of analog gauges and a digital panel mounted in the center. The interior smelled of leather and aviation fuel, with undertones of something mechanical that reminded her of her father’s garage.

Through her headset, Izzy heard Spud’s voice crackle over the radio. “Darkness traffic, Cessna One-Seven-Two Sierra Papa Delta, taxiing for departure runway three-five.”

His words echoed into empty air. The silence that followed made Izzy glance around the empty airfield. “Who exactly are you talking to?”

“Anyone who’s listening.” Spud’s hands moved across the controls. “Could be a plane heading to Harris that we can’t see yet. Could be someone coming in to land here.” He guided the Cessna onto the taxiway. “Harris tower will hear us too.”

The aircraft rolled forward, its nose pointing into the strengthening morning light. Spud continued his radio calls, each movement accompanied by a clear announcement of his intentions.

“Darkness traffic, Cessna Sierra Papa Delta, departing runway three-five.”

As they lined up on the runway, Izzy noticed how Spud’s eyes swept the sky, checking every angle before advancing the throttle. The engine’s pitch increased, and the small plane began to accelerate.

“It’s about staying alive,” Spud said, as if reading her thoughts. “You don’t want to meet another aircraft by surprise at a thousand feet. Harris Tower, Cessna One-Seven-Two Sierra Papa Delta, ready for departure runway three-five, northbound climb.”

The aircraft turned hard as if Spud had missed the runway, and Izzy glanced out the window where Cole stood, his hand raised in farewell. The engine roared to life, and soon they were airborne, banking west toward the mountains.

The Sierra Nevadas rose before them, their peaks glowing in the first light. Below, the landscape transformed from the dusty browns of the valley floor to the white and greens of snow-covered pine forests. Shadows stretched across canyons and ridges, the morning sun creating a patchwork of light and dark across the rugged terrain.

They climbed higher, the air growing thinner as they crossed the mountain range. Spud handled the controls with an easy confidence, making minor adjustments with a single finger on the stick. The plane responded to his touch like an extension of himself.

Valleys and peaks rolled beneath them, giving way gradually to the open space of the Central Valley and then the sprawl of the Bay Area. Spud began their descent into Buchanan Field, the approach smooth and controlled. The wheels touched down with barely a bump.

As they taxied to a stop, Izzy pulled up a rideshare app on her phone. “Thanks for the flight,” she said, removing her headset.

Spud nodded, his eyes already scanning the next set of weather reports. “Nothing better to do.”

Izzy climbed out, her rideshare already en route to take her to Berkeley. Spud gave her his cell phone number and told her to text when she was on her way back.

“It might be a few hours,” she said.

“Whatever. I’ll be here.”

The morning had warmed considerably on this side of the mountains, and she shed her jacket as she walked away from the Cessna.

The rideshare crawled through Berkeley’s morning traffic, each intersection a fresh test of Izzy’s patience. She’d forgotten this dance of brake lights and horns, the constant stop-start rhythm that had once been as natural as breathing in New York. Now, it felt foreign, almost offensive after only weeks on Darkness’s empty roads, where seeing another vehicle constituted a traffic event.

Her driver kept trying to make conversation about the weather, but Izzy’s responses grew shorter as they inched closer to campus. Her mind was already in the library, parsing through the possibilities of what Gary might have found. What could have been worth killing for?

The University of California campus sprawled at the base of the hills, its buildings a mix of classical architecture and modern additions. Students streamed along the paths, their backpacks laden with laptops and textbooks, wrapped up against the threat of Bay Area rain more than the cold.

Izzy followed a campus map from Telegraph Avenue to the Bancroft Library, through Sather Gate and along South Hall Road. The library reminded her of the Federal Reserve Building in Manhattan, and she assumed the people here treasured its contents as much as the Wall Street crowd valued theirs.

Inside the building, Izzy approached a security guard who directed her to the reference desk where a librarian sat typing, her silver-rimmed glasses reflecting the computer screen. Despite her uniform telegraphing who she was, Izzy pulled out her badge and the evidence photo of the catalog card.

“I need to see whatever corresponds to this call number.”

The librarian’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “That card shouldn’t have left the library.”

“The man who took it was murdered.” Izzy kept her voice level. “If you’d like to file a complaint, I can provide his family’s contact information.”

The librarian’s mouth pinched, then relaxed. “That won’t be necessary.” She studied the card more closely. “The typed number is ours.” She typed into her computer. “It’s from the diseño collection. But this other notation?” She tapped the handwritten numbers. “That’s from another library on campus. I can track it down while you examine the other item.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

The librarian left and returned after a few minutes with a large file folder. “I’ll take you to the Heller Reading Room. You’ll need to sign in.”

The Heller Reading Room was a study in scholarly quiet. Tall windows let in natural light that fell across long wooden tables where researchers bent over documents, their total focus on the aged papers before them. The room felt oddly modern, given the aged nature of the items being studied. The air held that particular stillness found only in spaces dedicated to serious academic pursuit, broken only by the soft rustle of turning pages and the muted tap of laptop keys.

Izzy noted how none of the researchers glanced up at the movement around them. The librarian placed the folder on an empty table and carefully opened it to reveal a hand-drawn map, its edges softened by age.

“This is the diseño that matches your catalog number, along with its accompanying expediente—the written documentation of the land claim.”

Izzy studied the map through its protective sleeve, noting how the careful lines traced familiar contours despite their age. The paper had yellowed at the edges, but the ink remained sharp, each detail rendered with surprising precision for a hand-drawn document.

“Do I need gloves?” she asked, glancing up at the librarian.

“Not for documents. We prefer natural oils to the risk of snagging with gloves. Just leave the maps in their sleeves and handle everything gently.”

Once alone, Izzy pulled out her phone and photographed the map, making sure to capture every detail. Then she settled into one of the ergonomic chairs, leaning close to examine the diseño.

The similarities to Gary’s map struck her. The same sweeping lines depicted the valley, the same careful notation of water sources and landmarks. But this version held more detail, including one crucial addition that made her pulse quicken: there, marked in floral script, was Dead Man’s Hollow. Its exact location was difficult to pinpoint given the size of the writing relative to the scale of the map, but it was somewhere west of the marked river—in the general area of what became the Preston ranch.

She noted the locations of Harris Town and Darkness Camp, measuring their positions relative to the hollow. Another marking caught her attention: El Riachuelo Mariano. The name meant nothing to her, but its position seemed significant in relation to the other landmarks.

Setting the map aside, Izzy turned to the accompanying document. The Spanish text flowed across the page in elaborate cursive, the letters forming intricate patterns that might have been beautiful if they weren’t so frustratingly incomprehensible. Even if it had been in English, she suspected the flowery script would have proved just as challenging.

The quiet of the reading room pressed in around her. Scholars bent over their own documents, absorbed in their research. Izzy stood, her chair rolling backward.

“Does anyone here read Spanish?” Her voice carried in the hushed space.

“Shhhhh!” Several heads turned to glare at her.

Izzy pulled her badge from her belt, holding it up. “I know this is a quiet space, but I’m investigating a murder. Anyone here able to help translate this?”

A couple of heads glanced her way, but in the way people looked at a drunk on the train in New York City.

Izzy put her hands out. “Come on, folks, help a girl out.”

A young woman with short dark hair waved from two tables over. She picked up her phone but left her books and papers, shuffling over to Izzy’s table.

“I speak Spanish,” she whispered, sliding into the chair beside Izzy. “I’m Salma. Are you really investigating a murder?”

Izzy nodded. “Are you a student here?”

“Graduate student in history.”

“Perfect. I’m Sheriff Llewellyn. Call me Izzy.” Izzy angled the document so Salma could see it better. “My high school Spanish is struggling with this old stuff. Can you translate this for me?”

Salma’s eyes moved across the flowing script, her lips moving slightly as she read. “It’s an expediente—it’s not exactly the same, but think of it like a deed for land granted by the Mexican government before California became part of the United States.” She pointed to different sections of the text. “There are location markers throughout, describing the boundaries of the grant. Most of these places . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t recognize them. Except this one—El Riachuelo Mariano.”

“What does that mean?”

“El Riachuelo is like a running creek or stream. Similar to an arroyo, but with more consistent water flow.” Maria’s finger traced the words. “And Mariano is a name. It might refer to President Mariano Arista. He was Mexico’s president from 1849 to 1853.”

Izzy pulled the diseño closer, scanning for the creek. There—a thin blue line snaked down from the mountains into the valley. She’d seen this waterway before.

Izzy unfolded the photo of Gary’s map and placed it beside the library’s diseño. The similarities were unmistakable—the same sweeping valley lines, the identical mountain contours, and while both showed a blue line for a small river, only the library copy was marked as El Riachuelo Mariano.

“What do you make of this?” Izzy said, sliding Gary’s map toward Salma.

Salma’s eyes widened as she compared the two documents. “These were drawn by the same cartographer—look at the way the mountains are drawn. It’s identical. The slope of the peaks, the way the river curves . . .” She traced the lines with her finger, careful not to touch the protected document. “This was definitely made by the same person.”

“Why would someone make two copies?”

“It was common practice. No photocopiers back then, remember? People might create multiple versions—keep one safe at home, take another into the field for reference. Sometimes they’d make copies to submit to different authorities.”

Izzy traced her finger along El Riachuelo Mariano on the library’s map, following its path from the mountains to the valley floor. The name tugged at her memory. “I’ve seen this waterway marked before, but never with this name. That’s new.”

“Or old.” Salma pushed back from the table. “Hold on a second.” She returned to her workspace and came back clutching an iPad. Her fingers danced across the screen. “Here—look at this federal survey map from the 1870s.”

The digital image showed the same valley, the same basic geography. The contours matched both the diseño and Gary’s map, but something was different. Dead Man’s Hollow was nowhere to be found on this newer version.

“Here.” Salma pointed to a familiar waterway. “El Riachuelo Mariano got a new name.” Her finger traced the blue line. “They called it Grainger Creek.”

Izzy took a photo of the map on Salma’s screen, then gathered the diseño and its accompanying documents, carefully placing them in their protective box. She thanked Salma with a nod as the graduate student returned to her own research. The quiet of the reading room settled back around them.

At the reference desk, the librarian looked up from her computer. “I tracked down that other item.” She handed Izzy a slip of paper. “It’s in the Doe Library’s government documents section. You’ll want the east annex entrance—it’s actually right next door.”

“Thank you for your help.”

The east entrance led her into a different kind of quiet than the Bancroft’s scholarly hush. Here, the silence felt lived-in, comfortable. Students sprawled in armchairs, some reading, others dozing. The sound of footsteps echoed off the marble floors, but nobody shushed or glared.

Despite the pressure of term papers and finals, the library held a peaceful energy. Izzy remembered her own college days, the frantic rush of exam weeks. This felt different—a shared space where people chose to be rather than had to be.

The stillness reminded her of Darkness, but not in the way she expected. The desert’s silence was absolute, pressing in from all sides until you could hear your own heartbeat. This quiet wrapped around her warmly, punctuated by the soft sounds of others pursuing their own paths to knowledge.

Izzy followed another security guard’s directions through the stacks, past rows of government documents bound in identical dark covers. The smell of old paper and binding glue brought back memories of late nights in the Georgetown library.

The government documents section occupied its own corner of the building, the shelves arranged in neat rows. A librarian looked up from the desk as Izzy approached, her uniform bringing a frown to a young face that didn’t wear it well.

Izzy made to introduce herself, but before she could speak, he nodded in recognition.

“Sheriff Llewellyn? Mirren from Bancroft called ahead. I have what you’re looking for right here.” He lifted a leather-bound ledger from his desk, its spine cracked with age.

Izzy smiled, pleasantly surprised by the coordination between libraries. These people knew how to run an operation—she wondered if she could hire them. Izzy glanced at the young man’s name badge that told her his name was Travis, and he was a student librarian.

“Thank you, Travis.”

“I will need to jot down your details for the records. These are no general collection items.”

Izzy nodded. She had been in jails that weren’t this particular.

After collecting her name and office details, Travis led her to a small research room, positioning the ledger on a foam wedge. “Please keep it supported like this. Laying it flat can damage the binding.”

Izzy settled into the chair as he left. The ledger’s cover was worn smooth by time, its pages yellowed but intact. Opening to the first page, she found the date: March 1852. Below it, in careful script: “Commission Officer: Brett Maxwell.”

She began paging through the entries, noting how many had been struck through with neat lines. Each crossed-out claim included margin notes explaining the rejection. Some cited missing documentation, others noted conflicting claims or insufficient proof of residence.

Her finger traced down the columns until a familiar name caught her eye: José Chávez. The entry detailed a land claim around El Riachuelo Mariano—the same creek she’d seen on the diseño, the same land the Prestons now owned. But this entry was dated six months earlier than the ledger they had in Darkness.

Like many others, this entry had been crossed out. In the margin, a note read “insufficient documentation—no deed” in Maxwell’s antique script. The same Maxwell who’d signed off on Preston’s claim, who’d gone on to run the newspaper.

But Izzy had just seen the documentation at Bancroft. The diseño and expediente were exactly what was required to support the claim.

She returned to the desk where the student librarian sat typing. “Can you tell me where this ledger came from?”

He tapped at his keyboard. “It was part of a private collection. Someone’s estate sale.” He scrolled further. “Looks like it was headed for the dump until one of our acquisitions people spotted it.”

Izzy returned the ledger and thanked Travis for his help, then followed the flow out of the main exit.

She stepped out into the crisp air of Memorial Glade. Students lounged on the grass between exams, their backpacks scattered around them like dropped stones. The massive bulk of the Doe Library rose before her, its classical columns stretching toward the sky.

The pieces clicked together as she walked through the campus. Gary had traced his family’s history right to this spot, following the thread of a story passed down through generations. He’d found proof—real, tangible evidence—that the Prestons’ claim to the land was made six months after his ancestor’s rightful ownership.

The Campanile’s bells chimed the hour as she crossed the plaza, but Izzy barely registered the sound. Her mind raced through the implications. The diseño and expediente she’d just examined matched Gary’s copy exactly, except for the place names. But the ledger entry she’d found predated the one in Darkness by months. And despite the clear documentation she’d just seen, Maxwell had marked José’s claim as lacking proper papers.

José had vanished before he could contest the rejection. Just like Miguel decades later. Just like Gary now. Except Gary was different. He had followed the path of his predecessor and seen the proof. Had he shown it to someone? Was that what got him killed?

She pulled out her phone and dialed Wahlberg’s number.

“Boss?”

“I need you to dig deeper into Gary’s phone.” Izzy navigated around a group of students deep in conversation. “The photos we recovered—I don’t think that’s all of them.”

“We got everything that was on the device.”

“What about cloud storage? Deleted files?” She paused at the crosswalk. “Get a subpoena if you need to. Someone might have cleaned his phone, but the cloud keeps deleted files for weeks.”

“On it.” Wahlberg’s voice carried the eager energy she’d come to rely on. “I’ll write up the paperwork and get it to Judge Daniels right now.”

Izzy ended the call and found herself on Piedmont Avenue. The law school’s imposing architecture loomed on her right, while Memorial Stadium stretched along her left. She pulled up her rideshare app, ready to head back to Spud and his plane. Then she texted the pilot.

Her driver arrived in minutes, a chatty grad student who filled the silence with stories about football games at the stadium. Izzy barely heard him, her mind still piecing together the puzzle of land claims and disappearing men.

The small airfield came into view, Spud’s figure visible beside his plane. He lounged in a folding chair, the wrapper of an It’s-It ice cream sandwich crumpled in his hand.

“Find what you were looking for, Sheriff?”

Izzy offered the pilot a tight smile. “More than I expected.”

Chapter

Thirty-Three

Cole sat at his desk, reviewing patient files in the light of a single desk lamp. His office had grown quiet, the usual bustle of the clinic replaced by the soft hum of the heating system. Serena had gone home an hour ago, leaving him to catch up on paperwork.

His focus was interrupted by the sound of the office phone ringing. He punched a button on his desk phone to pick up the call.

“Darkness Medical,” he said.

“Doctor Barrow?” Erin’s voice trembled on the other end.

Cole stiffened in his chair. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s—” A sharp intake of breath. “I think he’s going to kill me. He threatened the kids.”

Cole gripped the phone. “Are you hurt?”

“He hit me before he left. I poured out his bourbon.” Her words tumbled out between shallow breaths. “All of it, down the sink. He’s gone to get more.”

“I’m calling the sheriff’s office right now⁠—”

“No!” The fear sliced through the line. “Please, he could be back any minute. Don’t call them.”

“They’ll protect you.”

“They won’t. They know him. They’re like him. They’re . . .”

“What do you mean, they’re like him?” The silence stretched between them until understanding hit Cole. “Because they’re men?”

“Yes.” The word came out barely audible.

“I’m a man,” Cole said softly. “You know I’m on your side, don’t you?”

“You’re different. You’re from away.” Her breath hitched. “The others, they’ve known him for years. They drink with him.”

Cole leaned back, the weight of her words settling over him. The entire sheriff’s department was male—except for Izzy. How many women had suffered in silence, their pain hidden behind closed doors because they had nowhere to turn?

“Listen to me carefully.” Cole kept his tone steady, despite the urgency building in his chest. “You need to get out. Take your kids and go to the sheriff’s office right now.”

“I don’t⁠—”

“The new sheriff is a woman,” Cole cut in. “She’s not like the others. She won’t let this slide, I promise you.” When silence met his words, he raised his voice. “Do it now. For your kids. Don’t pack anything. Just get in the car and drive.”

“He has a gun,” she whispered.

“That’s exactly why you need to leave. Right now, while he’s gone. Get your children and go straight to the sheriff’s office. I’ll meet you there.”

Cole pushed through the clinic’s door into the cold night air, his breath visible in clouds as he sprinted to his truck. The engine roared to life, and he pulled onto the empty street, tires squealing against the asphalt.

His headlights cut through the darkness as he sped toward the sheriff’s office, his mind racing with possibilities. What if she’d changed her mind? What if her husband had returned early?

He eased into the dark parking lot. No sign of her SUV among the patrol vehicles. Cole’s heart sank as he killed the engine. He’d hoped to find her here already, safe inside with her children.

His fingers trembled as he dialed her number. The phone rang once, twice, three times before clicking to voicemail. Cole slammed his hand against the steering wheel.

Should he drive to their house? The thought of confronting her armed husband made his stomach clench, but the alternative—leaving her there—was worse. He stared at his phone, knowing he needed help. Not just any help. He needed someone who understood domestic violence, who knew how to handle volatile situations.

He needed Izzy.

Cole pulled up their text conversation. Her last message had come through just thirty minutes ago: “Landed safe. Got something. Headed to office. Talk tomorrow?”

Cole jumped out of his truck and strode toward the front entrance of the sheriff’s office as his eyes scanned the empty parking lot one more time, willing Erin’s SUV to appear. But the spaces remained dark and vacant, each passing second heightening his fear for what might be happening in that house.

Cole burst through the front doors of the sheriff’s office. The lobby stretched empty before him, lit only by a handful of night lights that cast shadows across the walls.

A deputy that Cole didn’t know well sat at the dispatch desk where Adrianne usually perched during the day. The man’s crisp uniform and perfectly positioned nameplate marked him as one of Hawkins’s crew—the old guard who’d resisted Izzy’s changes from day one.

“Can I help you?” The deputy’s tone suggested he’d rather do anything else.

“I need to see Sheriff Llewellyn.” Cole’s hands pressed against the counter, leaving sweaty prints on the surface.

The deputy glanced at his computer screen. “Do you have an appointment?”

Cole stared at him, disbelief turning to anger. “An appointment? This is an emergency.”

“Sheriff’s busy.” The deputy didn’t look up. “You can leave a message.”

Cole leaned across the desk so he could see the open lobby.

The deputy recoiled. “Doc, you need to move⁠—”

Cole ignored him, drawing in a deep breath before bellowing, “Izzy!”

His words bounced off the walls, filling the space with urgency. The deputy jumped up from his chair, hand moving to his belt.

Movement on the mezzanine caught Cole’s eye. Izzy appeared at the railing outside her office, her expression a mix of concern and irritation.

“Cole? Get up here.”

Cole offered a raised eyebrow at the deputy who hit the button to let him through, and he took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding. As he reached the top, Izzy planted herself in front of him, arms crossed.

“What do you think you’re doing? Are you Tennessee Williams now?”

“He’s going to kill her.” The words tumbled out, raw and desperate.

Izzy’s expression shifted. She grabbed his arm and pulled him into her office, closing the door behind them. “Explain.”

“There’s a woman—” Cole ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been treating her injuries. Bruises, sprains. Concussions. Tonight, she called. Her husband’s threatening to kill her, and the kids⁠—”

“Is this the one we were talking about the other night?” Izzy asked.

“Yes. I was going to tell you, but Davina got, you know, killed, and I forgot to follow it up with you.”

She moved around her desk and snatched up her desk phone, punching the extension with sharp movements. “Johnson, get a car to—” She looked at Cole. “Address?”

“254 Oak Street.”

“254 Oak, Johnson. Domestic situation. Possible weapons on site.” She listened for a moment. “No, I don’t care who’s scheduled where. Get someone there. Now.”

Cole watched Izzy hang up the phone, his heart still racing from the urgency of the situation. She rounded her desk, her expression a mix of concern and frustration.

“You should have told me about her before, Cole.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, the tension of divided loyalties tightening his shoulders. “I walk a thin line with patient trust, Izzy. You know that.”

“I appreciate that,” she said, her voice softening. “Like I said the other night, we both have things we can’t discuss, but we also have to trust each other with the truth.”

“I agree.” He struggled for the words as emotions he’d been holding back surged forward. “So here’s the honest truth: you’ve messed up my life. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat.” He paced the small space between her desk and the window. “I had this quiet little life until you came here and busted everything open.”

Her face fell, shadows crossing her features. “Do you want me to leave? Because everyone else does.”

Cole stopped pacing, turning to face her. “I want you to do what’s right for you.”

“I know that.” Izzy’s eyes met his, steady and searching. “And I’ve made my decision. But I need to know what you want, Cole.”

The question hung between them, heavy with possibility.

“I want you to stay,” he said, his voice rough. “And that’s what scares me. I’m in love with you.” A small laugh escaped him. “Hell, even Nanook likes you. But you only have one foot in this camp. It feels like you’re halfway out the door.”

“No.” Izzy stepped closer, her voice firm. “I’m in. You helped me see that, at the cemetery.” Her hand found his arm. “This isn’t about my dad or his legacy. It’s about me and my life. I’m going to fight.”

Something broke loose inside Cole. He grabbed her, pulling her into a kiss that carried all the worry and want he’d been holding back. When they separated, her eyes were bright with determination.

“Supervisor Preston is going to fire me at their next meeting anyway,” she said, “so the only hope I have is to solve this case.”

Cole felt Izzy tense beneath his hands as her phone rang. She reached for it without stepping away from him, hitting the speaker button.

“Sheriff?” Martinez’s voice crackled through the line.

“Report.”

“I’m at the Preston residence. No one’s here.”

Cole’s stomach dropped as Izzy’s brow furrowed. “What are you doing at the ranch?”

“Not at the ranch, Sheriff,” said Martinez. “254 Oak Street, like dispatch said. Domestic call.”

“Who lives there?” Izzy’s voice carried an edge that made Cole’s skin prickle.

“The Prestons. Ranger Preston’s place.”

Cole’s mind reeled as understanding clicked into place. Erin’s words echoed in his head: They know him. They’re like him. The bruises on her arms, identical to the marks they’d found on Gary. The rope burns.

Izzy’s eyes met his, and he saw his own horror reflected there. He’d been treating Ranger Preston’s wife, and she’d finally found the courage to pour out his bourbon and make her escape.

But she hadn’t made it to the sheriff’s office.

Chapter

Thirty-Four

Izzy drove her patrol SUV through the darkness, emergency lights off to avoid announcing their approach. The familiar streets of Darkness felt different tonight, shadows deeper and more menacing.

“You treated Ranger Preston’s wife?” she asked. “And you didn’t know who she was?”

Cole shifted in the passenger seat. “She gave her name as Erin Pascoe. I assumed it was her real name.”

“Her maiden name, maybe.” Izzy’s mind raced, connecting pieces. “That’s why Wilson didn’t recognize her around town. She clearly avoids being seen.”

“Makes sense. Most abuse victims try to stay invisible.” Cole shook his head. “Especially when the abuser is prominent.”

Izzy turned onto Oak Street, her headlights sweeping across empty driveways. “Ranger has an alibi for Davina’s murder. His wife backed him up, said he was home all night.”

“He wasn’t.” Cole said. “I was there before I came to see you that night, treating her injuries while he was out drinking. Or whatever he was doing.”

“We really need to talk more.” The words slipped out before Izzy could stop them.

Cole’s soft chuckle broke through the tension. “Yeah, we do.”

The warmth in his voice cracked a grin onto Izzy’s face, but she pushed the feeling aside. Right now, she needed to focus on finding Erin and her children.

Martinez stood waiting in the driveway. Ranger’s truck was in front of the deputy’s SUV. Cole led them around the back to the kitchen door he used on his visits. It was unlocked. Izzy stepped into the darkened house, her flashlight beam cutting through shadows. The tang of bourbon hit her nose—fresh, not stale. Someone had spilled it recently.

Martinez drew his weapon and worked his way upstairs.

The kitchen showed signs of struggle. An overturned chair. Shards of glass glinted near the sink where a bottle had been smashed. Izzy’s beam caught liquid still pooling on the counter, the bourbon’s amber color unmistakable.

“He came back,” said Cole.

“Not your fault.” Izzy swept her light across the floor, tracking scuff marks on the linoleum. “You told her to run.”

“I should have come here.”

“She said he had a gun?”

Cole nodded.

“Then you’d both be missing.” Izzy moved through the dining room, noting more signs of violence. A lamp knocked sideways. Pictures askew on walls.

Martinez descended the stairs. “No one up there. No kids.”

“She have a car?” Izzy walked to the front window.

Cole followed. “A red SUV. Toyota, I think.”

“It’s not here. Maybe she got away.”

“I told her to go straight to your office. She’s certainly not there. He’s got them. I know it.”

Izzy studied Ranger’s truck through the front window. “But where would he take them?”

Cole met her eyes, understanding dawning. “The ranch. Isolated. Private. Family land.”

Izzy pulled out her phone and dialed. “Adrianne? I need all hands on deck. Every deputy, on duty or off, at the Preston ranch. Now.” She paused, jaw tightening. “Also, put out a BOLO on Erin Preston’s SUV. And Adrianne, make note of any deputy who doesn’t respond to the call.”

“You think some won’t come?” Martinez’s dark eyebrows folded in. “For something like this?”

“You tell me. You know these guys better than I do.” Izzy pocketed her phone.

“I hope they do.”

“Hope ain’t a strategy, Martinez. It’s time to find out who’s who.”

Izzy strode to her SUV, Martinez falling in step behind her. Cole pulled the front door closed and followed her. As she opened her door, she glanced back at the house. It looked so nice, so normal. She shuddered at the stuff that happened behind pulled curtains. Izzy slipped into the vehicle. The night wasn’t over yet. And neither was her fight with the Prestons.

Izzy pushed the SUV through a tunnel of headlight north on the highway. She ran the siren until they got through the town, but once on the open road, she killed the sound and kept the lights. Traffic was close to none, and it was fifty miles to the ranch, and her head already pounded from the tension. The red and blue strobes painted the blacktop in alternating colors, but without the siren, the night felt eerily quiet. She checked her rearview mirror—Martinez’s cruiser followed steadily, a safe distance behind, his lights matching her rhythm.

Cole sat rigid beside her, his usual calm demeanor replaced by taut anxiety. “Can we go faster?”

Izzy pressed harder on the accelerator. The speedometer crept past a hundred. “Twenty-five minutes if we’re lucky.”

Her phone rang through the vehicle’s speakers. Hawkins’s name flashed on the display.

“Sheriff Llewellyn,” Izzy answered, keeping her eyes on the empty stretch of highway ahead.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” spat Hawkins.

“I assume you got Adrianne’s call. Are you heading to the ranch?”

“You’ve lost it. Supervisor Preston fired you.”

“Not yet.” Izzy swept around a gentle curve, the mountains looming black against the star-filled sky.

“You have no authority to mobilize deputies. None.”

“I’m the sheriff until the board votes otherwise.” The words came out steady.

“I won’t be part of this circus.”

“That’s your call, and I’ll deal with that as and when.” Izzy’s grip tightened on the wheel. “But understand something—if I get wind that you’ve called the Prestons to warn them, I will charge you as an accessory to murder.”

She disconnected before he could respond, leaving the cabin in silence except for the engine’s steady growl.

“You think he’ll warn them?” Cole asked.

“Doesn’t matter.” Izzy checked her mirror again. Two more sets of flashing lights had joined Martinez’s. “We’re going in either way.”

Izzy kept her eyes on the road ahead, conscious that one mistake at this speed would be catastrophic. But so would any delay.

“So Ranger has no alibi for Davina,” she said, thinking out loud. “His wife covered for him, but you were there treating her injuries when he was supposedly home.”

Cole nodded. “What about Gary?”

“He was at The Horseshoe. Multiple witnesses confirmed. He couldn’t have killed Gary.” Izzy scanned the darkness ahead. “But Jefferson has no alibi for any of the murders.”

“Could be Jefferson killed Gary, but he certainly wasn’t the one abusing Erin.” Cole’s voice carried tension, but his hands were clenched in his lap.

“No.” Izzy shook her head. “I’ve questioned Jefferson twice now. Being a loner is a red flag, sure, but it doesn’t make him guilty of anything.”

The headlights caught the reflective signs marking another curve. Izzy took it smoothly, muscle memory from her previous drives to the ranch kicking in.

“There was something about him.” She thought back to Jefferson’s workshop, the way he’d stood among his tools and half-finished projects. “When I found him woodworking that night, there was this . . . gentleness about him. The way he ran his hands across the grain of that rocking chair he was making. Like he was listening to the wood.”

“People can deceive,” Cole reminded her.

“I know.” Izzy checked her mirror again. Three sets of lights followed them. Just a fraction of the team. “But Jefferson doesn’t feel right for this. His whole brooding thing—it’s not an act. He’s carrying something heavy, but it’s not murder.”

Her mind raced as she drove, piecing together the connections. The names from the various notes formed a pattern: Grainger, Hank, Robert, and now Ranger Preston. Four generations of Preston men, each with the implication of blood on their hands.

“What if Robert killed Gary?” The thought burst from her lips. “He has no alibi. Elaine claimed they were home together, but she was at a Supervisors’ meeting. Wahlberg checked the minutes. The session ran until nearly midnight.”

Cole turned to face her. “But why? The land claim issue is ancient history, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Izzy frowned, puzzled by the same contradiction. “Even if Gary had proof that Grainger Preston murdered José Chávez to steal the land grant, what good would it do? The statute of limitations expired over a century ago. The land rights are settled, legally speaking.”

Her fingers gripped the steering wheel hard as she processed it. “Robert and Elaine lied about their whereabouts the night Gary died. But the motive feels thin. Why kill over something that can’t be changed?”

The radio crackled with another deputy signing on to join the response team. Izzy noted the voice—Wilson. That made four deputies total. Not great, but better than none.

“Is the land claim as a motive proven or an assumption?” Cole asked.

“Motive is always an assumption until it’s not.” Izzy glanced at Cole, appreciating how his medical mind approached problems differently. “You think the land dispute is too obvious?”

“I’m saying we’re speculating.” Cole shifted in his seat, turning to face her more fully. “In medicine, we have to consider all possibilities, even unlikely ones. The obvious diagnosis isn’t always right.”

“Go on.” The SUV’s headlights caught a mile marker. Ten minutes out.

“A patient has chest pain, shortness of breath, and fatigue. Most doctors immediately think heart disease⁠—”

“Because if you miss it, someone might die,” Izzy finished.

“Exactly. But those symptoms could be gastroesophageal reflux disease, costochondritis, or a dozen other things.” Cole’s words took on a steady rhythm. “What if we’re doing the same thing here? Assuming the obvious when the symptoms might signal something else?”

Izzy considered this as she guided the vehicle through a cut in the pauper’s hills. “You think Gary knew something else about the Prestons? Something more current?”

“You said it yourself. The land claim is ancient history. Even with proof that Grainger Preston murdered José Chávez, what changes? But if Gary discovered something else . . . ” Cole let the thought hang.

“Something worth killing over.” Izzy’s mind raced with new possibilities. “We’ve been so focused on the past. We might be missing what’s right in front of us.”

The SUV’s headlights cut through the darkness, but her thoughts delved deeper into the past.

“José Chávez owned that land under Mexican law,” she said, organizing her thoughts aloud. “Then Grainger Preston shows up, and José disappears. The Chávez family always believed Grainger killed him.”

Cole nodded, following her logic. “But that was over a hundred fifty years ago.”

“Right. We can’t prosecute a murder that old.” Izzy flexed her fingers. “But then Miguel starts poking around in the reading room. He finds documents, starts putting pieces together.” She glanced at the flashing lights behind her. “Miguel discovered José had filed a proper land claim. I think he found the original diseño and expediente that proved the claim, but I don’t think he ever saw the ledger in Berkeley.”

“The what?”

“That’s what I found, a ledger that shows José made a claim that was entered into the books but later invalidated. Brett Maxwell—the Public Land Commission officer—struck it out and awarded the land to the Prestons instead.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No. Then Maxwell mysteriously got money to start the local newspaper.”

“The Sierra Tribune?”

“Uh-huh.” Izzy nodded. “Which spent years printing glowing stories about the Prestons. But even that’s just bad press for Robert and Elaine. No one’s going to jail for their great-great-whatever-grandfather’s corruption.”

She paused, remembering something from her law school property classes. “Unless . . . what if the claim wasn’t as settled as we thought? Most courts won’t touch century-old property disputes because the land’s changed hands multiple times. New owners bought in good faith.”

“But the Preston land—” Cole started.

“Has never changed hands.” Izzy’s pulse quickened. “It’s still owned by the same family that acquired it through fraud. Maybe that makes a difference legally. Or maybe it doesn’t, but Miguel and the Prestons thought it did.” The memory of her father’s case file surfaced. “Miguel and Hank Preston had that fight on Main Street. What if they didn’t end it there? What if Hank took Miguel somewhere to finish the argument?”

“And killed him?” Cole asked.

“It fits.” Izzy checked her mirror again. “Miguel threatens to expose the fraud, maybe file a court case. Hank can’t risk it. The Prestons’ whole empire is built on that land.”

The ranch turnoff appeared in her headlights. Izzy slowed, noting two additional sheriff’s office SUVs waiting beside the gate—units from Harris. She signaled for them to follow the convoy, taking the curve carefully despite her urgency.

As she headed up the dirt road to the ranch, she knew that everything was connected—the ledgers, the maps, the decades of secrets. But none of it explained Gary.

“But how would you prove Hank killed Miguel?” Cole’s question cut through the hum of the engine. “Your father couldn’t find any evidence.”

Izzy let out a long, slow breath. “I don’t know. But I think Gary did. The land records weren’t the focus of his investigation.” The pieces clicked into place in her mind. “He was looking into Miguel’s death. The ledgers just showed him motive—proof the Prestons would kill to protect their claim.”

“But Hank was already dead when Gary died.” Cole shifted in his seat. “Even if Gary found evidence, there was no one left to prosecute.”

“That’s it.” Izzy’s heart raced as understanding flooded through her. “It wasn’t about putting Hank in jail. It was about legacy.”

How many times had she wrestled with that weight herself? The shadow of her father’s badge, the expectations it carried.

“I’ve been thinking about legacy lately. How it shapes us. Makes us do things we wouldn’t otherwise do.” She checked her mirror again, counting the trailing lights. “It’s hard to move forward when you’re always looking back. You feel trapped, trying to live up to something that doesn’t even exist anymore.”

“You think Robert was trying to protect his father’s reputation?” Cole asked.

“Exactly.” Izzy nodded. “The Prestons built everything on that stolen land. Their whole identity rests on being the founding family, the ones who settled here first. What happens to that legacy if people learn it was built on murder?”

“Gary’s evidence must have been pretty compelling.”

“Not necessarily. Because I think Robert Preston is hanging on by a thread.” Izzy guided the SUV around a gentle curve, then headed straight for the ranch house two miles away. “Robert had an alibi for when Miguel disappeared. My dad’s notes confirmed he was at an agricultural show in Mendocino. The dates checked out.”

“So he didn’t kill Miguel?” Cole asked.

“Assuming Miguel is dead, no. But Hank was here, alone on the ranch. My father could never prove Miguel had died, but Hank had no alibi for the time he disappeared.” Izzy sped along the dirt driveway, scanning the area for signs of Erin’s SUV. “But twenty years later, Gary shows up with proof.”

She killed her flashing lights as she approached the house. The other vehicles followed suit.

“Not just about José and the land fraud, but maybe about Miguel too. And Robert—” She paused, remembering the grand house’s faded glory. “Robert couldn’t handle it.”

“Spur of the moment . . .” Cole said to the night.

Izzy saw the warm glow of lights spilling through windows as they approached the ranch house. “Try this—Gary calls Robert to the library to show him what he found. The ledger in the reading room, with the Preston claim, and the one from Berkeley, photos of it at least. Maybe the diseño from Bancroft too, and it all proves José’s earlier claim.”

“What about Gary’s copy of the map?” Cole asked. “The one in his boot?”

“Can’t explain that yet.” Izzy drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “But maybe Gary didn’t get that far into his accusation. Maybe Robert already knew what his father had done.” Izzy slapped the steering wheel. “Robert’s alibi put him in Mendocino when Miguel disappeared, but Miguel’s truck turned up in Truckee. That’s on the way to Mendocino from here.”

Cole’s eyes widened. “You think Hank killed Miguel, but Robert helped cover it up?”

“What if Hank handled the murder and body disposal, but Robert drove Miguel’s truck to Truckee before continuing to Mendocino?” The theory felt right. “Creates the impression Miguel left town voluntarily and gets Robert away from the scene. So when Gary shows up with evidence, Robert knows exactly what his father did. He freaks out, goes to his truck⁠—”

“For his work gloves and lasso rope,” Cole finished.

“Comes back to the reading room where Gary tries to run.” Izzy’s pulse quickened as she pictured the scene. “But Robert’s spent his whole life with cattle. He lassos Gary like a steer, works the rope up from his arms to his neck⁠—”

“And pulls until Gary’s dead.”

“Then hangs him to make it look like suicide.” Izzy shook her head. “Like you say, spur of the moment, not well planned. That’s why the chair height was wrong. That’s why he used a lasso instead of trying to tie a proper noose.”

“What about Davina?” Cole’s question pulled Izzy’s focus back to the present. “You said Robert had an alibi for that night.”

“He did.” Izzy slowed the SUV as they approached the ranch house. “Because I don’t think he killed her. That was Ranger. And the fire at the library—that was him too.”

“Why?”

“Legacy.” The word tasted bitter in her mouth. “It’s always about legacy with this family. Ranger’s not the heir—that’s Jefferson. Ranger’s just the spare, trying to prove himself to Daddy every day.”

“By beating his wife?” Cole’s voice carried equal parts disgust and disbelief.

“In that family?” Izzy’s lip curled. “That might be considered a manly thing to do. Think about it—Grainger killed José to steal the land. Hank killed Miguel to keep it. Robert killed Gary to protect the family name. And now Ranger’s carrying on the tradition.”

She pulled the SUV to a stop, cutting the engine. The silence felt heavy, broken only by the soft crunch of gravel as the deputies’ vehicles pulled up alongside them.

“Ranger saw an opportunity,” Izzy continued. “Davina pieced things together but got it slightly wrong. She thought Jefferson was the killer. The heir. So, she called Ranger over to her house and paid the price. He couldn’t let her expose the truth. Not when he finally had a chance to prove himself worthy of the Preston name.”

“What is wrong with these people?” said Cole. “They have it all.”

“Had it all. You should see this place.” Izzy scanned the main house. “The water rights aren’t what they used to be. LADWP’s bought up most of it, and cattle ranching doesn’t turn the profit it once did.”

Through the windshield, Izzy could make out the peeling paint on the house’s facade, the sagging porch, the windows where curtains were coated in dust.

“They’ve let all their staff go,” she continued. “No ranch hands, no domestic help. It’s like watching an old duchess trying to maintain appearances while selling off her jewelry.” She shook her head. “I think the truth about Miguel was the final straw. Robert couldn’t bear to see his family’s reputation destroyed, not when everything else was crumbling. And he was just so damn used to being the lord over all he surveyed.”

Martinez’s vehicle stopped beside them, his voice crackling over the radio. “No sign of the red SUV, Sheriff.”

Izzy studied the dark house, noting the light burning in the dining room window. “The Preston legacy was built on stolen land and murder. Robert’s whole identity, everything he believes about his family—it would all fall apart. Then Ranger did the same to prove himself the worthy son. But he’s not worthy. He’s a monster.”

Izzy reached for her door handle, but Cole caught her arm.

“You really think protecting his father’s reputation was worth killing for?”

Izzy looked at him in the dim light. “When everything else is gone? Sometimes a lie is all you have left to hold onto.”

Chapter

Thirty-Five

Izzy stepped out of her SUV into the night air—they had gained a little elevation in the drive, and the air felt a good deal colder than in Darkness. The ranch house loomed before her, its weathered facade a stark silhouette against the star-filled sky. Only one light burned inside, casting a warm glow through the dining room window.

She scanned the property’s perimeter. The ranch sprawled dark and vast around them, with numerous outbuildings and barns that could hide a vehicle.

“Martinez, take the guys from Harris and cover the back entrance,” she said. “Wilson, take the side door by the kitchen. Hawthorne, I want you to hold back and keep the bird’s-eye view.”

The deputies moved silently to their positions, weapons ready but not drawn. Another marked vehicle arrived and Sergeant Mills stepped out, making his way to her.

“Mills,” Izzy said, turning to face the sergeant who ran their office in Harris. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

“It was an all-hands call, wasn’t it? And we are closer in Harris.” Mills adjusted his utility belt. “I see two of boys are here. Sorry I took a while. I was off duty. I’ve got another two on the way. Where do you want me?”

“I’d like you inside with me, if you’re okay with that.”

“Whatever you need.”

Wahlberg walked over from his SUV to join her. “Boss, we’ve got enough people to form a perimeter, but this property has a lot of ground to cover.”

“I know.”

“Where do you want me?”

“Sergeant Mills and I will take the front door. You back us up.” Izzy turned to Cole, who stood watching the scene unfold. “I need you to stay by the vehicle. If this goes sideways, we might need medical support.”

Cole nodded, his expression tense but understanding. “Be careful in there.”

Izzy touched her radio. “All units in position, then sound off.”

One by one, her deputies moved into place and confirmed their locations. The ranch house waited, silent and imposing, as if daring them to breach its walls.

Izzy moved up the front steps, her boots silent on the weathered wood. The porch boards barely creaked under her weight—she’d learned which spots to avoid during her previous visits. Mills followed close behind, his bulk somehow just as quiet.

Light spilled across the porch from the dining room window. Through the glass, Izzy caught glimpses of movement. She pressed the doorbell, its chime echoing through the house.

Footsteps approached. The door swung open to reveal Elaine Preston, her steel-gray hair perfectly coiffed despite the late hour. Wrinkles appeared around her lips at the sight of Izzy.

“What is the meaning of this?” Elaine’s gaze flicked to Mills. “Sergeant, I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Ma’am.” Mills kept his tone neutral.

“We need to speak with Robert,” Izzy said.

“You have no authority here anymore.” Elaine’s fingers tightened on the door frame. “The board⁠—”

“Hasn’t met yet.” Izzy stepped forward, forcing Elaine to back up or be walked into. “Where’s your husband?”

Robert stepped into the hall from the dining room. “Mills, get rid of this woman.”

“This woman is the sheriff, sir,” said Mills, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “Right up until she’s not. So you should listen to her.”

Robert disappeared back into the room, and Izzy strode after him. When she reached the door, he was back at the head of the long dining table, a half-eaten meal pushed aside. Crystal glasses caught the light from the chandelier overhead, throwing prisms across the faded wallpaper.

“You’re trespassing,” Elaine said, circling to stand beside her husband.

“No, we’re investigating multiple homicides.” Izzy planted her feet. “Where’s Ranger?”

“He’s at home,” said Elaine, too quickly.

“No, Elaine, he’s not. We’ve just come from there.”

“Our son’s whereabouts are none of your concern.” Robert dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin. “But since you’re determined to harass us, I’ll remind you that we’ll be taking legal action over this behavior.”

Mills shifted his weight. “Mr. Preston, the law applies equally to everyone.”

“Does it?” Elaine’s laugh held no humor. “Sergeant, I’m disappointed. I thought you understood how things work in this county.”

“I understand my duty, ma’am. The sheriff will sort this out properly.”

“The sheriff?” Robert pushed back his chair and stood. “This woman won’t be sheriff by tomorrow afternoon. And if you’re not careful, Mills, you won’t have a job either.”

“If you’ve done nothing wrong,” Mills said, “the DA won’t prosecute, or a court will acquit you.”

“We won’t be going to any court.” Robert stepped around the table, drawing himself up to his full height. He towered over Izzy, his chest puffing out. “You need to leave. Now.”

His right hand twitched, drawing back slightly. Izzy recognized the sign of a punch before it came. As Robert’s arm tensed, Mills’ weapon cleared its holster.

“Don’t,” Mills warned.

Izzy didn’t wait. She grabbed Robert’s extended arm and used his momentum against him, spinning him face-first into the wall. The impact knocked a framed photograph to the floor, glass shattering. Robert grunted a sound like a deflating tire as the wind was knocked from him.

“Robert Preston,” Izzy said, snapping handcuffs around his wrists, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Gary Chávez.”

“You can’t do this!” Elaine’s voice rose to a shriek. “You’re fired! Do you hear me? Fired!”

Izzy tightened the cuffs. “Yeah, I know. Tomorrow afternoon.”

She kept her hand firmly on Robert’s shoulder, pinning him against the wall while she keyed her radio. “Wahlberg, I need you in the dining room.”

Elaine paced behind them like a caged tiger. “This is outrageous. You have no evidence.”

“Actually, we do.” Izzy maintained pressure as Robert tried to shift. “That’s why we’re here.”

Wahlberg appeared in the doorway, his hand resting on his holstered weapon. “Boss?”

“I need you to find Robert’s work gloves.” Izzy gestured toward the mudroom with her chin. “Check his truck too. We’ll want them tested for his DNA on the inside and Gary’s on the outside.”

“You have no right,” Robert spat.

Mills moved to block Elaine as she started toward Wahlberg. “Ma’am, please stay where you are.”

“Should I look for Ranger’s gloves too?” Wahlberg asked, already heading for the mudroom.

“No.” Izzy’s jaw tightened. “Ranger does his best work barehanded.”

The words hung in the air, and Izzy felt Robert tense under her grip. She’d struck a nerve. The father knew exactly what kind of man his son had become.

Chapter

Thirty-Six

Cole was standing outside beside Izzy’s SUV when Wahlberg dashed into the ranch house. Cole was done waiting, so he followed Wahlberg through the front door. In the dining room, Izzy had Robert Preston pinned against the wall, his hands cuffed behind his back. Elaine stood on the other side of the table, the veins in her neck pulsing. Cole noted Segreant Mills had his sidearm out.

“Where’s Ranger?” Cole stepped closer to Elaine. “You need to tell us.”

Robert’s jaw clenched. “Haven’t seen him.”

“Mrs. Preston.” Cole turned to face her directly. “Your son is going to kill his wife. He’s already beaten her badly.”

Elaine’s lips curled. “That woman was never good enough for him.”

“He’ll kill your grandchildren too.” Cole’s voice hardened. “Is that what you want?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Elaine’s hand fluttered to her chest. “Ranger would never⁠—”

“Like Grainger never killed José Chávez?” Izzy’s words cut through the room. “Or Hank never killed Miguel? Or your husband here never killed Gary?”

“You don’t understand what we’ve built.” Elaine’s perfect composure cracked. “What we are to this county.”

“I understand perfectly.” Izzy pulled Robert’s arm further up his back. “Killing Chávez men is a Preston family tradition. But it ends tonight.”

A tremor passed through Elaine’s face, the careful mask slipping to reveal something raw beneath. Her eyes darted to her husband, then away.

Cole watched the color drain from Elaine’s face as Izzy laid out the truth about the Preston legacy. His stomach churned at the thought of Erin’s bruised face, her terrified call just an hour ago.

“Ranger killed Davina because she called him with her suspicions.” Izzy said. “She looked at our evidence at your request, Elaine, and she saw the links. She suspected Robert had killed Gary because she discovered what her historical research already hinted at, that Hank had killed Miguel Chávez. So she called the son she thought followed after his mother—she believed Jefferson was the dangerous one, the firstborn son carrying that killer Preston blood. But she picked the wrong brother. He went to her house and he killed her.”

“That’s absurd.” Elaine’s voice wavered.

“No, what’s absurd is that Ranger has threatened his wife with a gun tonight.” Cole stepped forward, his hands clenched. “What’s absurd is that I’ve been treating Erin’s injuries for months while everyone looked the other way. She called me tonight, terrified because he turned his threats on the children.”

The veins in Elaine’s neck pulsed. Cole caught the flicker of concern in her eyes—the first real emotion she’d shown.

“Your son is out there right now, armed and drunk.” Cole said. “If you want your grandchildren’s deaths on your conscience, by all means, keep protecting him. But if you have any humanity left, tell us where he would take them.”

The dining room fell silent. Even the old house seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Elaine’s answer. Cole watched her fingers trace the edge of the polished table. Cole watched Elaine’s chin lift as she turned to face her husband.

“I’ll die with all your secrets, Robert.” Her words carried a sharp edge. “Every single one. If you tell them where Ranger might be.”

Robert’s face remained impassive against the wall, but Cole caught the slight twitch in his jaw. The man’s shoulders tensed under Izzy’s grip.

Elaine’s lips cut a tight line across her face as she turned back to Cole. “Have you checked Jefferson’s cabin?”

Cole glanced at Izzy, saw the muscles in her jaw flex. They both knew what Elaine was doing—trying to maintain control, even as her world crumbled around her.

“Sergeant Mills, please take Mr. Preston into custody and Mirandize him.” Izzy pushed Robert down into the nearest dining chair. Mills stepped forward, using his radio to call Martinez and Wilson inside.

Izzy and Cole passed the deputies arriving from Harris as they ran outside. She tore out of the driveway and headed back toward the highway until she reached the fork that led up the valley. Cole gripped the dash as Izzy took the turn at speed, her SUV’s tires drifting across the dirt road leading to Jefferson’s cabin. The headlights caught the dust they kicked up, creating an eerie tunnel effect in the darkness. His stomach churned at the thought of Erin and her children.

“You sure about this?” Cole glanced at Izzy’s profile, tight with concentration.

“No. But Jefferson’s the only lead we have right now.”

The cabin appeared around the next bend, a warm glow spilling from its windows. As they pulled up, Cole heard the whine of power tools coming from the workshop out back. The sound cut off as their headlights swept across the building.

Jefferson emerged from the workshop, wiping his hands on a cloth. Wood shavings clung to his flannel shirt, catching the light from the cabin windows. His expression remained neutral as they approached, but Cole noticed the slight tension across his brow.

“Twice in one week, Sheriff.” Jefferson’s voice carried across the yard. “Must be important.”

“Have you seen Ranger?” Izzy’s hand rested on her weapon.

Jefferson’s brow furrowed. “Not since Sunday dinner. Why?”

Cole stepped forward. “He’s taken Erin and the kids. At gunpoint.”

The cloth dropped from Jefferson’s hands. His face drained of color. “What?”

“He’s been beating her.” Cole’s jaw clenched. “For months. Tonight, he threatened the children.”

Jefferson stumbled back against the workshop door. “No. That’s not—” He shook his head. “Ranger wouldn’t.”

“He would, and he has.” Izzy’s voice cut through the night air. “Your father’s in custody for Gary Chávez’s murder. Your brother killed Davina Williamson. Now he’s got his family somewhere, and we need to find them.”

Jefferson’s eyes darted between them. “I haven’t seen him. I swear.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here all night, working on my chair.”

Cole studied Jefferson’s face in the dim light. The man’s shock seemed genuine, his distress palpable. This wasn’t the reaction of someone covering for a brother.

“Where would he go?” Izzy asked.

Jefferson shook his head. “He’d come here. This is home. But otherwise, I really don’t know. I don’t keep my brother’s company.”

“You need to stay here,” Izzy said. “In case he shows up. If he does, call it in immediately. Don’t try to handle it yourself.”

Jefferson nodded, still looking stunned. “I will. Just—” He swallowed hard. “Find them. Please.”

As they headed back to the SUV, Cole caught the lost look in Jefferson’s eyes. The man seemed smaller somehow, as if learning these truths about his family had physically diminished him.

They took off again, and Izzy sped back to the main house. Cole’s mind whirred—if Ranger and his family weren’t there, where could they be? Back in Darkness after all, or fled somewhere else? Away from the handful of towns, the county was a wide, lonely landscape, full of hiding places.

As they reached the working part of the ranch, Izzy jumped on the brakes, driving Cole forward into his belt.

“What?” he said.

Izzy didn’t speak. She was looking at the series of barns and sheds near the cattle corrals, and she turned the wheel and eased that way, stopped outside an open barn.

“The excavator’s gone,” Izzy said. “Gary fixed it last month, according to Matt Muller. It was here when I interviewed Robert.”

They followed the deep treads left by the heavy machinery, along the dirt track toward the mountains. Then the tread cut away, the SUV’s suspension groaning as they left the dirt road behind. Cole gripped the door handle as Izzy’s SUV bounced across the uneven terrain. The darkness pressed in around them, broken only by the dim glow of the dashboard lights. His eyes strained to make out shapes in the blackness beyond the windshield. The mountainside loom closer, its jagged silhouette so high and so close that it was barely visible against the star-filled sky.

A flicker of light caught his attention. Izzy killed the headlights, easing the SUV forward at a crawl.

The light seemed to come from inside the mountain itself. Izzy brought the SUV to a stop in the darkness and cut the engine. The low rumble that permeated the night was as much a feeling as a sound, as if the earth were groaning. Izzy got out and Cole followed her lead, easing his door open and stepping onto the sagebrush.

Cole crouched, running his fingers over a patch of vegetation. The delicate greenish-brown growth felt soft and damp beneath his touch.

“What is it?” Izzy whispered.

“Moss,” Cole murmured. “There must be water around here somewhere.”

Izzy whispered. “El Riachuelo Mariano.”

“Huh?”

“A stream. Mountain runoff. What this whole thing is all about.”

“It’s as if the sun never shines here.”

Izzy glanced up at the sheer face of the mountain above them. “Or the moon.”

As they eased forward, the mechanical growl grew louder, echoing off the rock walls that surrounded them. Cole’s heart pounded as they crept around the final outcrop into a natural alcove formed where the mountain folded in on itself. The steep walls blocked what little moonlight remained, creating a pocket of absolute darkness. Cole’s breath caught as he realized how perfectly hidden this spot was—invisible from the road, sheltered from above.

The scene before them was lit up, harsh white light from Erin’s SUV casting long shadows across the ground. Caught in the beams, the excavator clawed at the ground.

Someone was digging a hole.

A very large hole.

Chapter

Thirty-Seven

Izzy held her breath as she and Cole crept through the dark, further into the alcove. The harsh glare from Erin’s SUV headlights illuminated a scene that made her blood run cold.

Erin sat in the excavator’s cab, working the controls. Even from this distance, Izzy could see her face was streaked with tears. Ranger stood to Izzy’s left, closer to the hole, one arm wrapped around his young daughter’s chest while his other hand pressed a revolver against her temple. The girl couldn’t have been more than five, her small frame rigid with terror.

“Keep digging.” Ranger’s voice carried across the space but surely couldn’t be heard by Erin above the roar of the digger.

The excavator’s bucket scraped against rock, the sound echoing off the mountain walls. The hole gaped wide and dark—large enough to swallow a vehicle, or more.

“Cole,” Izzy whispered, her eyes scanning the scene. “How many children do they have?”

“Two. A girl and a boy.”

Izzy’s stomach clenched. The hole seemed to mock her with its emptiness, its purpose clear. She counted three figures in the harsh artificial light—Erin in the excavator, Ranger with the gun, and the frightened little girl. But where was the son?

The excavator’s engine groaned as Erin dug deeper, the pile of displaced earth growing beside the hole. Izzy watched as Ranger shifted his weight, his attention fixed on his wife’s progress. His movements were erratic, unsteady. The revolver wavered against his daughter’s head.

Izzy touched Cole’s arm, silently directing him to stay in the shadows. She drew her Glock, the weight steadying her hands as she stepped into the harsh light.

“Let her go, Ranger,” she said across the alcove, her aim center mass.

Ranger spun, dragging his daughter with him. The girl whimpered as the revolver pressed harder against her temple. “Drop the gun, Sheriff.” His words slurred.

“You know I can’t do that.” Izzy kept her weapon trained on him, looking for any opening that wouldn’t risk the child.

“I said drop it!” Ranger’s face contorted. “Or I’ll kill her right here.”

The excavator stopped, plunging the space into a silence that rang in Izzy’s ears.

“No!” Erin’s scream pierced the night as she scrambled down from the excavator. Her feet hit the ground hard, sending loose rocks skittering. “Please, Ranger, let her go. She’s your daughter!”

“Stay back!” Ranger jerked the gun away from the girl for a split second, pointing it at his wife before returning it to his daughter’s head.

Izzy’s finger tightened on the trigger, but the moment passed too quickly. The girl sobbed, her small hands clutching at her father’s arm around her chest.

“Everyone, just stay where they are.” Ranger’s eyes darted between Izzy and Erin. “Or I swear to God, I’ll do it.”

Izzy held her stance, weapon steady. “Think about what you’re doing, Ranger. This isn’t going to end well for anyone.”

“Shut up!” Spittle flew from his mouth. “You don’t know anything, bitch!”

“I know enough.” Izzy watched as sweat beaded on Ranger’s forehead despite the cold night air. “I know about your father, and Hank, and Grainger. I know what the Prestons do to protect their legacy. But this is not the story you want told.”

“I won’t tell you again.” He spat the last word. “Drop it, right now.”

Izzy’s pulse thundered in her ears as a shadow detached itself from the darkness. Her finger tensed on the trigger as she recognized Jefferson’s muscular frame emerging into the harsh light, a hunting rifle at his shoulder, eyes down the barrel.

Jefferson moved with the fluid grace of someone who’d spent a lifetime handling firearms. Izzy’s heart raced as she considered she was being outflanked. Then she realized Jefferson’s rifle wasn’t pointed at Izzy—it was trained directly on his brother.

“Put it down, Ranger.” Jefferson’s voice carried the weight of authority that came naturally to him. “You know how good a shot I am. Remember those soup cans? Hit them clean from a hundred yards every time.”

Ranger’s grip on his daughter tightened, causing her to whimper. “Of course, I remember. You never let me forget how much better you are at everything.” His words dripped with venom. “Golden boy Jeff. Gets the ranch, gets the homestead. While I’m stuck in that pathetic excuse of a house in Darkness.”

“You got the better deal, brother.” Jefferson’s aim never wavered. “A beautiful wife and family. Don’t throw that away.”

Izzy watched Ranger’s face twist at his brother’s words. The revolver quivered against his daughter’s temple as conflicting emotions warred across his features.

The girl’s teeth sank into Ranger’s hand, making him yelp and loosen his grip. She wrenched free, but Ranger’s reflexes were still sharp despite his erratic state. His fingers caught her collar, yanking her back toward him. The movement gave Izzy the opening she needed—his torso exposed, clear of his daughter.

Izzy squeezed the trigger. The report of her Glock echoed off the mountain walls, nearly simultaneous with the crack of Jefferson’s rifle. Ranger’s body jerked as both rounds found their mark. He crumpled to the ground, the revolver falling from his grip.

“Look at me, sweetheart! Look at me!” Izzy sprinted forward, scooping up the girl and turning her face away from her father’s writhing form. The child’s body trembled against her chest as Izzy carried her to where Erin stood frozen.

“Where’s your son?” Izzy demanded, her heart hammering.

“In—in my car. Ranger locked it.”

Jefferson strode to his fallen brother, kicking the revolver away from his reach. “He needs a doctor,” he called to Cole, his voice steady despite what had just transpired.

Izzy threw Cole her keys, and he ran off into the darkness.

Then she watched as Jefferson reached down and retrieved a set of keys from Ranger’s pocket, tossing them in her direction. Izzy caught them one-handed, still holding the girl. Jefferson’s slight nod toward Erin and her daughter made his meaning clear.

“Erin, take your daughter to your car,” Izzy said. “Stay with them, but don’t leave. I promise I’ll take care of all of you—just don’t come back over here.”

Once Erin had gathered her daughter and hurried away, Izzy approached Ranger. He lay groaning, clutching his shoulder where two bullets had torn through flesh and muscle mere inches apart. The sight brought back the searing memory of her own recent wound.

“May I?” Izzy gestured to Jefferson’s rifle. Without hesitation, he worked the bolt, ejecting the spent round before handing it over. He pointed to his brother’s revolver lying in the dirt several feet away.

Izzy collected the revolver and then watched Cole bump across the terrain with her patrol SUV’s lights flashing. Cole ran over and started work on Ranger, his movements not quite as tender as when he treated her. The medical kit from her SUV lay open beside him, supplies kept ordered and clear of the dusty ground as he stemmed the bleeding in Ranger’s shoulder.

“Two through-and-through GSWs, upper right deltoid,” Cole called out to imaginary assistants with the detached tone of a battlefield medic. Izzy figured the narration kept him focused under pressure. “No major vessels hit. He’ll live.” His hands moved with surety, applying pressure dressings while Ranger moaned.

The crackle of her radio drew Izzy’s attention to the distant sound of sirens growing closer. She grabbed the handset from her belt. “This is Sheriff Llewellyn. We’re northwest of the house, base of the mountain. Scene is secure. I repeat, scene is secure. Direct all units to follow the excavator tracks north of the main ranch house. No weapons—suspect is in custody.”

“Copy that, Sheriff,” replied Wilson. “We see the lights.”

The red and blue strobes painted the rock walls around them, multiplying as her deputies approached. Izzy turned to study the massive hole Ranger had forced Erin to dig. The excavator’s bucket hung suspended over the edge, frozen in mid-task when she’d interrupted them.

“What is this place?” She looked to Jefferson, who stood a few yards away, the strobes lighting his face but his eyes too dark to see.

“My granddad Hank used to call it Dead Man’s Hollow.” Jefferson’s voice was quiet but carried in the still night air. “Said it was where the family kept its secrets buried.” He gave a bitter laugh. “I didn’t think he was being literal.”

The excavator’s engine ticked as it cooled, the sound emphasizing the hollow’s unnatural quiet. Izzy studied the walls of freshly turned earth, wondering what other secrets might lie beneath the disturbed soil in this place that had disappeared from maps a hundred and fifty years ago.

The patrol SUVs formed a phalanx around the scene, Ranger Preston the focal point of the headlights. Izzy raised her hand to shield her eyes, already dreading the paperwork this night would generate.

But at least Erin and her children were safe. At least this particular Preston family secret wouldn’t end in more deaths.

Chapter

Thirty-Eight

Izzy watched as Deputy Wilson secured the handcuffs on Ranger Preston’s wrists. The strobing lights from the patrol vehicles cast strange shadows across Dead Man’s Hollow, making the freshly dug pit seem even more ominous.

“Ranger Preston, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .” Wilson’s voice carried across the hollow as he read the Miranda rights, while Ranger remained silent, his face twisted in pain. Cole had stabilized him, but he’d need hospital treatment before booking.

“Get them both to Harris,” Izzy called out. “Segreant Mills is waiting for you at the main house, but keep them in separate vehicles. Ranger to Harris Regional, his father straight to lockup.”

Wilson nodded. “Roger that, boss.”

Ranger’s face remained impassive as Wilson guided him toward a patrol vehicle, but his eyes burned with hatred when they met Izzy’s. She held his gaze until he was secured in the back seat.

Wahlberg appeared, looking a little shocked at the scene. “What do we do with all this, Sheriff?”

“I’ll contact the State Bureau of Investigation for assistance. Elliot, can you get Mrs. Preston and her kids . . . I don’t know where they’ll want to go. Home?”

“What about her car?”

“Leave it. Lock it and give me the keys. The state folks will want to process the scene intact. We’ll get it back to her.”

“Yes, boss.”

Wahlberg strode away to where Erin and her kids stood with Cole. He would reassure her. Izzy wander over to where Jefferson stood at the edge of the massive hole, staring down into the darkness.

“How did you get out here?” Izzy asked.

“Horseback.” Jefferson nudged his head toward the dark fields. “Saw your lights, thought I’d better check it out.”

“Won’t your horse run away?”

“No. She’ll be over there munching on some sagebrush.” He turned back to the hole. “You really think my father killed Gary Chávez?”

“We have his lasso and documentary evidence. He lied about an alibi, and I believe the DNA will place him there. And we have a print on the screen of Gary’s phone that isn’t Gary’s. I suspect your father removed his work gloves to delete the photos that Gary showed him of what he had found that proved his story about Miguel. We recovered the photos this afternoon from Gary’s cloud storage.” Izzy moved to stand beside him. “There’s a fair bit more on your brother, I’m afraid. He was a bit sloppier. A few drinks under, perhaps.”

“That’s impossible.” Jefferson shook his head. “We’re ranchers, not murderers.”

“Then explain what your brother was doing out here tonight.” Izzy gestured toward the excavator.

He shook his head. “What about the other man? Gary’s uncle?”

“Miguel. Yes, I suspect your grandfather knew more about his disappearance than he let on. We may never be able to prove it, though.”

“So Miguel might still be out there somewhere?”

Izzy looked into the hole before her and shuddered. “You ever heard the excavator running out here?”

Jefferson’s shoulders slumped. “No. That’s why I chose my spot, up by the creek. Far enough away that I don’t hear any of it.” He kicked a clod of dirt into the pit. “The fights. Dad’s tirades. Mom crying in her room at night.” His voice grew softer. “I learned a long time ago that distance was the only peace I’d find here.”

“So you buried yourself in your woodworking?”

“The lathe doesn’t judge. The wood doesn’t carry secrets.” Jefferson looked up at the night sky. “All I hear up there is the wind in the trees. That’s enough.”

Izzy spent an hour photographing the scene, then told everyone to pull back to the main house. There was no evidence that couldn’t be gathered in the daylight. She suspected what was left to find had waited a long time already.

Her boots felt heavy as she walked from her SUV back to the ranch house. The night had grown colder, and her breath formed small clouds in the beam of her flashlight. Cole waited outside for the paramedics to arrive from Harris and she nodded at him before taking the steps up onto the porch.

Wahlberg had gathered everyone inside the house. Elaine sat rigid in an armchair, her face a mask of composure. Jefferson stood by the window, looking out into his own reflection.

“Mrs. Preston, you’ll need to leave the property tonight.” Izzy said. “The entire ranch is now an active crime scene.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” Elaine glanced around. “This is my home.”

“I can take Mother to Aunt Nat’s in Harris,” Jefferson said, turning from the window.

Elaine’s whole body deflated. “Very well. I’ll pack an overnight bag.” She pushed up from the chair with great effort, then shuffled away toward the stairs.

“And you, Jefferson?” Izzy asked.

“I’ll find somewhere.”

“I’d prefer to know where you are.”

“Gaskill’s motel in town.” He shrugged. “It’ll do for a night.”

“I’ll need you back here tomorrow,” Izzy said. “There may be areas of the property we need to search, and your knowledge would be helpful.”

“Of course.” Jefferson nodded. “Whatever you need.”

Izzy turned to Martinez, who stood by the door. “You’re on watch tonight. No one enters without my direct authorization.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

Jefferson grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair. “My cabin’s just up the road if you need anything, Deputy. Coffee, food—help yourself.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Izzy watched as Jefferson helped his mother into her coat, the gesture oddly gentle for such a large man. They filed out into the night, leaving Martinez alone on the porch, his figure illuminated by the taillights as Prestons, deputies, and the paramedic’s van pulled away one by one.

Cole stood waiting for Izzy. “Ready?”

She nodded, exhaustion settling in, and walked to her SUV. They got in and Izzy turned a long, wide circle. Through the rear-view mirror, she watched Martinez’s solitary figure on the porch grow smaller until it disappeared in the darkness.

Izzy pulled into Joe’s driveway, the headlights sweeping across the darkened windows. The house stood quiet, no lights visible except for the soft glow of the porch lamp.

“He’s probably asleep in his chair,” she said, turning off the engine. “I should check on him.”

Cole nodded. “I’ll wait here.”

Izzy slipped inside, finding Joe exactly as she’d predicted, dozing in his recliner while an old western played on low volume. She draped a blanket over him, switched off the TV, and returned to the SUV.

“We should make sure Nanook’s okay,” she said, sliding back behind the wheel. “He’s been alone all day.”

The drive to Cole’s cabin took fifteen minutes. Neither of them mentioned Cole’s truck, parked back at the sheriff’s office. Nanook greeted them at the door with enthusiastic tail wags, pressing against their legs as they entered.

“Someone’s hungry,” Cole said, heading for the kitchen while Nanook followed hopefully.

Izzy watched as Cole measured out kibble. The warm light from the pendant lamp cast a glow over the scene—Cole in his wrinkled shirt, Nanook’s tail sweeping the floor as he waited patiently.

Cole grabbed two beers from the fridge and handed one to Izzy. They clinked bottles, neither speaking as they listened to Nanook’s eager crunching.

The events of the night swirled in Izzy’s mind—the confrontation, the gunshots, the discovery and darkness of Dead Man’s Hollow. But here in Cole’s kitchen, with its copper sink and soapstone counter, those moments felt distant, unreal.

She set down her beer and moved toward Cole, taking his bottle and placing it beside hers. Before he could speak, she pressed her lips to his, hard and demanding. Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer.

Cole broke the kiss, his breathing uneven. “Is this the adrenaline thing again?”

“Yes.” Izzy traced his jawline with her fingertips. “But it’s a lot more too.”

She glanced at Nanook, who had finished his dinner and was watching them with interest. “Stay,” she commanded, then took Cole’s hand and led him toward the bedroom.

At the foot of his bed, Cole hesitated as Izzy worked at his shirt buttons. “You’re still injured,” he protested.

Izzy stood back and met his concerned gaze as she began unbuttoning her shirt. “That’s why you’re going to be very gentle.”

It had been a long time since she had been intimate with anyone, but it was worth the wait.

They stayed draped around each other for a long time, Cole’s forehead resting against Izzy’s, until Izzy rolled him over and slipped out of bed. She walked to the door where Nanook was whimpering, just for fun giving her hips a little more sway than usual, and she let the dog into the room.

Izzy settled back in bed with her head on Cole’s chest, listening to his heartbeat return to normal. Nanook jumped up onto the bed and settled at their feet, his warmth a comforting presence. The bedroom was quiet except for their breathing and the soft whisper of wind through the pines outside.

Cole’s fingers traced lazy patterns on her shoulder. “What happens now?”

“Hmm?” Izzy lifted her head.

“You’ve just arrested half the family of the woman who fired you.” His hand stilled on her skin. “And even if by some miracle you survive that politically, you’ll have to stand for election soon. And the town . . .” He hesitated. “They don’t all seem to love you the way I do.”

Izzy’s heart skipped at his casual admission of love, but she kept her voice steady. “So, what are you asking?”

“What do we do? Where do we go from here?”

Izzy pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at him in the dim light. His face was open, vulnerable, waiting for her answer. She thought of Joe’s house, of the library where Tam worked, of the small-town streets she’d known as a child. Of her father’s grave in the shadow of the conifer trees.

“We don’t give up,” she said firmly. “We fight.” She traced his jawline with her finger. “Darkness is my home, Cole. I’m not going anywhere.”

He pulled her back down against his chest. Nanook shifted at their feet, letting out a contented sigh that made them both smile.

Chapter

Thirty-Nine

Izzy stood at the edge of Dead Man’s Hollow, watching the California Bureau of Forensic Services team set up their equipment. The morning sun barely reached this shadowed spot, blocked by the looming mountain face. Their flood lights cast harsh shadows across the rocky ground as they assembled the ground-penetrating radar system.

Izzy watched a technician set up a tool that looked like a push lawn mower with a tablet computer on the handles. He began near the hole that Erin had dug and rolled across the ground, surveying what was below.

“How long will this take?” Izzy asked the lead investigator, Dr. Casey Dolman.

“The scan itself won’t take too long. It’s interpreting the data that’s time-consuming.” Dr. Dolman adjusted settings on her laptop on the tailgate of her truck. “But given what you’ve told us about the site, we should be able to identify anomalies fairly quickly.”

The team worked methodically, moving the GPR equipment in a grid pattern across the area. Izzy watched the screen over Dr. Dolman’s shoulder as ghostly shapes began to form in the subsurface mapping.

Wahlberg stepped over to look, and Izzy moved aside to let him see and learn. “And this thing will find bodies?” he asked.

“Not really,” said Dr. Holman. “It finds anomalies, differences in the ground density. So what we’re looking for is less the remains and more the ground that was disturbed to bury them. It looks different in the results. Then, to really know what it is, we dig.”

They worked all morning, then retired to Jefferson’s cabin for lunch, where the team started analyzing the data.

“There.” Dr. Holman pointed to two distinct anomalies. “Those white blips are probably rocks, but see these patches? They are definitely not natural formations.”

The excavation team moved in once the locations were marked. They worked with painstaking precision, removing layer after layer of soil. By mid-afternoon, they had uncovered the first set of remains.

“Based on decomposition and soil integration, this one’s very old,” Dr. Holman said, crouching beside the skeleton that was being reconstructed on a plastic sheet. “Consistent with your timeline for José Chávez.”

Izzy nodded silently. The bones were dark with age, nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding earth.

The second set of remains lay twenty feet away, in slightly better condition. Dr. Holman examined them carefully. “This one’s more recent. Decades rather than centuries. The preservation is good due to the cold conditions in this hollow.”

“What are our chances of getting DNA?” Izzy asked.

“The more recent remains—possibly Miguel—we have a good shot. The cold helps preserve genetic material.” Dr. Holman gestured to the darker soil around them. “But there’s high moisture content here, which isn’t ideal. And neither body was protected by a coffin or burial container. They were just . . .” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Disposed of.”

“The older remains?”

“That’s tougher. The bones have nearly merged with the surrounding soil matrix. We’ll try, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

Izzy looked at the two grave sites, thinking of the generations of pain that lay buried here. “Do what you can. We’re not looking to prosecute anyone for José’s death. But it might help the family find some peace, knowing where their people rest.”

Dr. Holman nodded. “We’ll handle them with respect. Though I think we all know who they are.”

“Yes,” Izzy said quietly. “We do.”

Izzy watched the forensics team work through the next few days, their methodical process revealing the hollow’s dark history piece by piece. The cold air seemed to hold centuries of secrets, finally breaking free from the earth.

Dr. Holman maintained a careful log of every fragment, every trace of evidence they uncovered. “The soil composition actually helped preserve quite a bit,” she told Izzy as they stood over the carefully mapped sites. “The lack of direct sunlight, the mineral content—it’s almost like nature conspired to keep these remains intact.”

“But DNA testing will take time?”

“Months, likely. Without an active prosecution, the labs won’t prioritize it.” Dr. Holman checked her tablet. “We’ve confirmed two distinct sets of remains. The positioning and depth match your timeline. There’s unlikely to be anything else out there.”

Izzy nodded, thinking of the Chávez family waiting for answers. Both bodies had been buried face-down, thrown into hastily dug graves. No ceremony, no dignity. Just thrown away, like inconvenient trash.

Jefferson appeared at the edge of the hollow, his expression unreadable as he took in the scene. The excavation had transformed the shadowy spot into something clinical, with its grid markers and equipment cases.

“Your people found what you were looking for?” he asked.

“We found them both,” Izzy said. “José and Miguel.”

Jefferson nodded, flashing Izzy a look, but he showed no other reaction. He stood silent for a long moment, watching the team packing their equipment.

“My grandfather used to warn us away from here,” he said finally. “Said it wasn’t safe, that the ground was unstable.” A bitter smile crossed his face. “Guess he wasn’t lying about that part.”

“Jefferson—”

He held up a hand. “I need to check the cattle. Haven’t done my rounds with all this going on.” He turned away, then paused. “I’ll be at my cabin after. Got some work to finish.”

Izzy watched him stride away, his shoulders rigid. She knew he’d spend hours at his lathe tonight, letting the whir of the machine drown out uncomfortable truths. The wood shavings would pile at his feet as he shaped something beautiful from raw lumber, trying to craft order from chaos.

The hollow had revealed its secrets, but Jefferson seemed determined to keep his own buried deep, finding refuge in the steady rhythm of his craft rather than face his family’s legacy of violence.

That afternoon, Izzy sat at her desk, staring at the phone. She’d just finished a lengthy call with Siobhan Cooper, an attorney she’d worked with during her FBI days. The conversation had left her drained.

“Even if you could prove fraud in the original claim, which sounds possible given your evidence, the statute of limitations expired over a century ago,” Siobhan had explained. “The Chávez family’s best recourse would be civil court.”

“For damages?” Izzy had asked.

“Yes, but here’s where it gets messy. Who exactly has standing to sue? José’s direct descendants? What about cousins? Second cousins? The family tree has branched significantly over five or six generations.”

Izzy had rubbed her temples, feeling a headache building. “So we’re talking about potentially hundreds of plaintiffs?”

“More likely thousands. I did a quick demographic search of Mirage County. The Hispanic population is around twenty-five percent, and given the timeframe of José’s settlement, many could trace their lineage back to him.”

“And they’d all have equal claim?”

“That’s for the courts to decide, but yes, potentially. You’re looking at years of litigation, expensive genealogical research, and at the end of it all, the settlement would be divided among so many parties that individual payments would be negligible.” Siobhan’s voice had grown softer. “There’s another wrinkle. If the Preston claim were somehow invalidated, the land wouldn’t necessarily revert to the Chávez family. Given California’s complex water rights history, the state would likely take control. And we both know where that leads.”

“The Department of Water and Power,” Izzy had said.

“Exactly. The LADWP already owns significant portions of Mirage County. They’d jump at the chance to acquire more water rights. The county would lose whatever agricultural value that land still holds.”

Izzy leaned back in her chair now, letting out a long breath. The weight of history pressed down on her shoulders. Two bodies in Dead Man’s Hollow, a century and a half of lies, and no real justice to be had. The best she could do was close the murder cases—Gary and Davina’s deaths would be answered for. But the deeper wound, the original sin that had set all this in motion, that would have to remain in the past.

She thought of David Chávez, wondering how to explain this to him. His family’s land had been stolen through fraud and murder, but the legal system offered no remedy.

Sometimes the truth wasn’t enough.

Izzy spent the next few days supervising the bagging and tagging of all evidence in preparation for it to be sent to the district attorney. The entire reading room collection was moved to the sheriff’s office evidence locker for temporary storage.

Izzy walked upstairs from the locker and was at her office door when her desk phone rang. She dashed across the room and snatched it up. “Sheriff Llewellyn.”

“It’s Dylan Pickett. The state lab results are in.” His voice carried an unusual warmth. “We found Robert’s DNA on Gary’s hand.”

“From the library?”

“Can’t say for sure, but given Robert claims they never met, and the trace DNA would be gone the next time he gave his hands a decent wash, it seems most probable. The lab thinks it transferred during a handshake. Robert’s skin was dry and flaking—typical for someone who works outdoors—while Gary’s palms were sweaty. Nervous, probably. His skin sucked up Robert’s skin cell like a sponge.” Pickett sighed. “There’s more. We found fibers from Robert’s work gloves in Gary’s clothing and on the rope.”

Izzy jotted notes, though she’d already suspected as much. The evidence confirmed her theory about their confrontation in the reading room. “What about Ranger?”

“No gloves needed there. His DNA is all over Davina.” Pickett’s tone hardened. “We matched the blood from her car, along with his DNA and prints on the wheel. I can’t believe she called him to her house.”

“She bought into the Preston legend. She didn’t have time to accept that it was false history. I think she suspected Robert or Jefferson, and thought Ranger was the one she could trust.”

“She was wrong.”

“Dead wrong.” Izzy sighed. The weight of Davina’s death still sat heavy on her conscience. Another victim of the Preston family’s carefully constructed mythology.

“You did good work here, Sheriff.” Pickett said. “I look forward to working with you. If you make it.”

Izzy thanked him and hung up, her eyes drawn to the high desert vista outside her window. The evidence was solid now. Robert’s DNA tied him to Gary’s murder. Ranger’s tied him to Davina’s. The Preston legacy of violence was finally exposed, documented in police reports instead of hidden in hollow ground.

She thought of Jefferson, alone in his workshop with his lathe. He’d been the only one to break the cycle, finding peace in crafting beauty rather than perpetuating violence. But he’d paid for that peace with isolation, cutting himself off from his family’s darkness.

Izzy picked up her pen and added the final details to her case notes. The truth wouldn’t restore the Chávez family’s land or heal generations of wounds, but at least it would be known. Written down. Preserved in the official record, where no one could bury it again.

Chapter

Forty

The morning sun slanted through the library windows, catching the dust that was stirred up by the demolition work. Izzy watched Cole and Elliot Wahlberg tear down the smoke-damaged drywall, their movements careful around the old brick structure beneath. The reading room’s vaulted ceiling had protected the worst of the fire damage, containing it to the walls and floor.

Jenny and Tam worked together, sorting through boxes of books from the main library room that had been saved from the arson attempt, checking each volume for smoke damage.

“Pass me that pry bar?” Cole called out, and Izzy grabbed it from the tool pile. Their fingers brushed as she handed it over, and warmth spread through her at his touch. He gave her a quick wink before turning back to his task.

“Sheriff?” Martinez appeared in the doorway, carrying fresh sheets of drywall with Wilson. “Where do you want these?”

“Stack them along that wall.” Izzy pointed to the clear space they’d created. “Mind the floor joists we exposed.”

Adrianne bustled in with a tray of coffee cups from the Coyote Flats Café. “Thought you all could use a pick-me-up.” She passed them around, pausing to study the progress. “It’s looking better already.”

“The brick saved us,” Tam said, running her hand along the old wall. “These walls have seen worse than a few Molotov cocktails.”

Deputy Hawthorne arrived with his wife. He was one of the fence-sitters who had not been sold on her leadership. She hoped his participation in the bust at the Preston ranch had swayed him toward doing the job as well as he could.

“Ma’am, this is my wife, Veronica.”

Izzy shook her hand. “Pleasure, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

“Oh, Sheriff, everyone calls me Vee.”

“Everyone calls me Izzy. Well, not everyone. The other day I did get called a fascist bit⁠—”

“Izzy!” said Tam, wide-eyed.

“Sorry, Tam. It’s nice to meet you, Vee.”

“Where can you use me, Sheriff?” asked Hawthorne.

“I think Martinez is bringing supplies from out back.”

Hawthorne marched away, leaving his wife with Izzy.

”I don’t know how you deal with all those stinky men,” said Vee, with a shake of her head.

“Oh, a couple know how to use cologne.”

Vee laughed. “Rodney’s excited to work with you. He says you’re a breath of fresh air.”

Izzy puckered her face. “Really?”

“Well, no. But he’s coming around. You’ll get there. But if he gives you any guff, just let me know. I’ll sort him out.”

“Vee, I can already tell we’re going to be friends.” Izzy glanced over Vee’s shoulder at the young couple walking in wearing sheepish expressions. Izzy caught the woman’s attention and waved her over. “Hi, Sharon, this is Vee Hawthorne. Vee, this is Sharon Green-Davies. You guys both have kids in Ms. Ramos’s class.”

The two women exchanged pleasantries as Izzy turned to Sharon’s husband. “You must be Ike.”

“Yes, nice to meet you.” He pushed his dark-framed glasses up with his forefinger.

Izzy waved Cole over. “Ike, do you know Cole Barrow?”

“No.”

“Now you do. You’re an engineer, right? What do you know about drywall?”

“Literally nothing. I work in fluid dynamics.”

“Perfect. The water guy and the doctor, hanging drywall. I give it three months before we’re all back here fixing it.”

Cole slapped Ike on the back. “Come on, Ike, we don’t have to take this. We can do drywall good for six months at least.”

They walked away, and Izzy turned back to Vee and Sharon. “Ladies, what’s it to be? Sandwich duty or building shelving stacks?”

Sharon smiled. “My husband’s the engineer.”

“I heard,” said Izzy. “Water.”

“I think we should make some shelves,” said Vee. “How hard can it be?”

“It’s like Ikea without the instructions.”

“We’re moms,” said Sharon, with a definitive nod. “Working without instructions is what we do.”

The sound of hammers and sanders filled the space as everyone worked, punctuated by occasional laughter and conversation. No one mentioned Hawkins’s absence, and Izzy noted no comments or sidelong glances when Martinez took charge of coordinating the other deputies—a role that would typically fall to the undersheriff.

Jenny climbed up on a stepladder to help Cole measure the ceiling height. “We should prime these walls twice,” she said. “Help seal out any lingering smoke smell.”

“Good thinking.” Izzy grabbed her notebook and added primer to their supply list. The community had donated most of the materials, local businesses pitching in once word spread about the library restoration project.

“Remember when we used to study in here?” Tam asked, pausing in her book sorting to look around the space. “This place has needed a paint job for thirty years.”

Izzy did remember. ”I’m pretty sure Mr. Warbarton smoked weed in here.”

“How would you know what weed smells like?” Cole teased, earning him a playful glare from both women.

Izzy smiled. “FBI training, don’t you know?”

The banter continued as they worked, everyone falling into an easy rhythm.

The back door that not long ago held crime scene tape burst open, and Mr. Bryant from the hardware store shouldered his way in, carrying several gallons of paint. His weathered face broke into a grin as he surveyed the work in progress. “Got that eggshell finish you wanted, Sheriff. And I figured you’d need some primer.”

He set the cans down with a grunt.

“For the smoke smell,” said Izzy.

“Exactly.”

More vehicles pulled up outside. The Mendez family piled out of their pickup truck with folding tables and coolers. Mrs. Mendez’s tamales were legendary, and the scent of masa and chilies soon wafted through the library’s open windows. The Fischer brothers arrived next with their portable grills and got them fired up and smoking.

Izzy watched the steady stream of people filtering in, each bringing something to contribute. Mrs. Monahan, who had called Izzy to task in the school parking lot, with her daughter. The Watson sisters who ran the flower shop. Even crusty Pete Miller, who’d been complaining about her appointment since day one, showed up with his toolbox and work gloves.

She felt Cole’s presence before his hand settled on her lower back. “Quite a turnout.”

“Yeah.” Izzy studied the faces, some familiar, others she was just getting to know. There was no celebration in their expressions, no carnival atmosphere despite the food and gathering. Instead, she saw the same quiet resolve she’d witnessed time and again in this town—the determination to rebuild, to push forward.

Sarah McKenzie, who’d lost her dairy farm in last year’s drought, worked alongside Frank Torres, whose family had feuded with hers for three generations. They didn’t chat or smile, but they passed tools back and forth without hesitation, focused on the task at hand.

“This is how Darkness survives,” Izzy murmured, more to herself than Cole. “Not by being friendly, but by being stubborn.”

The work continued with the steady rhythm of hammers and sanders, punctuated by the scrape of paint rollers. The air grew thick with primer fumes, but no one complained. They simply opened more windows and kept going.

Izzy grabbed a roller and joined Jenny at the far wall. Together they worked in companionable silence, covering the smoke-stained surface with clean white primer. The repetitive motion was almost meditative, allowing her mind to settle into the simple physical task.

As the afternoon wore on, more people arrived. Some stayed for only an hour between other commitments, while others dug in for the long haul. They weren’t there for her, Izzy realized. They were there for themselves, for their town, for the simple act of refusing to let darkness win.

Izzy wiped sweat from her forehead with her sleeve as she and Jenny surveyed their wall’s second coat of paint. The smell of grilled meat and chilies wafted through the library windows, making her stomach growl. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until now.

“Sheriff?” Adrianne called from the doorway. “Supervisor Watanabe is here.”

Izzy looked up to see Kenji making his way through the organized chaos of the restoration work. He wore jeans and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, clearly ready to pitch in.

“Quite a turnout you’ve got here,” he said, surveying the scene.

Izzy nodded. “You can thank Tamara for that.”

“I think you had something to do with it.”

“Everyone wants their library back.” Izzy gestured at the progress they’d made. “We’ve got plenty of work if you’re looking to help.”

“I didn’t just come to work.” Kenji’s expression grew serious. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened at the Preston ranch.”

Izzy’s hand instinctively moved to the badge in her jeans pocket. “Should I be turning in my badge?”

“No.” Kenji shook his head firmly. “You’re exactly the kind of law enforcement leader we need in Mirage County. Someone who follows the evidence wherever it leads, who isn’t afraid to challenge the status quo.”

Relief flooded through her, though she kept her expression neutral. “What about Supervisor Preston?”

“I doubt she’ll follow through on her threat now. And if she does . . .” He glanced around at the community members working together. “She won’t have the votes. Elaine’s going to be too busy worrying about her own career to focus on yours.”

Izzy nodded, processing this shift in the political landscape.

“But don’t get complacent,” Kenji warned. “Not everyone is sold on you yet. You’ll still have to win an election if you want to stay.” He studied her face. “Do you want to stay?”

Izzy’s eyes found Cole across the room. He was showing Hawthorne’s teenage son how to sand drywall, his patience and gentle instruction evident. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up and smiled.

“Yes,” Izzy said, turning back to Kenji. “I want to stay.”

Izzy Llewellyn investigates a woman’s mountaintop death in book 3, Light and Darkness. Get it here.

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Also by Zara Evans

Darkness Small Town Suspense Series

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Echoes of Darkness

When a man is found hanged in the library of a small Sierra Nevada town, interim Sheriff Izar Llewellyn suspects murder. With help from the local doctor, she uncovers a deadly legacy dating back to the Gold Rush. But powerful forces want the past to stay buried—and they're willing to kill again.

Light and Darkness

When a woman's body is found in the Sierra Nevadas, Sheriff Izzy Llewellyn's investigation is complicated by unwelcome FBI interference and evidence pointing to local doctor Cole Barrow—the one man she's learned to trust. But in a town called Darkness, nothing is quite what it seems...

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