Chapter 2 · The Uninvited Guest (Reed)

Reed Colter had been driving for six hours on this fog-shrouded Oregon coastline.

He parked across the street, watching the small shop with the sign “Harper’s Antiques” through his wipers. The paint was peeling. The window held a mantel clock with a broken hand and a row of tin biscuit tins. The neon sign by the door was half-broken—the “P” didn’t even flicker.

He’d been watching for three days.

On day one, Megan Harper unlocked at seven sharp and flipped the “Open” sign. On day two, she closed at three and drove to the town cemetery, leaving flowers on an unmarked headstone—he’d checked later. It was the empty grave of one of the five missing girls. The file said she’d gone to the same school as the Harper girl, two years below. He hadn’t thought much of it then. On day three, he saw a black Ford pickup park at her door, and inside were two men he recognized: the Blackwoods’ hired muscle, a guy named Cole, shoulders as wide as a door.

The pickup had left that afternoon. That was why he was pushing the door in now.

The woman was thinner than her file photo. High cheekbones, bright eyes like rain-washed amber. Her hand was pressed on something on the table, knuckles white.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“A collection of shipwreck artifacts,” Reed said. “An oak crate, probably went down twenty years ago. Recently dragged up in the reef zone.”

“An antique shop takes in hundreds of things a day. How would I remember?”

“You remember.” Reed took half a step forward. “Because you’re wearing gloves. You don’t wear gloves when you show customers merchandise. You’re protecting something.”

Megan’s expression shifted.

That was when he noticed the sheaf of letters on her table. Salt-soaked, yellowed edges. He’d been a federal agent for five years. He knew what evidence looked like.

“Ms. Harper,” he lowered his voice. “I’m not the kind of person you think I am.”

“Then what kind are you?”

“I used to be FBI.” Reed pulled out his wallet and slid an expired badge across the table to her. “In 2008, I handled the Blackharbor teenage disappearances. Then the case was shut down from above. I was forced to sign a resignation. I haven’t stopped since.”

Megan looked down at the badge. The photo on it was ten years younger, no stubble.

“An FBI agent,” she said slowly, “wouldn’t shut down his own case.”

“Good question.” Reed said. “That’s why I’m here. I want to know why.”

The shop was quiet for a long time. Rain hit the tin roof like someone scattering sand.

Finally Megan said: “You should go. I don’t have what you’re looking for.”

Reed nodded. He knew you couldn’t push at this point. He turned toward the door, his hand just touching the handle—

“Mr. Colter.”

He turned back.

Megan stood behind the worktable. The sheaf of letters was gone. Her expression was complicated, like she was weighing something she didn’t believe.

“If you really are who you say you are,” she said, “don’t go back to your place tonight.”

Reed paused. “Why?”

“Because,” her voice was soft, “from the moment I dragged that crate through the door, someone has been watching me.”