Chapter 6 · Old Wounds (Reed)

Reed didn’t close his eyes all night.

He turned on every motion light outside the cabin and dusted a fine layer of powder on the driveway—if someone cased the place at night, they’d leave footprints by morning. He put the gun under his pillow and lay down on the sofa, fully clothed.

At two in the morning, he finally spoke.

Megan wasn’t asleep either. She sat by the fireplace, turning the verdigris compass from the shipwreck over in her fingers.

“Ask me whatever you want,” she said.

Reed stared at the ceiling.

“2008,” he said. “I was twenty-seven, just transferred from counterterror to major crimes, three years as an agent. This was my first case running solo. Five girls, same town, same kind of disappearance—left in the evening, never came back. No bodies, no ransom notes. Just five missing-person posters taped to the diner wall.”

“I was excited. I thought it was my break.”

He paused.

“I worked it six weeks. Got to Henry Blackwood—the eldest son—had contact with three of the girls. I applied for a warrant. The morning the warrant came through, my supervisor called me to the hotel room. On the desk was a transfer order. He said: ‘Reed, don’t touch this case.’ I asked why. He said: ‘You don’t need to know why. You just need to know: you either sign the resignation, or you get transferred to Alaska writing reports for ten years.’”

“I signed.”

Megan said softly: “The partner in the black jacket.”

“His name was Danny.” Reed’s voice was hard. “The day I signed, he came to the hotel to help me pack. He said one thing—‘Reed, some small-town things, outsiders can’t fix.’ I thought he was warning me. Later I found out he’d been getting a monthly cash deposit from a Blackwood Shipping account.”

“He was the mole.”

“He always was.”

The fire popped in the fireplace. Megan set the compass on the table. She turned to look at him. Firelight jumped in her eyes.

“So you came back,” she said slowly, “not just for those five girls.”

Reed was quiet a long time.

“It was for me,” he said. “It took me eighteen years to admit it—I ran back then.”

The room went quiet. Rain started again on the tin roof.

Megan reached out and placed her hand, very lightly, on the back of his. Reed went rigid—he hadn’t been touched like that in a long time, no demands, no interrogation, just there.

“You didn’t run,” she said. “They took your choice away.”

Reed turned to look at her.

Her face was close to his. He could smell that faint scent of sea salt and old wood on her—the smell of a woman who’d run an antique shop her whole life. He should look away. He knew he should.

But he didn’t.

Just then, there was a crash from outside.

Reed yanked his hand away and grabbed the gun from under the pillow.

It was the back door—someone had rammed it from outside.

“Get down!” He shoved Megan to the floor.

A second impact. The doorframe split.