Page 105 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

Quiet.

Waiting.

Watching.

Elias

The briefing room smelled like burnt coffee, wet canvas, and thirty-six hours without sleep. Nobody had touched the stale donuts sitting in the middle of the table. The coffee was cold enough to strip paint, but we kept pouring it anyway.

Eight missing women.

Two bodies.

Nothing that fucking connected the dots between the cases or fucking something.

Crime scene photographs from the kiln shack and old abandoned building were spread across the table beside maps of Blackridge and the surrounding timber roads. Red circles. Yellow marker. Tire impressions. Cell tower pings. Half the board was guesses pretending to be evidence. I planted both hands on the table.

"The tire tracks behind the logging yard weren't random."

Walker didn't even look up.

"They match an older flatbed. Dual rear wheels. Worn outer tread on the passenger side. Somebody's hauling people out of those woods."

He closed the case file. Hard. The crack echoed through the room.

"We're not wasting county resources chasing another one of your goddamn gut feelings, Reed," Sheriff Walker barked, his voice flat, defensive, and completely devoid of the political grease he usually used to smooth things over with the town council. He slammed his palms flat on the table, his fingers digging into the edges of the wood grain as his face flushed a dangerous, dark maroon.

"It isn't a fucking gut feeling, Walker."

I exploded, leaning over the layout until our faces were barely six inches apart. The pressure behind my ears was a physical throb.

"The tire tracks behind the logging yard match the tread width of an older model flatbed. It’s the only physical signature we’ve got that didn't come from a county vehicle."

"And while you've been chasing leads..."

He shoved the file toward me.

"Two more women disappeared."

The room went still. Not because anyone was surprised. Because nobody knew what to say.

"Ten women, Reed."

His voice stayed calm. That somehow made it worse.

"Ten. Under your watch. While you’ve been building a whiteboard full of fucking ghosts."

I looked at the photographs. It didn't matter that I'd worked every hour they'd let me. It didn't matter that we'd searched miles of forest. It didn't matter that we were understaffed. Ten women were still fucking gone. Guilt doesn't care about facts. It only counts bodies. Walker leaned back.

"You've spent three days building theories."

"I've spent three days trying to stop this."

"You've spent three days failing."

That one landed. Nobody moved. Nobody looked at me. Across the room, Collins stood beside the water cooler with his thumbs hooked into his duty belt. He wasn't taking notes. Wasn't saying a word. Just… Watching. When our eyes met, the corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. Enough.

Something about him fucking bothered me. Always had. Couldn't tell why. Not yet. Cops learn to trust bad feelings. Most of the time they're just your brain noticing details before you do. Walker grabbed his notebook.