Across the Vanishing Sky (Starlight Grove, #1)(86)

I stiffened, bracing for whatever was to come.

“I thought she was just a flighty tourist, in over her head, and got herself killed. I was wrong. So I’m trying to start from the beginning,” Miller muttered. “Wanted to walk the trail they did to get a feel.”

The same thing we were doing. Because Miller had good skills behind the assholishness. He just needed to be motivated to use them.

“We’re doing the same,” Kol said gruffly.

Miller jerked his head in a nod. “Let me know if you come up with anything helpful. I gotta get back to the station.”

He headed down the trail toward the parking area without another word. I turned to Kol. “What the hell was that? Did Miller grow a heart?”

Kol watched the sheriff go. “I guess miracles do happen.”





Setting the grocery bags on Brae’s kitchen counter, I slid an earbud into one ear and then hit Anson’s name in my contacts.

“About time,” he answered.

“Nice to talk to you, too,” I grumbled.

“Where were you?”

“Grocery shopping. Are you my jealous husband now?” I sniped.

Anson chuckled. “I think I’ve got all I can handle with Rhodes.”

His soon-to-be wife was certainly a handful, and there was a reason he’d nicknamed her Reckless. But she also lit his whole world.

I started pulling out ingredients for a make-your-own-pizza night. It had been one of my favorites growing up—one of the few memories of my mom I clung to. She made a scoreboard, marking us all on presentation, flavor, and creativity. Now, I’d give that to Owen.

“You have a chance to look at everything?” I asked.

“Going through it all a third time now.” Anson’s brain and Kol’s brain worked in similar ways but on completely different planes.

Kol looked at the physical, nature. Anson looked at the human mind. But they both saw patterns and trails the rest of us missed.

“And?” I pressed.

“I’m not sure.”

I could hear the frustration in Anson’s voice. It was something I rarely had to identify with him because he always had it all figured out. I placed the dough in the fridge and straightened. “Talk it out. What’s holding you up?”

“The victims. There are zero common threads if you look at local missing persons cases.”

I frowned but kept unpacking bags: veggies, pepperoni, hot peppers, olives. “Could one or two of them be skewing the profile?”

One incorrect victim in a pool could send you in a completely wrong direction. A few could be a disaster.

“Maybe,” Anson muttered. “But even if I removed all the males, there’s not a through line with the women. Different ages, races, and hair and eye color. Usually, a serial offender has a type.”

“Crimes of opportunity?” I pulled out the pizza sauce and set it on the counter.

“Maybe. But they’d need a hell of a lot of patience. Typically, that wanes, too. The unsub gets more reckless.”

“Isn’t that what they’re doing now? Calling Brae from Nova’s phone? Leaving the necklace and note? That’s escalation.”

“I guess you do listen to what I try to teach you,” Anson said, a hint of humor in his voice.

I scowled down at my phone. “Fuck off.”

“You’re right. That make you feel better?”

“No. No, it doesn’t.”

Anson sobered. “We’ll figure out who’s doing this. I had a thought. But it’s a risk.”

I straightened, setting down the pack of ricotta. “Tell me.”

“You have that friend who does the podcast. Sounds Like Serial.”

In my work with missing persons, my path had crossed with a true crime podcaster on a mission to give a voice to the forgotten. Ridley Sawyer fought for victims and their families with everything she had.

“What about her?” I asked.

“I wonder if she could do an episode on the case. You know how she does those one-offs between her deep dives.”

“Didn’t know you were a fanboy. Want me to get you an autograph?”

“I’m trying to help your ornery ass,” Anson griped.

“I know. I know. It’s not a bad idea. Could flush out new information.”

Anson was silent for a moment.

I stilled, a weight settling deep. “That’s not why you want me to do it.”

“I think it could spook the unsub, or they could like the attention and want more, do something to get it.”

“You’re trying to get them to make a mistake,” I surmised.

“Yes. But you’d have to keep a close eye on Brae, make sure she doesn’t become a target.”

My back molars ground together. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s your polite way of saying get fucked.”

I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I’ll think about it. And thank you for looking at all this.”

“I’ll keep looking. Maybe I’ll find something new.”

“Yeah. Appreciate it.”

Anson hung up before I could thank him again. He hated gratitude. But when I looked at my phone, I frowned.

It was almost five. Owen had a playdate, so Brae should’ve been home forty-five minutes ago.