Page 159 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"What'd he say?"

Mason looked straight ahead.

"There are whispers moving through the valley."

"What kind of whispers?"

"Cartel."

The word settled heavily inside the truck. I didn't answer. He continued.

"They're saying women have been disappearing further south."

"Not one, not two but enough that neighbouring counties have started comparing reports."

I felt my stomach tighten.

"Trafficking?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

"No proof?"

"Just rumours."

He looked over at me.

"But every rumour starts somewhere."

Derek finally spoke.

"I checked the missing persons database while we waited, three neighbouring counties, eight women in each county. All disappeared within the last six weeks."

Fuck.

Ten women. One unidentified female and male. Two murders displayed. A serial killer leaving welcome notes. Rumours of trafficking either we were looking at two monsters...

Or one who wanted us chasing the wrong one.

I looked into the rearview mirror. Walker's cruiser was still there.

Still following, still watching.

And for the first time...

I had the sinking feeling this investigation had just become a hell of a lot bigger than Blackridge.

Seraphina

Making friends as an adult is an administrative nightmare.

Nobody warns you about that when you're little. They spend years teaching you how to tie your shoelaces, how to say "please" and "thank you," and why licking frozen flagpoles is apparently a poor life choice. Yet somehow, nobody sits you down and says, By the way, once you're an adult, making a friend becomes harder than filing your taxes.

When you're six, the baseline for friendship is remarkably uncomplicated. You simply sit beside another child in the sandbox, offer them half of your bruised apple, or decide together that the slide is actually a pirate ship, and suddenly you've acquired a best friend until someone moves schools or eats glue.

Adults, however,...

Adults insist on making everything exhausting.