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In still waters
Natalie Shpet
Years ago, in a high school in the quiet town of Austin, Minnesota, a tragic incident occurred. A classmate attacked a boy, slashing his face with a sharp object and leaving a deep scar on his cheek. Years later, a series of horrific murders shakes the peaceful community. One by one, seemingly unconnected individuals fall victim to a mysterious killer dressed in black, their face hidden beneath a hood. How does this shadowy figure manage to evade the police, leaving no trace behind? What connection do they have to a gang of arms dealers operating in the shadows? As the investigation unfolds, detectives make a chilling discovery – three of the victims attended the same high school years ago…
This novel is crafted for aficionados of suspenseful detective fiction.

Natalie Shpet
In still waters

Dedicated to Jonathan and Jake.
Austin, a tranquil town where most residents know each other by name. It's a place where secrets are hard to keep.
Many say that Austin has still waters…


Part One. The Outcast


The high school doors burst open as a teenage boy staggers out, his agonized screams piercing the air. His hands clutch at his face as he stumbles onto the rain-slicked grass, slipping and falling. A crowd of stunned classmates surge out after him, forming a circle around his writhing form. The teen lies on his back, his cries of pain echoing across the schoolyard. Slowly, he lowers his hands, revealing a horrifying sight to the onlookers – his face is a mask of blood, streaming down his cheeks and neck…
"Who did this to you?" someone in the crowd cries out, their voice quavering with fear and shock.
The injured boy's screams subside as he stares up at the turbulent sky, rain mingling with the blood on his face. After a moment of eerie silence, he utters in a low, haunting voice:
"It was him… The Outcast…"

Chapter 1

The doors of the Green Vault bar swing open, spilling a cacophony of music, voices, and laughter into the quiet street. A petite brunette emerges, her shoulder-length hair damp from the misty air. She wipes tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her red turtleneck as she sets off down the sidewalk, passing by streetlights that cast long shadows across modest middle-class homes. The road ahead stretches out, deserted and dark. Suddenly, a taxi's horn blares, startling her. Without turning, she steps aside, allowing it to pass. Lost in thought, she trudges on through the drizzle, oblivious to the figure that has begun to follow her. It's only when she glances back that she notices – a tall silhouette in black, face obscured by a hood. Her pace quickens; the shadowy pursuer matches it. Heart racing, she looks back once more, realizing with growing dread that her follower is a man. For a moment, she hesitates, nearly stopping in her tracks. Then, with a burst of desperate energy, she breaks into a run. Without looking back, she veers into an unpaved alley, hoping to lose her pursuer in the darkness.
Her hopes are dashed as she finds herself facing a dead end. Panic rising in her chest, she presses herself against the rough bark of an oak tree, willing herself to disappear into its shadows. She doesn't understand what this stranger wants, but her mind races with terrifying possibilities. She strains to listen, hearing only the soft patter of rain on leaves. Then, barely a few steps away, a twig snaps. Her heart pounds so loudly she fears it might give her away. Sweat mingles with raindrops on her palms. A paralyzing fear grips her, choking off any chance of screaming for help. In this moment of terror, her life seems to flash before her eyes. She can sense the stranger nearby, searching, closing in. Suddenly, the silence is shattered by the shrill ring of her cellphone. With trembling hands, she fumbles in her jeans pocket – it's her mom calling. The phone slips from her rigid fingers, clattering to the ground as it continues to ring. Realizing the sound has betrayed her location, she makes a desperate dash into the unknown. But in her haste, she loses her footing on the slick ground and falls hard. Fear escalates to blind panic as her throat constricts, stealing her breath away. She can't scream, can't call for help – she's trapped.
As she struggles to her feet, she feels rather than sees the man in black looming behind her. She whirls around, horror etched on her face as his silhouette fills her vision. With deliberate slowness, he pulls a length of rope from his sweatshirt pocket. Before she can react, he loops it around her neck and begins to tighten his grip. She claws at the rope, gasping and choking, her fingers scrabbling uselessly against the wet ground as she tries to crawl away. But it's futile. As the life drains from her body, all coherent thoughts flee, leaving only the cold certainty of her impending death. The killer, sensing her last breath leave her body, melts back into the rainy night, leaving no trace behind.
By morning, the rain has ceased, but ominous clouds still hang low in the sky, as if nature itself is mourning the night's tragic events.
The grim discovery is made in the early hours by a janitor on his way to work. With shaking hands, he immediately dials 911.
Word spreads quickly through the small town. Residents from nearby houses and curious passersby begin to gather, forming a somber crowd around the cordoned-off area. Horror and disbelief are etched on their faces as they whisper among themselves.
"What happened here? Is she really dead? How long has she been lying there? Does anyone know who she is?" The questions ripple through the growing throng, each person seeking answers but finding only more questions.
Within half an hour, the wail of sirens cuts through the morning air as three patrol cars arrive on the scene. Senior Detective Nick Larsen takes charge, his authoritative voice rising above the murmurs of the crowd as he directs them to step back. With practiced efficiency, he orders his team to secure the crime scene, allowing the investigative unit to begin their grim task.
As Larsen approaches the body, a sense of dread settles in the pit of his stomach. With growing horror, he realizes he recognizes the victim.
The deceased is identified as thirty-six-year-old Rose Saltano, daughter of the local sheriff, Jeffrey Saltano. Rose had been an only child, and by all accounts, had led a respectable life. There was nothing particularly remarkable about her appearance – she was petite with short dark hair and light eyes. Yet now, in death, she has become the center of a mystery that threatens to shake their quiet town to its core.
Nick Larsen finds himself struggling to process the scene before him. How could something like this happen in their peaceful community? Despite his years of experience in law enforcement, the forty-three-year-old detective is shaken to his core. Nick had always prided himself on staying ahead of trouble, on keeping his hometown safe. With his tall stature, medium build, and kind blue eyes framed by stylishly cut dark blond hair, Nick was a familiar and respected figure in Austin. Residents looked up to him, not just as a competent detective, but as a decent man and an exemplary family man. Now, faced with this brutal crime, he feels the weight of their trust more heavily than ever.
With a heavy heart, Nick Larsen makes the call he's been dreading – to inform Sheriff Jeffrey Saltano of his daughter's fate.
The Saltano residence isn't far, and it's not long before the roar of an engine announces the sheriff's arrival. Jeffrey Saltano bursts onto the scene, leaping from his black pickup truck still dressed in his home clothes and slippers. He pushes through the crowd with frantic energy, falling to his knees beside his daughter's body.
"Who did this to my little girl?" he cries out, his voice raw with anguish. "Why? She was so young… she had her whole life ahead of her!" His eyes, wild with grief, search the overcast sky as if demanding answers from a silent universe. His hands clench and unclench, trembling with a mix of sorrow and rage.
Larsen moves to help Jeffrey, who seems to have lost all sense of his surroundings in his grief. As he supports the distraught father, Nick can't help but reflect on his complicated feelings towards the sheriff. Like many in town, Nick had never particularly warmed to Jeffrey. At fifty-eight, Jeffrey Saltano cut a rather unsightly figure – short and stout, with swarthy skin, a round face dominated by a bulbous nose, and thinning dark hair peppered with gray at the temples. His personality was as rough as his appearance – ignorant and rude, selfish and stubborn, known for achieving his goals by any means necessary. Rumors of bribery and covering up petty crimes had dogged Jeffrey for years. He seemed to have no real friends, and even his relationship with his wife Mary was notoriously strained.
But in this moment, Nick pushes aside his personal feelings. Watching Jeffrey break down, he's struck by a wave of genuine sympathy. The loss of a child is a pain Nick can scarcely imagine, despite being a father himself to nine-year-old Gina and seven-year-old Edward. In this moment of raw grief, Jeffrey isn't the difficult sheriff – he's simply a devastated father.
"Jeffrey," Nick says gently, placing a steadying hand on the man's shoulder, "I know how hard this is, but we need you to try and pull yourself together. We have to take Rose's body for an autopsy. It's necessary for the investigation."
Jeffrey looks up at Nick, his face a mask of pain. The thought of his only child's body being further violated is almost too much to bear, but somewhere in the haze of his grief, he understands the grim necessity.
"Do what you have to," he growls, his voice hoarse. "Just find the bastard who did this. Whatever it takes." He pauses, running a shaking hand over his face as he stares up at the gray sky once more. "Last night… Rose didn't answer when Mary called. She didn't come home." A bitter laugh escapes him. "It wasn't the first time she'd spent the night away. We didn't think… who could have imagined…" His voice trails off before rising again in a heated shout, "Find them! You hear me? Find whoever did this!"
"We'll do everything in our power," Nick assures him, his voice steady despite the turmoil he feels. "Go home to Mary now. You need each other. I'll call as soon as we have the autopsy report."
As he walks Jeffrey back to his car, Nick keeps his assumptions about the cause of death to himself. He wants solid evidence from the medical examiner before jumping to conclusions. Despite the brutality of the crime, a part of him still hopes they'll find some clue, some piece of evidence that will lead them to Rose's killer.
Once Jeffrey's truck disappears around the corner, Nick turns his attention back to the crime scene. Rose's body is carefully loaded into the coroner's van and taken away. The crowd of onlookers begins to disperse, an air of shocked disbelief hanging over them. Nick's thirty-four-year-old assistant, Christian Basher, approaches him with a grim expression.
Christian is a good man, having worked under Larsen's command for nearly three years now. Nick often jokes that Christian looks like he stepped out of an old detective movie with his tall, thin frame and slight stoop. His features are pleasant enough – a neat nose, thin but defined lips, and eyes the color of a calm sea, though they're usually hidden behind his glasses. His short, sparse blonde hair completes the picture of a classic gumshoe.
Despite his best efforts to maintain a professional demeanor, Christian can't quite hide his horror at the scene they've witnessed. Still, for someone as peace-loving and generally mild-mannered as Christian, he's holding up admirably.
"What do you make of all this?" Christian asks in a low voice, his eyes darting around as if the killer might still be lurking nearby. "The victim's clothes aren't torn, so it doesn't look like an attempted rape. No obvious signs of a beating either. And her jewelry – gold earrings, a bracelet – it's all still there. What was the killer after?"
Nick nods, having been pondering the same questions. Could someone have interrupted the killer? Or was the perpetrator simply afraid of being seen?
"I don't know, Christian," Nick admits with a sigh. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us to figure this out. Let's wait for the autopsy results. Hopefully, that will give us a clearer picture of what we're dealing with."

Chapter 2
The Saltano residence stands at the heart of town, a sprawling two-story Victorian that seems to lord over its neighbors. The house had come to Jeffrey's wife, Mary, as an inheritance from her parents – a fact that had always been a point of contention. Mr. and Mrs. Grace had never approved of their son-in-law, viewing the match with barely concealed disdain from the start. Unlike his wife, Jeffrey came from humble beginnings – the son of an alcoholic father and a mother who worked herself to the bone, paying little attention to her child. Both had died relatively young, leaving Jeffrey to forge his own path.
Jeffrey had met Mary just after college, and their whirlwind romance had resulted in a hasty marriage when Mary found herself pregnant. The birth of Rose had forced Mary's parents to grudgingly accept their daughter's choice, but the tension had never truly dissipated. Physically, Mary and Rose had been near mirror images of each other – both petite and slender, with dark hair and light eyes that seemed to hold secrets.
Behind the imposing fa?ade of their home, the Saltano marriage had long since cooled. Love and understanding had given way to a sort of uneasy coexistence – two people living side by side but worlds apart. Mary had never quite settled into the role of housewife. She disliked cooking and found cleaning tedious, often hiring help when the dust and clutter became too much to bear. The house itself was a testament to their discordant lives – expensive furniture arranged with more concern for appearance than comfort, the overall effect both tasteless and oddly vulgar.
The living room walls were papered in an aggressive shade of red, offset by black carpets that seemed to attract dust like magnets. Sofas and armchairs upholstered in dark burgundy suede surrounded a glass coffee table, the centerpiece of a room that felt more like a stage set than a home. Heavy burgundy curtains, their vibrancy dulled by a film of dust, framed the windows. The kitchen, done up in harsh tones of red and black, boasted the house's only large window – a constant source of neighborhood gossip for those inclined to eavesdrop.
The second floor housed three bedrooms. The master bedroom, shared by Jeffrey and Mary, echoed the garish tones of the living room below. Next was Rose's room, a stark contrast with its pink wallpaper, fluffy white carpet, and oversized bed. It was the only truly clean space in the house, meticulously maintained by Rose herself. Finally, there was a half-empty guest room, its large wardrobe bursting with clothes, and a bed where Jeffrey often found himself sleeping after yet another argument with Mary.
As Jeffrey entered the house, the air felt thick with grief. After Larsen's call, he had broken the devastating news to his wife, but Mary couldn't find the strength to accompany him to the crime scene. A chill permeated the house, all the windows thrown open as if trying to air out the suffocating sorrow. Mary, still clad in her purple pajamas, sat huddled on the living room floor, her back against the sofa as she cried, hugging her knees to her chest. At the sound of Jeffrey's entrance, she looked up, her face a mask of anguish.
"You have to find who did this," she cried out, her voice raw and breaking. "You have to find that bastard, or I'll never forgive you!" In a surge of emotion, she launched herself at Jeffrey, her fists pounding against his chest as sobs wracked her body.
"Pull yourself together, Mary," Jeffrey snapped, his voice rising as he grabbed her wrists to stop the onslaught. "This hysteria won't help anything. I already know what needs to be done!"
Mary's sobs subsided into a low keening as she slowly slid to the floor, her strength seeming to leave her all at once.
Jeffrey knelt beside his wife, gathering her into his arms. He made fervent promises to punish the one responsible, swearing he'd see justice done no matter the cost. Mary clung to him, suddenly seeming small and fragile. As he held her, Jeffrey's gaze drifted to the coffee table where Rose's photos stood in silent testament to a life cut short.
There was Rose as a toddler, beaming at the camera in a pink dress, clutching a white stuffed rabbit in the summer sunshine. Another showed her as a teenager, flanked by her parents in white shirts, their kisses planted on either of her cheeks as she stood before their house in a green T-shirt. The final photo captured Rose at her high school graduation, radiant in a blue dress, a bouquet of red roses in her arms.
The reality of their loss struck Jeffrey anew, a pain so sharp it seemed to physically wound him…
As the day wore on, Mary refused all food, her grief a palpable presence in the house. When night fell, sleep eluded her. She wandered from room to room like a restless spirit, barely acknowledging Jeffrey's attempts to comfort her. It was only as dawn began to break that exhaustion finally claimed her, and she collapsed onto Rose's bed, sinking into a fitful slumber.

Chapter 3
The following day, Nick Larsen's voice crackled over the phone line, requesting Jeffrey's presence at the station. There was news. Jeffrey's heart leapt, hope warring with dread as he imagined what information the detectives might have uncovered. He dressed hurriedly, his mind racing with possibilities. Perhaps they had a suspect, or some crucial piece of evidence had come to light. Within half an hour, he was striding through the doors of the police station, his anticipation palpable.
Nick Larsen's office, which he shared with Christian, occupied a corner of the second floor in the nondescript gray building that housed the Austin Police Department. As Jeffrey entered, Nick was struck by the sheriff's haggard appearance. It was clear Jeffrey had barely slept; his clothes were rumpled, his face drawn and pale beneath its usual ruddy hue.
The office itself was a study in understated functionality. Roughly twenty square meters in size, its walls were painted a light, soothing color that contrasted with the dark, well-maintained floors. Three desks dominated the space: Nick's, Christian's opposite, and a third, currently unoccupied desk beside Nick's. A large, clean window dominated one wall, though today the cloudy sky beyond offered little natural light. The overhead fixtures compensated, casting a bright glow over the room. To one side, a filing cabinet stood sentinel, its drawers likely filled with the paper trails of countless cases. All the furniture was done in light colors, lending the space an air of openness despite its modest size.
"Hello, Jeffrey," Nick greeted, gesturing to a chair beside his desk. "Please, have a seat."
Jeffrey lowered himself into the chair, his movements awkward and tense. He studied Nick's expression, trying to gauge what news awaited him. The detective's face gave little away, but there was a heaviness to his demeanor that made Jeffrey's heart sink.
"I'll go grab some coffee," Christian announced, sensing the need for privacy. He slipped on his jacket and quietly exited the office. As the door clicked shut behind him, Nick took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation ahead.
"We've received the pathologist's report and the analysis from the crime scene," Nick began, his voice carefully controlled. "I'm afraid the news isn't good, Jeffrey." He paused, lowering his eyes for a moment before meeting the sheriff's gaze once more.
"What do you mean, it isn't good?" Jeffrey's voice rose, a mix of fear and anger coloring his words. "What do you know? I want to know everything – we're talking about my daughter!"
"Rose died from asphyxiation," Nick continued, his tone gentle but firm. "The expert believes the murder weapon was a rope, though we found nothing at the crime scene." He paused, allowing Jeffrey a moment to process this information before continuing. "We found Rose's phone near her body. The last call was from Mary at 9:10 PM, which aligns with the estimated time of death. Traces at the scene indicate Rose was running, likely being chased. It appears she may have dropped her phone while trying to escape her pursuer."
Nick's expression grew grimmer as he delivered the next piece of information. "The most troubling aspect is that we found no traces of the killer. The rain that continued until morning washed away any evidence that might have been left behind. There are no surveillance cameras in the area – we've checked thoroughly. It seems the killer knew the area well and chose the location deliberately."
Jeffrey's gaze had grown distant, his mind struggling to process the horrific details of his daughter's final moments.
"Jeffrey, are you with me?" Nick pressed gently. "This is crucial information. I need you to try and remember – was there anything unusual about Rose's behavior recently? Did anything happen that stood out? Was she being threatened or stalked by anyone?"
"I don't remember anything like that," Jeffrey replied, his voice monotone, his eyes still unfocused.
"What about you, Jeffrey? Have you had any recent conflicts? Is there anyone who might wish harm on you or your loved ones?"
This question seemed to rouse Jeffrey from his stupor. He blinked, scratched at the bald spot on the back of his head, and bit his lip in thought.
"No, that's out of the question," he drawled, though a note of doubt crept into his voice. "I'm a decent person. I don't have enemies."
"Are you certain?" Nick pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he twirled a ballpoint pen between his fingers. "Maybe there's something you've forgotten? Even a small detail could be important."
"I'm sure," Jeffrey insisted, meeting Nick's gaze with a serious expression that betrayed no hint of deception.
"Alright," Nick conceded with a small sigh. "If you remember anything or learn any new information, call me immediately. For now, we'll be questioning those who were in the vicinity of the murder site."
As Jeffrey left, his shoulders slumped under the weight of grief and unanswered questions, Nick found himself battling a growing sense of unease. He waited for Christian's return, and together, they set out to search for witnesses, hoping against hope that someone, somewhere, had seen something that could shed light on this brutal crime.

Chapter 4
An hour later, Nick and Christian found themselves canvassing the neighborhood surrounding the crime scene. They moved methodically, knocking on doors, questioning homeowners and passersby. But with each conversation, their frustration grew. No one seemed to have seen or heard anything unusual on that fateful evening. The night's secrets remained stubbornly hidden.
As they neared the end of their route, the detectives' eyes fell upon the Green Vault bar. It stood just a stone's throw from where Rose's body had been discovered. Perhaps here, they thought, they might finally find a witness. From the outside, the establishment was unremarkable – a dark facade devoid of windows, with only a bright green neon sign above the door to announce its presence.
Stepping inside, Nick and Christian were immediately struck by the bar's gloomy atmosphere. The air was thick and stuffy, carrying the lingering scents of stale beer and fried food. The green walls, clearly an attempt at creating ambiance, seemed to cheapen the interior instead. Dim lights cast long shadows, their weak glow barely illuminating the dark brown, round wooden tables and chairs scattered throughout the space.
The bar staff, mostly young women, moved about in black pants and green t-shirts emblazoned with the establishment's name. At the center of the room stood a large, dark bar counter. Behind it, a peculiar-looking bartender in the same green uniform was lining up a row of glasses, preparing drinks with mechanical precision. Monotonous music droned in the background, barely audible over the low murmur of the sparse crowd.
Nick's eyes scanned the room, searching for surveillance cameras. To his dismay, he found none. He noticed the patrons eyeing them curiously, whispered conversations dying down as they passed. It wasn't long before a blonde woman with a short haircut approached them. She wore all black, a small silver stud glinting in her nose.
"Can I help you gentlemen?" she asked, her voice tinged with nervousness. "I'm Evelyn, the manager here."
Nick flashed his badge discreetly. "Detective Nick Larsen, and this is my colleague, Christian Basher. We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."
Evelyn nodded, gesturing towards a table tucked away in a corner beneath the stairs. "Of course. Let's sit over there, away from prying eyes and ears. We don't get many police visitors here, and I'd rather not alarm the customers."
Nick and Christian settled into chairs on one side of the table, while Evelyn took a seat across from them, her hands clasped nervously on the tabletop.
"We appreciate your cooperation, Evelyn," Nick began, his tone professional but not unkind. "Two days ago, a young woman named Rose Saltano was found dead near your bar. We're wondering if you might have seen her here that night."
Nick produced his phone, pulling up a photo of Rose. Evelyn leaned in, studying the image carefully.
"I wasn't working two nights ago," she said slowly, her brow furrowed in concentration. "But I've seen this girl before. She came in with friends a while back, drinking mulled wine."
"Can you remember when that was?" Christian pressed gently.
"Maybe about a month ago? I can't say for certain, but it wasn't recent," Evelyn replied, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.
Nick noted the slight hesitation in her answer, wondering if it was mere nervousness or something more. "Evelyn, is there someone who was working two nights ago that we could speak with?"
Evelyn's eyes darted towards the bar, as if searching for someone. After a moment, she turned back to the detectives. "The bartender, Arthur, was definitely working that night. I'll call him over."
A few minutes later, Evelyn returned with Arthur in tow. The bartender's appearance was striking, bordering on eccentric. His black hair was disheveled, as if he'd just rolled out of bed. Blue-tinted glasses perched on his nose, and his fingers were adorned with strange tattoos that resembled Egyptian hieroglyphics. It was clear from his demeanor that he was nervous, his eyes flicking between Nick and Christian as he approached.
"Hello, I'm Arthur, the bartender here," he said, his voice friendly despite the tension evident in his posture. "Evelyn said you had some questions for me?"
"That's right, Arthur," Nick replied, gesturing for the bartender to take a seat. "I'm Detective Nick Larsen, and this is my colleague, Christian Basher. We're investigating the murder of a young woman who was found dead two nights ago, not far from this bar. We're hoping you might have seen her that evening."
Nick once again displayed the photo of Rose on his phone. As Arthur leaned in to look, Nick noticed a change come over him. The bartender's fingers on his left hand intertwined, and he began to chew on the inside of his cheek – clear signs of growing anxiety.
"You know, it's really hard to say," Arthur began, his words coming out in a rush. "It was a Friday night, and we're always packed then. So many faces, you know?" He clasped his hands behind his back, as if trying to hide their trembling. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can help you. If you'll excuse me, I should get back to work."
As Arthur turned to leave, he nearly collided with a tall brunette waitress carrying a laden tray of food and drinks. Nick and Christian exchanged a meaningful glance as they watched him go.
"He's a bit… odd, isn't he?" Christian remarked quietly.
Evelyn, who had been hovering nearby, was quick to defend her employee. "Yes, Arthur can be peculiar, but he's a good person at heart."
"Thank you for your time, Evelyn," Nick said, rising from his chair. He handed her a business card. "If you remember anything else or hear anything that might be relevant, please give me a call."
Evelyn nodded politely, escorting them to the exit. As they left, Nick couldn't help but notice Arthur behind the bar, anxiously watching their departure as he polished glasses with shaking hands.
Once outside, Nick shoved his hands in his pockets, his mind working overtime to process what they'd just witnessed.
"You know, Christian," he said, his voice low and thoughtful, "I don't buy that bartender's story for a second. My gut tells me he's lying to us. Did you see how nervous he got when he saw Rose's photo? Something's not right here."
An idea began to form in Nick's mind. Maybe they needed to speak with Arthur again, but not in the bar. After a brief discussion with Christian, they decided to return in a few hours, at the end of Arthur's shift, hoping to catch him alone and perhaps more willing to talk.
With their plan set, the detectives made their way back to Nick's police car, parked across the street from the Green Vault. As they climbed in, both men felt a mix of anticipation and unease. They were on the trail of something – but what that something was, and where it might lead them, remained to be seen.

Chapter 5

Darkness had fallen over Austin, the streetlights casting long shadows across the quiet streets. Nick and Christian sat in tense silence, their eyes fixed on the entrance of the Green Vault. Finally, they spotted Arthur leaving the bar. The bartender had changed out of his work uniform, though he still wore the same black pants. He'd donned a sweatshirt, its yellow hood emblazoned with the image of a sleek sports car. As Arthur set off down the street, the detectives quietly exited their vehicle and followed at a discreet distance.
"Arthur, wait up," Nick called out as they drew closer. "We need to talk."
Arthur froze mid-step, then slowly turned to face them. His nervousness was palpable, his voice shaky as he spoke. "What do you want? I've already told you, I don't know anything."
"You see, Arthur," Christian said, his gaze steady and penetrating, "the problem is, we don't believe you."
Arthur's fingers on his left hand intertwined anxiously, and he began to rub his nose with his right, his eyes fixed on his shoes. Nick decided to change tactics, his tone becoming more friendly and approachable.
"Look, Arthur, I can see you're not a bad person," Nick said gently. "Please, just tell us what you saw that evening. Whatever it is, it's important."
Arthur's face contorted, the internal struggle visible in his features. It was clear his conscience was troubling him, and he seemed to be on the verge of deciding that coming clean was the right thing to do. When he finally spoke, his words came out haltingly, his lips tight with stress, slightly distorting his speech.
"Okay… yes, I saw that girl that evening," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "She was sitting at the bar with a guy. He was drinking alcohol, and she… I think she was drinking juice, but I can't remember exactly. They argued for a long time, and then they had a fight. After that, the girl left crying. The guy left almost immediately after her." Arthur paused, swallowing hard before continuing. "When I heard on the news that she'd been found dead, I got scared. And today, when I saw you in the bar, I knew right away why you'd come."
Nick and Christian exchanged a significant look. They believed Arthur's story, but now they needed to convince him to give an official statement.
"Arthur, can you describe this guy?" Nick asked, his voice calm but urgent. "We need to go to the station and create a composite sketch. This man could be the killer we're looking for."
"Yes, I'll help," Arthur agreed, his voice trembling but determined.
They made their way to Nick's police car and, within half an hour, were seated in the station's interview room, working with a sketch artist to bring Arthur's memory to life. Two hours passed as they painstakingly pieced together the suspect's features. When they finished, Nick stared intently at the composite sketch: a man in his mid to late thirties, with a distinctive zigzag-shaped scar on his cheek, light shoulder-length hair, thick eyebrows, and narrow eyes set in an oval face with sunken cheekbones.
After thanking Arthur for his cooperation and seeing him safely home, Nick called Christian over to examine the sketch.
"Does he look familiar to you?" Nick asked, a hint of recognition sparking in his own mind.
A grin spread across Christian's face as he leaned in, his hand resting on the back of Nick's chair. "Without a doubt, that's Bradley Force!"

Information from the suspect's file:
Bradley Force, known in some circles by the nickname "Fox." Thirty-six years old, born and raised in Austin. His record shows a pattern of delinquent behavior stretching back to his adolescence, with multiple incidents of hooliganism and petty theft, often in the company of his friend Steven Cooper. Bradley's childhood was marked by instability; he entered the foster care system at age twelve and, despite being adopted, never quite settled into the role of the dutiful son. His biological parents had their rights terminated, and Bradley reportedly never saw them again after entering foster care. As an adult, Bradley has led a dissolute lifestyle, with no record of steady employment.
Steven Cooper – Bradley Force's closest associate and lifelong friend. They were classmates throughout their school years. Unlike Bradley, Steven had a relatively stable childhood and was known as an obedient child until he fell in with Bradley in their teens. Steven's personality is notably submissive; he tends to follow Bradley's lead in most situations. Born in St. Paul, he moved to Austin with his parents at the age of seven. Physically, he's described as heavyset, with prominent upper front teeth, curly dark hair, and light-colored eyes. He stands at medium height, roughly the same as Bradley.
A crucial detail suddenly clicked into place for Nick and Christian: Bradley and Steven had been classmates of the murdered Rose Saltano.
"Christian, you're right on the money – it's definitely Bradley Force," Nick said, his voice tight with the urgency of their breakthrough. He began shutting down his computer and reaching for his jacket. "We need to question him immediately. We now know for certain that he was the last person seen with Rose, and Arthur's account confirms there was a conflict between them that evening."
"Should we inform Jeffrey about what we've learned?" Christian asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
"Yes, but let's do that this afternoon. It's crucial we question Bradley first. We should head to his place right now." Nick was already halfway to the door when he noticed Christian's hesitation. His colleague was clearly struggling with how to delicately suggest that they both needed rest after their long day.
"Nick, it's five in the morning," Christian said gently. "Maybe we should at least go home for a few hours of sleep. We'll be sharper after some rest."
Nick paused, considering Christian's words. As much as he wanted to pursue this lead immediately, he knew his partner had a point. Exhaustion could lead to mistakes, and they couldn't afford any missteps at this critical juncture of the investigation.
"You're right, Christian," Nick conceded with a sigh. "The morning is wiser than the evening, as they say. Let's get some rest and hit this fresh in a few hours."

Chapter 6
The next day dawned bright and clear, a gentle breeze carrying the sweet songs of birds through the air. It seemed almost perverse that nature could be so beautiful in the wake of such tragedy.
Nick placed a call to Christian, instructing him to meet him directly at Bradley Force's residence rather than stopping by the station first. They converged on the southern part of town, an area known for its age and history. During the day, this neighborhood was typically quiet and peaceful, most residents away at work. The streets were lined with trees imported from Europe, lending the area a quaint, almost old-world charm. The houses were predominantly single-story structures, many clearly over three decades old.
Leaving their car parked at the curb, Nick and Christian approached a weathered, beige wooden house that had clearly seen better days. It stood slightly askew, its windows grimy and opaque. The scent of decaying wood hung in the air, a testament to years of neglect.
The detectives rang the doorbell, its muffled chime barely audible through the thick wooden door. After a moment, it creaked open to reveal a short, thin woman with gray hair cut close to her scalp. She wore a long, shapeless gray robe that seemed to swallow her diminutive frame. Nick estimated her age to be somewhere between sixty-five and seventy. Her face was set in an expression of extreme displeasure, as if their very presence on her doorstep was an affront.
This, Nick realized, must be Bradley Force's foster mother. Her lack of surprise at their visit spoke volumes – clearly, the police were not unfamiliar visitors to this household.
"What do you want?" the woman demanded, her voice high and grating.
"Good morning, ma'am," Nick began, striving for a polite tone despite the woman's hostility. "We need to speak with your son, Bradley. We have a few questions for him. May we come inside?"
"No!" she snapped, her voice rising even higher. "I haven't seen him in ages. I have no idea where he is or who he's with!"
Her words dripped with indifference, a stark contrast to the heated tone of her voice. At that moment, a black cat slunk out of the house, winding its way around the woman's ankles.
"Damned cat!" she exclaimed, scooping the animal into her arms. Without another word, she simply slammed the door in their faces.
"Well, she's clearly got some issues," Nick thought to himself, shaking his head with a heavy sigh.
"What now?" Christian asked, looking as perplexed as Nick felt.
"Steven's house isn't far from here," Nick mused. "Let's check there. Maybe our guy is hanging out with his buddy."
Steven's residence proved to be remarkably similar to Bradley's – another single-story structure showing clear signs of age and neglect. The only notable difference was its color, or what remained of it. Years of rain had stripped away so much of the paint that it was difficult to determine its original hue, leaving behind a mottled patchwork somewhere between blue and gray. A rusty, unlocked gate stood sentinel before the house.
They rang the doorbell several times, but were met with only silence. Nick took a walk around the perimeter, peering into windows and listening for any signs of life within. The house appeared to be completely vacant, giving the impression that it had been abandoned for quite some time.
"You know, Christian," Nick said, his voice laden with concern, "I really don't like the fact that these two have vanished right after Rose's death. Could they really be involved in this?"
Christian shrugged, his expression a mix of doubt and resignation. "I don't know what to think, Nick. These guys are Grade-A jerks, sure, but murder? Especially Rose, who they've known since school? She's the sheriff's daughter, for crying out loud. I can't imagine they'd have the guts for something like that."
"Maybe you're right," Nick conceded, though he couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial. "But we still need to find them. Let's head over to Jeffrey's place, then back to the station. We need to dig deeper into Bradley and Steven's backgrounds. Clearly, our information on their current whereabouts is outdated."
As they made their way back to the car, Nick couldn't help but feel a sense of urgency. They needed to locate Bradley and Steven before Jeffrey took matters into his own hands. The grieving father's barely contained rage was a powder keg waiting to explode, and Nick feared what might happen if Jeffrey got to the suspects before the police did.

Chapter 7
Nick and Christian finally arrived at the Saltano residence, the weight of their fruitless search hanging heavy between them. As they approached the front door, it swung open to reveal Mary Saltano. The sight of her nearly stopped Nick in his tracks. In the short time since Rose's death, Mary seemed to have aged a decade. Her hair hung limp and lifeless, so dirty it resembled straw more than human hair. Her black loungewear, clearly unwashed for days, hung loosely on her frame. But it was her eyes that truly gave Nick pause – red-rimmed and swollen from endless tears, they seemed to bore into him with a single, desperate question:
"Have you found the killer?"
The raw anguish in her voice cut through Nick like a knife. He felt the full weight of their lack of progress, knowing he had little of substance to offer this grieving mother.
"Hello, Mary," Nick began, his voice gentle. "We're doing everything in our power, but I'm afraid we don't have any definitive answers yet. What we do know is that Bradley Force was likely the last person to see Rose alive. We have a witness who saw them together at the Green Vault bar. There seems to have been some kind of argument between them. We're trying to locate Bradley now, but it appears he and his friend Steven are no longer living at their known addresses."
Nick watched Mary carefully as he spoke, noting how she seemed to sway slightly on her feet, as if the weight of her grief might topple her at any moment. His heart ached for her, knowing all too well the inadequacy of his words in the face of such profound loss.
As Nick finished speaking, Jeffrey appeared behind Mary, dressed in his sheriff's uniform. From his expression, it was clear he had overheard everything. Without a word, he ushered the detectives into the living room. Christian's eyes widened slightly as he took in the garish red wallpaper, a stark contrast to the somber mood permeating the house. Nick, however, had eyes only for Mary, overwhelmed by the depth of her suffering. "God, you wouldn't wish this on your worst enemy," he thought to himself.
Jeffrey, barely containing his rage, began pacing the living room, muttering unintelligibly under his breath. Mary sank onto the couch, her head bowed, a picture of silent despair. Nick took a seat beside her, while Christian stood awkwardly at the entrance to the living room.
"Mary," Nick began gently, "can you tell me about Rose's relationship with Bradley?"
At the question, Mary's composure crumbled entirely. She buried her face in her hands, her body wracked with sobs as guilt seemed to consume her. Jeffrey, in stark contrast, erupted in a shout that echoed through the house:
"Our daughter had nothing to do with that loser! They were just classmates, nothing more! I forbade her to associate with those two good-for-nothings. I told her they weren't her equals!"
"Jeffrey," Christian interjected, his voice calm but firm, "if that's the case, why was Rose with Bradley at the bar? Our witness reports an argument between them, followed by some kind of physical altercation."
Before Jeffrey could respond, Mary's voice cut through the tension, quiet but clear:
"Rose told me that Bradley had been persistently trying to court her. He'd been chasing after her since their school days, but Rose never reciprocated his feelings. I… I don't understand why she was with him that evening."
Jeffrey collapsed into an armchair opposite the couch, looking as if he'd been physically struck by this revelation.
"What? Why the hell didn't you tell me any of this before, Mary?" he snarled, his face contorting with a mixture of anger and betrayal. "I would have dealt with that punk long ago!"
"Rose begged me not to tell you," Mary replied, her voice barely above a whisper as she rubbed her knees nervously. "But who could have imagined he would… that he would kill our little girl?"
"Hold on," Nick interjected, his tone calm but authoritative. "Mary, let's not jump to conclusions. We can't say with certainty that Bradley is the killer. Right now, we have no concrete evidence against him, only the testimony of a witness who saw them together that evening."
Mary's sobs intensified, and suddenly she appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Her head was spinning, and she looked as if she might faint at any moment. Jeffrey, his anger momentarily forgotten, rushed to help his wife up to their bedroom on the second floor. He gently laid her on the bed, covering her with a blanket. Mary's body shook uncontrollably, prompting Jeffrey to give her a sedative to help her sleep.
"I don't want to live anymore, Jeff," Mary whispered, her voice fading as the sedative began to take effect. "I don't want to…"
Her words trailed off as she drifted into an uneasy sleep, the combination of exhaustion and medication finally overtaking her. Nick and Christian waited downstairs, and after a few minutes, Jeffrey descended the stairs, his face a mask of barely contained emotion.
"How's Mary holding up?" Nick asked, genuine concern in his voice.
"I gave her a sedative," Jeffrey replied, his tone flat. "She's asleep now."
"Alright, then Christian and I will head back to the station. We'll try to get more information on Bradley and Steven's whereabouts."
Jeffrey's demeanor suddenly shifted, his eyes blazing with a dangerous intensity. "Do whatever you want, but I have not a single doubt that he killed my daughter! I'll find him myself if I have to."
Nick felt a chill run down his spine at Jeffrey's words. The sheriff's mood was volatile, unpredictable. It felt as if he was planning something rash, something that could jeopardize the entire investigation.
"Jeffrey, please," Nick implored, his voice stern but tinged with understanding. "Don't do anything stupid. We'll sort this out ourselves, and whoever's responsible will answer to the full extent of the law." Nick and Christian were already at the door when Jeffrey advanced on them, his index finger raised in a threatening gesture.
"I am the law!" Jeffrey shouted, his face contorted with rage. "I'm the sheriff of this godforsaken town!" Spittle flew from his mouth as he yelled, some of it landing on Christian's polished black shoes.
Christian grimaced in disgust, pulling a tissue from his jacket pocket to wipe his shoe clean. Nick tactfully pretended not to notice the exchange.
"Jeffrey, we understand your emotions," Nick said, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "But please, try to calm down. Your wife needs you now more than ever. We'll keep you informed of any developments, alright?"
"Fine, agreed," Jeffrey replied, his glare still filled with malice. But behind his eyes, a different plan was already taking shape…
As soon as Christian and Nick left for the station, Jeffrey stormed out of the house and climbed into his pickup truck. He headed towards the outskirts of town, his mind racing with dark thoughts. Just before reaching the city limits, he veered left onto a narrow paved road that cut through a dense stretch of forest. After about a mile, he made a sharp right turn. There, in the middle of the woods, stood a large, imposing mansion.
Jeffrey harbored secrets that had long made him unpopular in town. Many suspected he took bribes and turned a blind eye to petty crimes, but his biggest secret was his connection to a particular gang known as the Hawks. This large, well-organized group operated across multiple states, with high-level connections that kept them largely untouchable. Their primary business was arms trafficking, and their leader was known only by the nickname "Bison." His real name remained a closely guarded secret.
Bison was an imposing figure – a tall, athletically built African American man with a shaved head. His arms were a canvas of intricate tattoos depicting various weapons. At forty-seven, he cut an intimidating figure. He had a wife and two sons living in a mansion in Caracas, Venezuela, where Bison himself had been born. From childhood, Bison had been shaped by the streets, clawing his way up through a life of crime to reach his current position of power. He had no tolerance for empty words or actions, holding his people to the highest standards of loyalty and efficiency.
Jeffrey and Bison's relationship stretched back eight years. Mary's late father had been an influential figure in town with powerful connections, and it was through these connections that Jeffrey had first made contact with Bison. In return for Jeffrey's cooperation, Bison had pulled strings to ensure Jeffrey became the sheriff of Austin in 2015. Jeffrey had played his part well, keeping the local police oblivious to the Hawks' existence. As a cover, Bison owned several grocery stores and gas stations in Austin and neighboring towns, effectively diverting attention from his true operations.
It was to Bison that Jeffrey now turned, desperation driving him to seek help from the dangerous man he both feared and relied upon.

Chapter 8
An hour later, Jeffrey found himself standing before the entrance of the sprawling two-story mansion. The light-colored edifice resembled an impregnable fortress, secured behind an expensive stone fence. A small army of burly guards in black suits patrolled the grounds, their watchful eyes scanning for any sign of trouble.
Jeffrey pulled up to the gates, stepping out of his vehicle with forced confidence. The security detail, recognizing the sheriff, allowed him to pass without issue. Two particularly imposing guards were tasked with escorting the visitor to the house.
As they entered, Jeffrey was struck anew by the opulence of the interior. The massive living room resembled a tropical oasis, complete with a central fountain surrounded by lush vegetation. Subdued lighting cast long shadows across the space, while a large parrot squawked loudly from its ornate cage suspended from the ceiling. The green walls were adorned with expensive frescoes, and the air was cool and crisp thanks to state-of-the-art air conditioning. Oversized dark green leather sofas and armchairs lined the walls, facing an enormous flat-screen TV that dominated one wall.
At the far end of the living room, a grand staircase of expensive white stone with dark wood banisters led to the second floor. The upper level opened onto a long, straight corridor. Its walls matched the green theme of the lower level, with large potted plants lining the hallway. Several closed doors of dark, richly stained wood were visible, with a large panoramic window at the corridor's end. Jeffrey was led through the first door on the left – Bison's office.
The office dеcor was a stark departure from the rest of the house. A gleaming black floor reflected the bright light from a hanging crystal chandelier. Fresh air wafted in through a large open window, carrying with it the muffled conversations of the guards at the gates. Light gray walls served as a backdrop for an impressive array of weapons – Bison's prized collection, which he treated as a hobby.
The man himself sat behind a massive black wooden desk, lounging in a large dark leather chair. He wore a white tank top that emphasized his muscular physique, a thick gold chain hanging around his neck and resting on his chest.
The most striking features of the office were two Japanese katanas mounted on a stand behind Bison's desk. Opposite sat a slightly smaller black leather chair for visitors. Every detail of the room exuded expensive taste and power.
"Leave us," Bison commanded the guards, who promptly exited the office. "Well, hello Jeffrey. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"
Bison's tone was all business, tinged with an underlying strictness that put Jeffrey on edge. Despite their long association, Jeffrey genuinely respected – and feared – Bison. He spoke softly, almost pleadingly, as he took a seat in the chair opposite the crime lord.
"I assume you've heard about what happened to my daughter?" Jeffrey began, his hands resting nervously on his knees.
"Yes, I'm aware," Bison replied, his voice devoid of sympathy. "Shit happens. I know everything that goes on in our town. My condolences, Jeffrey. But what does this have to do with me?" He raised an eyebrow, resting his chin on his index finger as he regarded the sheriff with cool detachment.
"I know who killed my daughter," Jeffrey said, leaning forward and placing his hands on the desk. "This guy needs to be dealt with. I need the help of your people."
Bison let out a derisive laugh, looking at Jeffrey not with pity, but with contempt. "Jeffrey, you clearly don't understand what you're asking right now. My people aren't your personal hit squad to solve your problems. That's what the police are for." The gang leader's voice dripped with irony.
"I thought we were partners," Jeffrey protested, unable to hide the hurt in his voice.
"Ha! If we're partners, you especially shouldn't come to me with requests like this. I hope I've made myself clear?"
"How can this be?" Jeffrey's tone grew more insistent, desperation creeping in. "I've been working for you for eight years. I've never let you down. You have to help me."
"Jeffrey, I don't owe you anything," Bison's voice took on a dangerous edge. "You seem to have forgotten that you're living comfortably only thanks to me."
Defeated, Jeffrey stood and began to walk towards the office door.
"You know, Jeffrey," Bison called after him, a smirk playing on his lips, "this is karma for your past." Jeffrey turned, his face a mask of confusion as he stared at the floor.
"I always say that in this life, everyone gets their due. Your day has come."
Bison's malicious laughter filled the room. Jeffrey raised his eyes to meet Bison's gaze.
"Don't talk to me about karma," he spat. "I already know we're all sinners here. If you can't help me deal with this guy, at least tell me where I can find him."
Jeffrey approached the desk once more, showing Bison a photo of Bradley Force on his phone. Bison glanced at it, his face twisting with disgust.
"I don't know this guy. People like that don't run in my circles."
Without another word, Jeffrey turned and left, fury and despair warring within him. He had been certain Bison would help him. Now he realized he would have to hunt for Bradley on his own.
Back at the station, Nick and Christian were hunched over their computers, scouring databases for any information that might lead them to Bradley Force. But as the hours ticked by, their frustration only grew. It seemed that little had changed since their last search. Bradley Force still had no official job, no registered address. His last known residence remained his mother's house, where they had already failed to find him. The detectives felt like they were chasing ghosts.
"I don't understand," Christian exclaimed, slamming his fist on his desk in frustration. "They have to be living somewhere!"
Nick rubbed his forehead, a thought forming in his mind. "What if Bradley's mother lied about her son no longer living with her? What if she does know where he is?"
"Christian," Nick continued, a new determination in his voice, "we need to set up surveillance on Bradley and Steven's houses. Something tells me that's how we'll find them."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Christian replied hesitantly. "But at this point, what do we have to lose?"
As they made arrangements for the surveillance, Nick couldn't shake the nagging feeling that they were in a race against time. He kept thinking about Jeffrey's volatile state, worried that the grieving father might take matters into his own hands before they could locate Bradley.
Within the hour, surveillance was set up on both Bradley and Steven's houses. The police settled in for what they hoped would be a short stakeout, but were prepared for a long wait if necessary. They were on duty around the clock, watching and waiting for any sign of the two young men who had become the focus of their investigation.

Chapter 9

The stakeout had yielded no results. Bradley and Steven remained elusive, their whereabouts a maddening mystery.
Nick and Christian found themselves back at the station, nursing cups of coffee as they tried to make sense of their lack of progress. Outside, the sun shone brightly, a stark contrast to the gloomy mood within the office.
"I think we need to put out an APB on Bradley," Christian declared, the frustration evident in his voice.
Nick sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead as he frowned. "We don't have grounds for that."
"And isn't the fact that they both disappeared right after Rose's murder grounds enough?"
Nick didn't answer, his mind clearly elsewhere.
"I think we need to call off the surveillance," he said after a moment. "I'll phone the officer on duty now and give the all-clear."
As Nick dialed the number, he was surprised by what he heard on the other end of the line. The officer reported that just minutes ago, Sheriff Jeffrey had arrived at Bradley's house. After knocking, Bradley's mother had answered and let him in. Alarmed, Nick instructed the officer to report any suspicious activity and hung up.
"Damn it all," he muttered under his breath.
"What's wrong?" Christian asked, concern etched on his face.
"The officer just told me Jeffrey showed up at Bradley's house. He's inside right now."
"Well… I guess he's still looking for Bradley after all."
"Looks that way," Nick replied, his voice tight with worry. "If the officer doesn't report that Jeffrey's left within ten minutes, I'm sending him in."
Five tense minutes later, the officer called back. He reported that Jeffrey had stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him in a rage. Bradley's mother had run out after him, shouting that her son hadn't killed Rose.
Nick gave the order to call off the surveillance, his mind racing with the implications of what had just transpired.

Chapter 10

Nick arrived home, the weight of the day's events heavy on his shoulders. His house stood as a bastion of normalcy amidst the chaos of the investigation – a modest two-story structure built in classic American style. Its brown exterior and black roof blended seamlessly with the other homes on the street, large windows and a spacious porch lending it an air of warmth and welcome. A well-maintained lawn stretched out front, complete with a barbecue area that spoke of lazy summer evenings spent with family and friends.
Despite its modest size, the interior of the house radiated coziness and cleanliness. From the entryway, soft, light tones painted the walls, creating an atmosphere of calm. The living room boasted a plush carpet in a complementary shade, while a comfortable beige sofa faced the television. Soft blue curtains framed the windows, and nearby, a glass-fronted cabinet displayed family photos and various knick-knacks collected over the years.
The kitchen, though small, was equally inviting. A large, spotless window at the far end allowed natural light to flood the space during the day. A rectangular dining table, covered with a crisp white tablecloth, stood nearby, surrounded by six light wood chairs. On either side of the kitchen, countertops provided ample workspace, while a two-door refrigerator in sleek gray completed the efficient layout.
A staircase near the kitchen led to the second floor, where two bedrooms awaited. Nick and Kate's room was decorated in soothing light tones, featuring a large bed and a spacious wardrobe. The children's bedroom was a whimsical contrast, with a bunk bed shaped like a playhouse and walls covered in bright wallpaper depicting stars and planets – a perfect haven for young imaginations.
Nick's wife, Kate, was the heart of this home – a devoted wife, loving mother, and skilled homemaker. She and Nick had been together since their youth, their bond only strengthening with the passing years. At thirty-nine, Kate remained a striking beauty – a blue-eyed blonde with long, flowing hair and a smattering of freckles across her fair skin. Of medium height and slender build, she still turned heads, a reminder of her days as a frequent winner of local beauty contests in her youth. Many remarked on how well-matched she and Nick were, their physical similarities only emphasizing their deep connection.
Their children, Edward and Gina, were perfect blends of their parents. Edward was the spitting image of his father, while Gina took after her mother in both looks and temperament. The family was completed by Thor, their loyal Doberman, who was treated as a full-fledged member of the household.
Kate had always loved cooking and caring for her family. In her younger days, she had dreamed of becoming a designer, but the whirlwind romance with Nick had altered her life's trajectory. Yet she harbored no regrets, finding genuine happiness in the life they had built together. Kate's parents lived in San Francisco, and the family made it a tradition to visit them for a month each summer. Nick's parents, seeking warmth in their golden years, had relocated to Orlando, Florida. Nick and the children made it a point to visit them when the chill of autumn settled over Austin.
As Nick entered the house, he could hear the tail end of dinner. Thor, ever vigilant, was the first to greet him, bounding towards the door with enthusiasm. Close behind came the pitter-patter of small feet as Gina and Edward raced to welcome their father home. Nick stood in the hallway, removing his jacket and shoes, a smile breaking through his weariness at the sight of his children.
"Dad's home! Dad's home!" they chorused, their excitement palpable.
"Hi Gina, hi Edward!" Nick knelt to kiss each child, then gave Thor an affectionate pat. "I've missed you all so much. I'm home early today! Where's your mom? Why isn't she here to greet me?"
As Nick embraced his children, he heard Kate's footsteps approaching from the kitchen. Her voice, tinged with a hint of exasperation, reached him before she came into view.
"You call this early? We were just about to head to bed!" Kate stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall, dressed in a pink home T-shirt and black knee-length shorts. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she held a kitchen towel in her hands.
"Kate, honey, don't start," Nick pleaded, his tone light despite his exhaustion. "You know you're the greatest treasure in my world."
He moved to embrace his wife, the familiar scent of her shampoo momentarily pushing away the stress of the day. Since Rose Saltano's murder, Nick had been spending long hours at work, often returning home well after the rest of the family had gone to bed. Kate understood the demands of his job, but he could sense the underlying hurt in her words.
After washing up and changing into comfortable blue pants and a T-shirt, Nick joined his family in the kitchen. The children, excited to have their father home at a reasonable hour, eagerly shared stories of their day – tales of triumphs in sports, adventures with friends, and all the little moments they'd been longing to share. Kate stood at the sink, washing dishes, a smile playing on her lips as she listened to the animated chatter.
"Dad, can we watch a movie together when you're done eating?" Edward asked hopefully.
"No movies tonight," Kate interjected firmly. "You have to get up early tomorrow, remember?"
"Please, Mom?" Edward pleaded, his eyes wide and imploring. "We'll only watch for a little bit, then straight to bed. Promise!"
Kate's resolve wavered in the face of her son's puppy-dog eyes. With a sigh, she relented, unable to deny her children this rare evening with their father.
As Kate finished with the dishes, Nick came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and planting a kiss on her cheek.
"You're the best mom and wife in the world," he murmured. Kate's smile widened, the tension of the past weeks melting away in the warmth of the moment.
"I love you all so very much," she replied softly.
Nick headed to the living room, Edward and Gina flanking him on either side.
"So, what shall we watch?" he asked, settling onto the couch.
"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!" the children exclaimed in unison.
"Alright then, let's do it!"
They all cuddled together on the couch, Nick in the middle with the children snuggled against him on either side. As the familiar theme music filled the room, Nick felt the day's worries begin to recede, replaced by the simple joy of being with his family.
"Wake up, sleepyhead!" Edward's voice, tinged with amusement, roused Nick from an unexpected slumber. He felt a small finger poking his stomach gently.
"Did I fall asleep?" Nick mumbled, blinking in confusion.
He had been so exhausted, yet so content, that he hadn't even noticed drifting off. Nearly an hour and a half had passed, the movie long since ended. Kate, he realized, had already gone to bed.
"Okay, kids, time for bed," he announced, stifling a yawn. "We'll finish the movie another night."
After tucking the children in, Nick headed to the kitchen for a glass of water before turning in himself. As he reached for a glass, his mobile phone, left on the kitchen table, began to ring. The caller ID showed it was Christian.
"What could have happened now? It's 12:10 AM," Nick muttered, a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach.
"Hello, Christian. What's up?"
Christian's voice crackled through the speaker, urgency evident in his tone. "Nick, you need to come in right away. Bradley Force and Sheriff Jeffrey have been brought to the station. Jeffrey burst into the house of a guy named Peter Gomez – apparently, he's a drug addict and a friend of Bradley and Steven. Jeffrey started shooting up the place with his pistol! Thankfully, no one was injured. The neighbors heard the shots and called it in quickly. Steven Cooper and Peter managed to escape in the chaos."
"Christ," Nick swore under his breath. "I'm on my way."
"Alright, I'll meet you there."
As Nick hung up, he realized that any hope of sleep had vanished. He didn't wake Kate, not wanting to burden her with this new development. Instead, he quickly changed back into his work clothes and headed out into the night, his mind racing with the implications of Jeffrey's reckless actions.

Chapter 11
Upon arriving at the station, Nick learned that Jeffrey and Bradley had been placed in separate holding cells. He instructed the officers to bring Jeffrey to the interrogation room, ensuring that the sheriff's weapon – the pistol used in the shooting – had been properly confiscated and logged as evidence.
The interrogation room was a stark, windowless space that seemed designed to unsettle those brought within its walls. Dark blue paint covered the walls, adding to the oppressive atmosphere. A large table dominated the center of the room, flanked by four chairs. Overhead, a long fluorescent lamp cast a harsh, unforgiving light. Behind a two-way mirror, two officers stood ready to observe the proceedings.
Jeffrey was led in, still in handcuffs. Once seated at the table, an officer removed the restraints. Nick took his place across from Jeffrey, while Christian positioned himself near the entrance, a silent observer to the tense scene about to unfold.
Nick leaned forward, his voice low and controlled, but tinged with disbelief. "Jeffrey, what the hell were you thinking? Have you completely lost your mind? You're facing charges of attempted murder. Do you understand the gravity of what you've done?"
Jeffrey met Nick's gaze unflinchingly, his voice devoid of remorse. "I don't care. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I have no doubt that he's the killer."
Nick shook his head, frustration evident in his tone. "You're lucky you didn't wound or kill anyone. You realize you'll likely be removed from your position as sheriff, right?"
"I've already told you, I don't care!" Jeffrey's voice rose, his anger palpable in the small room.
Christian, sensing the need to redirect the conversation, interjected. "How did you even find Bradley Force?"
"His mother told me," Jeffrey replied curtly.
Nick's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his voice. "What, did you threaten her?"
Jeffrey's response was brusque, bordering on insolent. "It doesn't matter. I've said all I'm going to say. Do your job and put that bastard Bradley away."
Christian sighed heavily, his voice tinged with disappointment. "Jeffrey, Jeffrey, you should have thought about your wife Mary."
Nick reached for his mobile phone, dialing the duty officers. He requested that Bradley be brought to the interrogation room. Moments later, Bradley was led in, his hands cuffed and his gaze fixed on the floor. He swayed slightly as he walked, his demeanor unsteady. Upon seeing Bradley, Jeffrey leapt from his chair, lunging towards the younger man with murderous intent. The officers quickly intervened, forcing Jeffrey back into his seat. Bradley remained standing near the door, his posture tense and wary.
"I'll kill you!" Jeffrey roared, his face contorted with rage.
Nick's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and authoritative. "Jeffrey, if you don't calm down right this instant, I'll have you put back in handcuffs!"
Bradley's voice, when he spoke, was nasal and slurred, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Hey, get this psycho out of here! He tried to kill me!" He jabbed an accusing finger in Jeffrey's direction. Bradley's appearance was as disheveled as his speech – his black jeans were torn and dirty, his blue T-shirt looked as if it hadn't been washed in weeks. The zigzag scar on his cheek stood out starkly against his pallid skin.
"And you, you bastard, killed my daughter!" Jeffrey shot back, his voice dripping with venom.
"Jeffrey, I'm warning you for the last time," Christian interjected, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Shut up, or I'll have you removed from this room immediately."
Bradley's next words came out in a panicked rush. "I've already told you, I didn't kill your daughter. We were friends, we hung out together!"
"Shut your mouth!" Jeffrey bellowed. "My daughter would never have associated with a dirty lowlife like you!"
"That's enough!" Nick's shout silenced the room. The interrogation had devolved into a circus, with Nick cast in the unenviable role of ringmaster, desperately trying to maintain order and extract some semblance of truth from the chaos.
"Sit him down and remove the handcuffs," Nick instructed the officers, gesturing towards Bradley. They complied, seating Bradley at the edge of the table opposite Jeffrey. Bradley kept his head down, his gaze fixed on the table's surface.
Christian, eyeing Bradley's disheveled state, couldn't resist a barbed comment. "You look awful, to put it mildly. A homeless person would look more presentable."
Nick shot his partner a warning glance before turning his attention back to Bradley. "Look at me, Bradley. Tell me where you've been for the past two weeks. We have a witness who saw you with Rose at the bar on the night of her murder. It's a strange coincidence that you disappeared without a trace after that."
Bradley raised his head slowly, his bloodshot eyes darting nervously around the room as he rubbed his nose. "We were just hanging out that evening, that's all. And these past two weeks… I've been drinking. Because I found out Rose was dead. My mother told me – she saw it on the news."
Bradley's words came out in a slurred mumble, punctuated by frequent pauses to wipe away the saliva that dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
"What are you mumbling about, you freak?" Jeffrey interjected, his voice dripping with contempt. "Tell the truth! Admit that you killed Rose!"
"Jeffrey, I swear to God, if you don't shut up right now, I will have you removed from this room," Nick warned, his patience finally reaching its limit. He turned back to Bradley, forcing his voice to remain calm and steady.
"Bradley, we also know that you and Rose were arguing that evening, and then had some kind of physical altercation. After which, she left and was later found dead. How do you explain this? What happened between you two?"
Bradley's hand shook violently as he pointed an accusing finger at Jeffrey. "We fought because of him!"
"Because of me? What nonsense are you spewing, you degenerate?" Jeffrey snarled, his voice low but dripping with venom. Nick shot him a warning glance that could have frozen hell itself. Jeffrey lowered his head, and Bradley seized the opportunity to continue:
"Rose told me you'd never approve of us being together. So I lashed out, told her to go crawling back to daddy. She stormed off, and I split about two minutes later. I was a mess, so I crashed at my friend Sarah's place – her house is just a stone's throw from the bar. You can verify it with her. I'll jot down the address for you."
"We'll look into that," Nick said, his voice measured. "But until your story checks out, you're not going anywhere." He paused, studying Bradley's face with the intensity of a raptor eyeing its prey. "Now, there's one more thing I've been itching to ask… That nasty scar on your cheek – where'd you pick that up?"
Bradley's lips curled into a sneer, his hand unconsciously rubbing his nose.
"Some punk gave it to me back in high school. Ancient history."
Nick remained silent, his gaze ping-ponging between Jeffrey and Bradley, weighing their words, their body language, searching for the truth hidden beneath the layers of hostility and fear.
"Are you planning to press charges against Jeffrey Saltano for attempted murder?" Nick asked, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp.
Jeffrey glowered at Bradley, his silence more menacing than any threat.
"Nah, I'm not pressing charges. Let the old man go," Bradley said, waving his hand dismissively.
"I swear on my life, I didn't kill Rose. I loved her, man. I really did."
"Well, in that case, Jeffrey, you're free to go," Nick announced, striding to the door. He called out to the officers behind the two-way mirror, his voice clipped and professional:
"Escort Bradley back to his cell and get that address from him. I want it verified ASAP."
Christian, who had been a silent observer throughout the interrogation, stepped forward. "Jeffrey, anything else you want to get off your chest before you go?"
Jeffrey's face contorted with barely contained rage. "I've said all I'm gonna say. You deaf or something?"
"I don't buy a word of it," he spat. "My daughter would never have stooped so low. I knew her better than anyone."
With that, Jeffrey stormed out, the door slamming behind him with a finality that echoed through the room. Bradley was led away, leaving Nick and Christian alone with their thoughts and the weight of an investigation that seemed to grow more complex by the minute.
* * *
6:00 AM

Nick turned to Christian, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep but burning with determination. "We need to run down that address, see if Bradley's story holds water. If it checks out, he's got himself a rock-solid alibi."
"I'm on it," Christian nodded, already reaching for his phone. "I'll dispatch a couple of uniforms right now."
* * *
Two hours later

The confirmation came through like a sucker punch to the gut – Bradley's alibi was airtight. With a heavy sigh, Nick gave the order for his release. Half an hour later, he found himself standing by the window of his office, a silent sentinel watching the parking lot below. A sleek blue BMW pulled up, its engine purring like a satisfied cat. Steven Cooper emerged, his lanky frame swallowed by a baggy white hoodie. He greeted Bradley with a bear hug that spoke of relief and brotherhood, pounding his back with enthusiastic fervor. Then, amid a cacophony of whoops and laughter that seemed almost obscene in the wake of recent events, they peeled out of the lot, leaving nothing but tire marks and the acrid scent of burnt rubber in their wake.

Chapter 12

The investigation, spearheaded by Nick Larsen, had become a Sisyphean task. They chased leads that evaporated like morning mist, explored theories that led to dead ends, and questioned an endless parade of potential witnesses who seemed to know less than nothing. They even entertained the notion that an outsider might be behind the killings, despite their earlier certainty that the perpetrator was a local with intimate knowledge of the area. Every phone record, every text message, every scrap of Rose's life was put under a microscope, yielding nothing but frustration. Nick felt the weight of failure pressing down on him, threatening to crush his spirit, but he refused to give in to despair. The truth was out there, and he was determined to uncover it, no matter the cost.
Jeffrey Saltano, by some miracle of bureaucratic inertia, still clung to his position as sheriff. But it was a hollow title, as meaningless as his days had become. He spent his time in a alcohol-induced haze, drowning his sorrows and his guilt in bottom of countless bottles. Bison, sensing the shifting winds, had cut all ties with his former ally, leaving Jeffrey to flounder in a sea of his own making.
The true tragedy, however, lay in the fate of Mary Saltano. Unable to bear the crushing weight of her daughter's death, she had attempted to follow Rose into the abyss. In a moment of profound despair, Mary had swallowed a lethal cocktail of sedatives and alcohol, a desperate bid to silence the screaming void in her heart. It was only by cruel twist of fate that Jeffrey had stumbled home to find his wife sprawled on the living room floor, her life hanging by a thread. The ambulance arrived in a blur of flashing lights and urgent voices, managing to snatch Mary back from the brink. A week later, still fragile and haunted, she was committed to Angels psychiatric hospital in Hayfield, Minnesota, for mandatory treatment.
The hospital, with its pristine exterior of ornamental trees and light-colored walls, wore a mask of serenity that belied the torment within. From the outside, it could have been mistaken for a high-end resort. But cross the threshold, and the illusion shattered like spun glass. The interior was a nightmare made manifest – a horror movie set brought to life. Harsh fluorescent lights cast an unforgiving glare over everything, turning skin sallow and eyes feverish. Long, windowless corridors stretched into infinity, their dark blue walls seeming to close in with every step. The air was thick with the acrid stench of disinfectant and despair. Patients in straitjackets were shuttled from room to room, their anguished cries echoing off the walls. Masked doctors rushed about in a constant state of controlled panic, as if racing against some unseen clock.
Into this maelstrom of suffering stepped Dr. Tom Homsont, the psychiatrist tasked with Mary's treatment. At forty-nine, he cut a figure of calm competence – average height, bespectacled, his short light hair neatly trimmed. His appearance was meticulous: a crisp blue shirt and pressed black slacks beneath his pristine white coat. But it was his eyes that truly set him apart – keen and compassionate, they spoke of years spent navigating the treacherous waters of the human psyche. His extensive experience with suicidal patients and severe mental illnesses made him uniquely qualified to help Mary, if anyone could.
As Tom entered Mary's room, the air seemed to thicken with tension. Mary sat perched on the edge of her bed, dressed in the shapeless uniform of the hospital – long white pants and a short-sleeved shirt that seemed to emphasize her vulnerability. Her bare feet barely touched the floor, as if she were poised for flight. But it was her eyes that truly captured the doctor's attention – wild and unfocused, they darted about the room, tracking the movements of specters only she could see. As Tom approached, Mary's lips began to move, forming words meant for ears long since stilled by death. "She's here," Mary whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and longing. "Rose is sitting right beside me, whispering…" Tom's hand steady, he shone a small flashlight into Mary's eyes, checking for any physical signs of her deterioration. Mary's reaction was as sudden as it was disturbing – a rictus grin spread across her face, her teeth bared in a grotesque parody of joy. She stared through Tom, through the walls, into some middle distance where the lines between reality and delusion blurred beyond recognition. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Mary's hands flew to her head, her fingers clawing at her scalp as she began to wail, a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish.
"No, no, I'm not guilty!" she screamed, her voice raw and breaking. "I didn't want this, it was all him! He made me do it!"
In a burst of frenzied energy, Mary launched herself off the bed, scrambling into the corner of the room. She huddled there, knees drawn up to her chest, a picture of abject misery. Tom approached slowly, his hand outstretched in a gesture of comfort and support. But as he tried to help her to her feet, Mary lashed out, her hand connecting with his knee in a wild, uncoordinated swipe. Her screams intensified, her entire body wracked with violent tremors.
"My daughter," she gasped between sobs, "she's saying I'm guilty!"
Tom crouched down beside her, his voice low and soothing as he gently took her hand. Years of experience had taught him the importance of engaging with patients lost in the throes of delusion, of anchoring them to reality through human connection.
"Mary, look at me," he urged, his tone gentle but insistent. "What is your daughter telling you?"
Mary's shaking intensified, her teeth chattering audibly as she struggled to form words.
"She's saying… she's saying I'm hiding his 'skeleton' in the closet!" The words tumbled out in a rush, as if Mary feared they might evaporate if not spoken quickly enough. Tom knew he needed to keep her talking, to unravel the tangled threads of her psyche.
"Mary," he pressed, his voice a lifeline in the stormy sea of her mind, "what skeleton are you talking about? Tell me, I want to help you."
Mary's eyes, wide with terror, locked onto Tom's face. She shook her head violently, as if trying to dislodge the very thoughts from her mind.
"You can't help!" she wailed, her voice rising to a fever pitch. "No one can help!"
The strain proved too much for Mary's fragile psyche. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she slumped to the floor, unconscious. Tom sprang into action, calling urgently for a nurse. They worked in tandem, their movements precise and practiced, to revive her. When Mary finally came to, her eyes were clouded with confusion. The torrent of revelations that had poured from her lips just moments ago had vanished, leaving no trace in her conscious mind.
Later, ensconced in the relative privacy of his office, Tom placed a call to Jeffrey. His voice grave, he relayed the severity of Mary's condition, explaining that her stay in the clinic was likely to be extended indefinitely. The treatment she required was intensive, the road to recovery long and fraught with obstacles. Jeffrey's response, slurred and indifferent, sent a chill down Tom's spine. In that moment, he made the decision to withhold the specifics of Mary's outburst. The references to guilt, to hidden skeletons – these were seeds of something darker, something that required further investigation before involving Jeffrey. As he hung up the phone, Tom couldn't shake the feeling that he had just glimpsed the edge of a chasm far deeper and more treacherous than he had initially suspected.

Chapter 13

The Green Vault bar disgorged its latest victims, Bradley and Steven stumbling out into the night, their arms slung around each other's shoulders in a parody of camaraderie. Riding high on a cocktail of alcohol and harder stuff, they piled into Steven's blue BMW, the engine roaring to life like some primordial beast. Steven, behind the wheel, cut a figure of casual disregard in his baggy dark athletic pants, white tee, and denim jacket. Bradley, sprawled in the passenger seat, sported a striped shirt that had seen better days and dark jeans that seemed to have molded themselves to his legs.
As they tore through the quiet streets of Austin, Bradley's hand closed around a bottle of gin nestled in the back seat like a talisman. The car stereo blared a cacophony of heavy rock, the playlist changing with the whims of Bradley's drug-addled mind. He headbanged with wild abandon, laughter spilling from his lips in a torrent of misplaced joy. The streets were a ghost town, most of the streetlights dark, as if the very city had turned its back on the pair.
Their reckless journey led them onto a road that snaked through a wooded area, plunging them into a darkness so complete it seemed to swallow the very beams of the car's headlights. Trees loomed on either side, their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers. Bradley raised the gin bottle to his lips, tipping it back for a healthy swig. Suddenly, his eyes widened in shock, and he choked, spraying the windshield with a fine mist of alcohol.
"Jesus Christ! Hit the brakes!" Bradley's voice cracked like a whip in the confined space of the car.
Steven, more reflex than reason, slammed his foot on the brake pedal. The BMW fishtailed, tires screaming in protest as it skidded to a halt on the shoulder. The sudden silence, as Steven killed both engine and music, was deafening. Bradley's ragged breathing filled the void, his chest heaving as if he'd run a marathon.
"What the fuck, man?" Steven snarled, his words slurring together. "You just puked all over my ride, you asshole! What's your damage?"
Bradley's face had gone chalk-white, his eyes wide and staring. "There was… there was a person lying there. In the road. I swear to God, man."
Steven scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You're tripping balls, dude. There's nobody out here but us and the trees."
The certainty in Steven's voice did nothing to quell the rising tide of panic in Bradley's chest. He sank lower in his seat, his fingers digging into the leather upholstery as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality.
"I'm telling you, there's someone out there!" Bradley's voice had taken on a plaintive, almost childlike quality.
Steven heaved a put-upon sigh. "Fine, if it'll shut you up, I'll go take a look. Gotta drain the snake anyway." He popped the door open, the interior light briefly illuminating his annoyed expression before he vanished into the darkness.
Seconds stretched into an eternity. Bradley's eyes darted frantically from shadow to shadow, his imagination populating the darkness with a thousand unseen terrors. "Steven?" he called out, his voice barely above a whisper. "You find anything?" The silence that answered him was deafening. "Shit, shit, shit!" Bradley muttered, his hand fumbling for the door handle. He managed to get one foot on the ground, his body following in a graceless lurch.
The attack, when it came, was swift and unexpected. Steven burst from the shadows, his face contorted in a mask of exaggerated terror that quickly dissolved into hysterical laughter. "Jesus, Bradley, you should've seen your face!" Steven howled, doubled over with mirth.
"You fucking asshole!" Bradley exploded, his terror transmuting instantly into rage. "I almost had a goddamn heart attack!"
Back in the car, the bottle of gin made its rounds, the liquor burning a path down their throats as they passed it back and forth. "Alright, time to roll," Steven slurred, throwing the car into reverse. "Gotta get this puke-mobile cleaned up tomorrow, thanks to you." The words had barely left his mouth when a sickening thud reverberated through the vehicle, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the asphalt.
Bradley's eyes widened in horror. "Dude, I think we hit someone!" The alcohol seemed to evaporate from his system, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. Steven, in contrast, burst into inappropriate laughter.
"Probably just a deer, man. Chill out."
"Fuck that noise. I'm checking it out." Bradley's voice was steadier now, a hint of steel beneath the fear. He stumbled out of the car, swaying like a sailor on a storm-tossed ship.
Steven killed the engine and the headlights, plunging them into darkness. Bradley approached the rear of the car, his heart pounding a staccato rhythm against his ribs. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out a figure lying face-down on the asphalt. It was unmistakably human.
With trembling hands, Bradley reached out to turn the body over. As he did, realization dawned – it was a dummy, a cruel trick of fate or something far more sinister. "What the actual fuck?" he muttered, dragging the lifeless prop to the side of the road. As he started to head back to the car, a rustling in the bushes stopped him dead in his tracks. He turned, peering into the darkness, but saw nothing. The sound came again, closer this time. Bradley felt the first tendrils of true fear wrapping around his heart.
In a burst of movement that seemed to defy the laws of physics, a figure clad entirely in black erupted from the undergrowth, lunging at Bradley with terrifying purpose.
Bradley's survival instincts kicked in. He shoved his attacker away with all his might and sprinted for the car, his voice a ragged scream of panic. "Start the fucking car! Turn on the lights! NOW!"
But Steven, still convinced this was all part of some elaborate prank, remained motionless behind the wheel, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
Bradley's legs pumped furiously, eating up the distance to the car. But in his panic, he stumbled, crashing to the unforgiving asphalt with a cry of pain and terror.
"Help me! Please, God, somebody help me!" The words tore from his throat, raw and desperate.
The attacker was on him in an instant, a length of rope materializing in gloved hands. With practiced efficiency, the assailant looped the rope around Bradley's neck and began to tighten it. Bradley clawed at the ground, at the rope, at anything within reach, his struggles growing weaker with each passing second. As the life drained from his body, his last coherent thought was a bitter realization – this was no prank, no drunken hallucination. This was death, cold and final, coming for him on a lonely stretch of road.
When Bradley's body went limp, the killer methodically removed the rope and dragged the corpse to the side of the road, movements economical and practiced.
Steven, finally sensing that something was terribly wrong, emerged from the car. The absence of Bradley's panicked voice had created a silence so profound it seemed to press against his eardrums. "Hey, man, where'd you go?" he called out, his voice barely above a whisper. "Come on, quit screwing around. This isn't funny anymore." His tone had taken on a whining, frightened edge as he moved cautiously away from the car.
It didn't take long for Steven to spot Bradley's form sprawled by the roadside. He rushed over, dropping to his knees beside his friend. "Shit, Bradley, you okay? Did you pass out or something? Come on, man, let's go." He leaned in close, straining to hear any sign of breathing. It was at that moment that a shadow fell across them both.
Steven's head snapped up, his eyes widening in terror as he took in the figure looming over them, rope in hand. "Oh shit, oh fuck!" The scream tore from his throat as he scrambled to his feet, making a desperate dash for the car. But the killer, with inhuman speed, cut him off, blocking his escape route.
With no other option, Steven plunged into the woods, crashing through the underbrush with the blind panic of prey fleeing a predator. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs trembled, finally collapsing behind a thick cluster of bushes. His breath came in ragged gasps as he fumbled in his pockets for his cell phone, desperate to call for help. But as he pulled it out, his heart sank – no signal. "No, no, no," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.
Gathering what little courage he had left, Steven crept out from his hiding place, holding the phone aloft as he moved deeper into the forest, praying for a single bar of reception. After what felt like an eternity, a signal flickered to life. With shaking fingers, he dialed 911, his entire being focused on that tenuous connection to salvation.
"911, what's your emergency?" The dispatcher's calm voice was like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
Steven opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, a twig snapped behind him. He whirled around, his eyes wide with terror, sweat pouring down his face in rivulets. When he finally found his voice, it was a trembling whisper:
"Help me, please! Someone's after me. They killed my friend, and now they're coming for me!" The words tumbled out in a frantic rush.
"Sir, can you tell me your location? Where are you right now?"
"I'm in the f-"
Steven's words were cut off as the killer materialized behind him, the rope once again finding its mark around his throat. The phone clattered to the forest floor, the dispatcher's increasingly urgent voice a tinny, distant sound in the night air. Unlike Bradley, Steven didn't even attempt to fight back. He stood frozen, tears streaming down his face, as the life was slowly squeezed out of him. When it was over, he crumpled to the ground, just another lifeless form in the indifferent forest.
The killer, task completed, moved away with an almost leisurely gait, melting into the darkness of the woods as if they were one and the same…

Chapter 14
The call to 911 had set off a flurry of activity. Police converged on the scene as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon. A light drizzle had started, nature's attempt to wash away the horrors of the night.
The entire stretch of road and surrounding forest was quickly cordoned off, a maze of yellow police tape creating a barrier between the world of the living and the scene of death. Officers with dogs combed the area, their faces grim and determined. It wasn't long before Nick and Christian arrived, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and dread as they took in the scene before them.
The victims' bodies, already zipped into black bags, lay like accusatory fingers pointing at their failure to prevent this tragedy. Nick's eyes were immediately drawn to the sleek blue BMW, a sick feeling of recognition twisting in his gut.
A colleague approached, his face ashen. "Two young men," he reported, his voice barely above a whisper. "Killed in the same manner as before." Nick nodded, a leaden weight settling in his chest. He already knew, but he had to see for himself.
"I need to see them," he said, his voice rough with emotion.
"Of course, sir."
The officer led them to the body bags, unzipping them with a sound that seemed obscenely loud in the hushed atmosphere. Nick's worst fears were confirmed as he looked down at the lifeless faces of Bradley Force and Steven Cooper. Christian, standing beside him, let out a strangled gasp.
"Dear God," he breathed, his face pale. "We're dealing with the devil himself."
"It certainly seems that way," Nick replied, his voice hollow.
Their grim contemplation was interrupted by the excited shout of an officer emerging from the woods, a dog straining at its leash beside him. "Detective Larsen! We've found something!"
In a small clearing not far from where Steven's body had been discovered, they found a freshly burned object, its original form rendered nearly unrecognizable by the flames.
"Get this to forensics immediately," Nick ordered, his mind racing. "And I want every inch of this area searched, including their car. Our killer might have slipped up, left something behind. The smallest detail could break this case wide open."
Christian, still visibly shaken, turned to Nick. "Do you think it's the same person who killed Rose? Is this really the work of a serial killer?"
"I don't know, Christian," Nick admitted, running a hand through his hair. "But I do know this isn't a coincidence or some twisted accident. There's a pattern here, a purpose. We just need to figure out what it is."
"What are you thinking?" Christian pressed, eager for any insight that might make sense of this nightmare.
"Nothing concrete yet. We need to wait for the forensics report. And we need to inform their families…" Nick's voice trailed off, the weight of that responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders.
"I'll take care of notifying the families," Christian volunteered, relief evident in his voice at having a clear task to focus on.
"Thanks, Christian. I appreciate it."
As Nick made his way back to his car, his mind was a whirlwind of possibilities and suspicions. The image of Jeffrey Saltano kept surfacing, refusing to be dismissed. The man had already tried to kill Bradley, convinced of his guilt in Rose's murder. But Steven? That didn't fit. And yet… Nick couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this story, layers of secrets and lies waiting to be unraveled.
Making a split-second decision, Nick changed course, steering his car towards Jeffrey's house instead of the precinct. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds still loomed overhead, mirroring the storm of emotions raging within him.
Nick's knock on Jeffrey's door was met with a series of muffled curses and the sound of stumbling footsteps. When the door finally swung open, the sight that greeted him was a far cry from the once-respected sheriff of Austin.
Jeffrey stood before him, a caricature of his former self. His face was puffy and red, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He wore a black T-shirt that had clearly shrunk in the wash, stretched obscenely over his protruding belly. His beige pants were unzipped, adding to the overall picture of dishevelment and decay.
"Well, well," Jeffrey slurred, his breath reeking of stale alcohol. "If it ain't Nick Larsen himself. What's the matter, hotshot? Can't crack the case without old Jeffrey's help?" His laughter was a harsh, grating sound that set Nick's teeth on edge.
Steeling himself against the wave of disgust that threatened to overwhelm him, Nick pushed past Jeffrey into the house. "We need to talk, Jeffrey. It's about Bradley and Steven."
At the mention of those names, something flickered in Jeffrey's bleary eyes – fear? Guilt? It was gone too quickly for Nick to be sure. "What about 'em?" Jeffrey mumbled, collapsing onto the couch with a grunt.
"They're dead, Jeffrey. Murdered last night, same M. O. as Rose."

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