Page 41 of Carnival’s Playground

"The ruts cut through the drainage ditch and dump straight onto County Road forty-two," Wyatt informs us, pointing at the crushed culvert pipe twenty yards ahead. "Whoever drove that truck hit the asphalt and vanished hours ago." We turn and begin the long, quiet walk back toward the midway, the heavy canvas bag swinging from Dutch's fist. The morning sun is high now, beating down on the dusty carnival grounds, but the warmth doesn't touch the chill settling deep into my bones. "You holding it together, spitfire?" Wyatt quietly asks, his shoulder brushing mine with steady, reassuring strength.

"I'll hold together until we catch this bastard," I reply, slipping my hand back into his large, calloused palm. "And then I'm going to help you put him in the ground."

"That's my girl," he murmurs, a dangerous, beautiful smile touching his lips.

Before we can reach the maintenance shed, the radio clipped to Dutch's shoulder erupts with a blast of frantic static, followed by Deputy Renn's sharp, urgent voice cutting through the speaker. "Dutch! Wyatt! Get over to the office trailer immediately," Renn commands over the radio. "I just pulled the archived surveillance logs from four nights before opening day. You need to see this right damn now."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CARNIVAL

We hit the gravel at a full sprint, Dutch leading the charge with the duffel bag clutched in his fist, Petey huffing right on his heels, and Avery matching my stride step for step. My combat boots slam hard against the dirt, my heart pounding a steady, lethal rhythm against my ribs. When a cop uses that specific, clipped tone over a radio, it means the ground just shifted beneath your feet.

We pile through the open door of Dutch's office trailer, packing the narrow space until the air goes thick and hot.

"Shut the door and pull the blinds, Petey," Deputy Renn orders without looking up from her glowing laptop screen. "I don't want anyone on the crew catching wind of this until we know what we're dealing with."

Petey slams the door shut and drops the cheap plastic blinds, cutting off the sunlight. His hands shake slightly as he does it.

"Talk to us, Renn," Dutch demands, bracing his thick hands on the edge of the table. "What did you find?"

"I ran the trail camera archives all the way back into last week," Renn explains, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "Four full nights before your haulers even pulled onto this lot to set up the big top."

"Four nights before our arrival?" Avery tightly asks, stepping in close beside me. "We were still two towns over finishing the previous circuit run."

"Exactly," Renn confirms, hitting the play button. "Which means whoever was on this property wasn't reacting to a show dispute. This was a premeditated recon."

The monitor flickers, displaying high contrast night footage of the empty fairgrounds under the pale glow of a single security floodlight. The lot is completely vacant, just flat dirt, dead grass, and the locked equipment sheds.

Then a dark silhouette steps out from behind the tree line near the main entrance.

The man moves with eerie, casual confidence, wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt and heavy canvas work pants. He walks straight to the main junction box, stops, pulls a small notebook from his pocket, and writes something down. Then he turns, walking the exact perimeter line where our primary power feeds and generator hubs were later installed.

"Zoom in on the face when he hits the security light near the shed," Dutch urgently barks.

Renn taps the screen, enhancing the pixels as the figure turns his head toward the camera to check the road. For two clear, terrifying seconds, the harsh white floodlight illuminates his features.

A sharp, collective gasp rips through the trailer.

The face on the screen isn't Rourke. It's not an older, scarred drifter from the independent circuit.

The man is in his late thirties, with hollow cheeks, sharp cheekbones, a receding hairline, and a distinct, jagged scar running from his left nostril down across his upper lip.

"That's not Rourke," Petey hoarsely whispers, his eyes wide with utter shock. "That's not him at all."

"No," Renn flatly agrees. "It's not."

"Jesus Christ," Dutch stammers, stumbling back against the wall as if he'd just taken a physical blow to the chest. His face goes gray, and for a second I think he might actually collapse. "I know that face."

"Spit it out, Dutch," I savagely demand, my blood running cold as ice. "Who is that?"

"Grady Fenn," Dutch states, his voice hoarse, cracking with disbelief and raw fury. "He worked maintenance and electrical for Grimlight Reveals for four straight seasons. Handled all our generator setups, secondary distribution, and high-voltage line feeds."

"Grady Fenn?" Avery angrily repeats, her voice trembling with shock. She grabs the edge of the table like she needs it to stay upright. "You fired him back in July during the mid-season budget cuts!"

"I didn't just fire him," Dutch admits, dragging both hands down his face in disbelief. "I caught him skimming copper wire from our reserve spools and selling it for scrap in Dallas. I told him if he ever stepped foot on my lot again, I'd hand him over to the state troopers in handcuffs. He cursed me out, swore he built this show with his bare hands, and promised he'd take everything I owned."

"So Rourke was a decoy," I deduce, all the missing pieces violently snapping together in my head. "Grady knew we'd check the old circuit records the second the rigging failed. He planted the Vesper Crow patch, dropped the outdated schematic, and signed the letter R at the gate to send us chasing a phantom while he systematically tore this circus apart from the shadows."