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I hadn’t said it out loud. Not to the team, not to my superiors, not even to my wife. Because once you say something like that, you don’t get to take it back. And right now, all I had was instinct, and instinct wouldn’t hold up in court. Accusing a man like Wayne without evidence? That was exactly how cases fell apart. He wasn’t some fringe loner tucked away on the outskirts of nowhere. He was well known, highly respected, and everyone—including myself, up until a week ago—liked him. So dragging his name through the mud without proof wouldn’t just backfire—it would bury the investigation with it.

Still…my job wasn’t to trust what was on paper; it was to see through it. To look at the version of a man he wanted the world to believe in, and find the one he was hiding deep underneath. To see past the facade a psychopath upheld for the public, or the mask he wore to blend in with society. And my gut feeling had never led me wrong, so the fact that it was telling me Wayne, of all people, might have something to do with the murders of my family—it made me nauseous.

Because he was a man I trusted.

A man I let into my life.

A man who stood close to my family’s grief and always seemed helpful.

And now that same reason was pointing at him like a loaded weapon. Like it was saying “him.” My stomach turned hard enough I had to swallow it down, because if I let myself believe it, then I was not just questioning a suspect. I was accusing the man who was supposed to be like a father to me, who I trusted while me and Evie were falling apart. When I was all alone and falling apart.

My hands tightened against the edge of the desk, knuckles white, jaw locked so hard it ached. Was this even instinct anymore? Or had I just grown desperate? Desperate enough to turn grief into direction? To turn anger into a target? To take something unbearable and pin it on the closest shape that fits, just so the world stopped feeling like it was spinning out of control?

Because if I was wrong, then I’d have turned my own mind into something rotten.

But if I was right? Then I’d been standing right beside a foe and calling him a friend this whole time.

Despite being a well-known, charismatic guy, Wayne didn’t allow anyone onto his property. And the pigs? Prize-winning livestock, apparently, not that anyone really knows. Wayne handled all the deliveries himself. No inspections of the pig stys, or oversight to the conditions of the livestock. And sure, that didn't necessarily mean he had nefarious intent behind that behaviour, but it was something to look into.

And I would’ve been a fool to ignore how heavily Wayne was involved in the aftermath of all the abductions. Printing flyers, attending vigils, even going as far as doing interviews on behalf of the victims’ families, pleading on national television for the police to do something.

It was textbook serial killer behaviour.

Ed Kemper befriended police and detectives, notably offering theories to his own murders while the cases went cold, and John Wayne Gacy was a well-connected community member who worked alongside police in other capacities, allowing him to hide in plain sight.

Who was to say Wayne hadn’t been doing the same thing?

I stared at his photo clipped to the corner of the file.

Wayne was a man you’d wave to in the street. A man you’d trust around your kids. A man you’d let into your home after your father was murdered. A man who could stand in front of a camera beside you and beg for a missing girl to be returned home…while knowing exactly where she was? God, I hoped I was wrong.

Knock. Knock.

I glanced up as Agent Emily Byers stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, her expression tight in that familiar way that let me know I was not going to be home in time to watch Home and Away with Nicola like I promised. I sighed and leaned back into my chair, scrubbing a hand down my face, the cloak of exhaustion weighing heavy on my shoulders.

“Alright, lay it on me.”

“He’s taken another one,” she said, and the words landed like lead in my stomach.

Liam Anderson was dead.

“Fuck, you’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

I pushed back my chair, stood, and tucked Wayne’s folder beneath my blazer as Emily turned and lead the way. My boots echoed against the tiles in the hallway as we moved, and that feeling started creeping in again—that same one I had sitting at my desk. By the time we reached the briefing room, it had settled deep in my gut.

My partner, Sebastian Carlone, had a file in his hands, but he wasn’t reading it. And when he looked up at me, there was something in his face I didn’t like. Pity. I slowed in the doorway as the door shut behind me with a dull click that sounded too final.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice lower now.

Neither of them answered straight away. I moved forward anyway, pulling out the chair across from Sebastian and sitting down, my eyes not leaving his. He exhaled and slid the manila folder across the table toward me.

“Just…take a second before you open it.”

I subconsciously held my breath as I brought the folder closer and flipped it open, choking on my tongue when the familiar face staring back stole all the breath from my lungs.

“Jackson Easton?”