What follows is part 4 of the re-serialization of Westville Book 1. New parts drop every Monday and Friday.
If you’re new to Westville and want to dive in, you can get the books on Amazon or signed copies direct from my website:
11
Casey slid the clear evidence bag containing the Discman across the counter to Larry, a part-time retiree lab tech.
He watched it skid to a stop, scuffed and left out overnight in the cold.
Larry tagged it with a label, logged it in.
“Let’s get some men over on the scene,” Chief Frank Hart said to Gail, his voice gruff, low, steady. “Put a call into the county sheriff if need be.”
Gail, already picking up a ringing phone, nodded.
“Johnson’s there now,” she said. “And DeYoung’s on his way.”
Hart wore remnants of his hunting gear: boots dusted with mud, a jacket reeking of wood. He had cut his weekend short, or rather off completely, when he got the call, showing up in his usual fashion. Ready to drop everything for the town and the people in it.
Casey admired the longtime Westville police veteran but saw the cost of that kind of diligence: a mustache of far more salt than pepper, short, fading hair, and permanent bags of fatigue hanging beneath pale eyes.
Hart nodded at Casey as he strode out of the admin office. “You look like you’ve seen better days.”
Ironic, given how Casey was thinking the same about him.
“You could say it’s been that kind of night. Or morning, I guess.”
Chief Hart pulled him aside, his face tight as he relayed the latest. “We got a call from First UMC. Howard Meyers never brought the church bus back. No one can get a hold of him or track him down. We’re looking at two people missing now.”
Casey’s stomach sank like a stone.
“And,” Hart continued, “someone at the Shell station reported seeing Millie talking with Howard last night. He was running his shuttle route for the game.”
A muscle in Casey’s neck tensed.
A missing girl. A missing bus driver. Both last seen in the same place.
“We think he’s a suspect?”
Hart’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “I would have hoped not, but based on those tracks by the cabin and the fact we’ve got a witness putting the two of them together…” He shook his head, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “If things go that way, we’ll have a whole town of angry, scared parents wondering if they’ve had a wolf in sheep’s clothing around for years.” He sighed, rubbing his temple. “Couldn’t be, though. Had his trouble with drinking back in the day, but…”
Hart trailed off. He was trying to convince himself.
“The guy wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Casey chimed in, more to break the tension, but also because he believed it. Howard was something of a gentle giant, and he had a hard time picturing him as anything but.
Then again, wasn’t that what everyone said about the ones who ended up in the electric chair?
Casey started toward the interview room, footsteps echoing down the hall.
Before he could reach the door, Sergeant Gordy Reynolds stepped out. His face was grim, lined with a kind of fatigue Casey recognized. He gave a brief nod and moved past.
Aly stepped out next, her hand steadying Olivia’s shoulder. Olivia’s fiery green eyes darted around the hallway, landing on Casey for only a split second before she looked away.
Not fear. Something sharper. Irritation. Frustration.
A quiet exchange passed between Casey and Aly, a recognition of the worry pressing down on all of them.
Olivia crossed her arms. Her face was puffy from crying, but her eyes burned with defiance, her red hair wild, unkempt, reflecting that same fire inside her. Casey cleared his throat, keeping his tone even.
“Thanks for coming in.”
She huffed, glancing away. “Yeah, sure…” she muttered. “Just doing my civic duty.”
Aly shot her a look, but Olivia’s gaze flicked back to Casey, her frustration boiling over.
“So, what’s the plan now?” Her voice was tight, edged with something dangerously close to anger. “Are we just going to sit here talking about it, or is someone actually out there looking for her?”
Aly’s hand moved to calm her, but Olivia shook it off.
She stepped forward. “Millie’s out there. Scared, maybe hurt, or worse. And you’re all in here, acting like this is just another case file to put in a drawer.”
Reynolds spoke first, his tone measured. “We’re doing everything we can to find Emily.”
“It’s Millie,” Olivia scoffed, crossing her arms tighter. “And everything you can? You can’t get out of this building. I bet I could find more people willing to look for her than you have here.”
She glared past Casey, daring him to argue. Casey let out a slow breath, forcing himself not to react. Because the truth was, if he were in her shoes, he’d be doing the same thing. A tense silence followed.
Casey met Olivia’s eyes and cleared his throat in an effort to steady his voice.
“You’re right. We should be out there. There are other officers securing the scene now. We’ll find her.”
Aly’s hand hovered near Olivia’s shoulder, uncertain. Olivia turned sharply, stalking toward the door. Aly lingered a moment longer, eyes meeting Casey’s. A quiet plea for patience.
“If she thinks of anything else, we’ll call.”
Casey gave a stiff nod, watching as Aly followed her sister out.
Joe and Erin Thompson sat motionless in the lobby, worn down, exhausted. Erin looked like she’d aged ten years overnight, a cup of coffee trembling in her hands as she stared blankly past the blinds. Joe was pacing, tension etched into every movement. For a second, Casey wondered if he should say something. But what was there to say? What comfort was there?
He turned away, his mind already racing ahead.
Millie was missing. Howard Meyers was missing.
Whatever connection there was, it couldn’t be good.
And the longer they stayed that way, the less likely they were to come back at all.
A half-hour later, the door opened and in came Jack and Mary Thompson.
Jack’s big presence was commanding as he assessed the room, eyes settling on Joe. Casey noted Joe’s discomfort immediately. He seemed unable to look his father in the eye, his hands clenching and unclenching around the floral paper coffee cup until he crushed it and hit the rim of a wastebasket, falling to the floor.
Joe abruptly stalked over to his father. There were harsh whispers, and Casey averted his eyes for a moment, until from behind he saw Joe shove his father, turn, and leave the room. Jack straightened his flannel with one hand, the other clenched tight. A rustle of murmurs went up from the few department staff and others in the lobby as he stormed out, leaving Erin to watch him in silence.
Mary greeted Casey and made nervous small talk, asking after his mom Deb and how she was doing since the move up north. He said she was good and ignored the fact that Mary was prying about his mom’s early stage dementia diagnosis. It hadn’t gotten bad yet. Hardly noticeable.
Still, he didn’t like to think about it.
Jack’s eyes lingered on the door, his expression a mixture of disappointment and frustration. He turned to Casey, his tone formal but laced with a subtle edge.
“Good to see you, Case. Shame it’s under these circumstances.”
Casey nodded and shook his hand, his chest tightening. Jack had a certain way of making everyone feel on trial. He remembered it well from when they were kids, and though that judgment fell heaviest on Joe growing up, he had felt it too by proximity.
Jack’s eyes drifted back to the doorway where Joe had disappeared. He tucked something in his pocket that jangled against loose change.
“Sometimes I wonder if I taught that boy anything about handling responsibility,” he muttered, just loud enough for Casey to hear. “And now this…”
His voice trailed off, a mixture of anger and regret flashing across his face.
Casey’s jaw tightened. “He’s doing his best, Jack. We all are. It’s his daughter that’s missing.”
Jack’s mouth thinned into a hard line. “That’s my granddaughter too. And if Joe had…” He stopped himself, glancing toward Mary, who was visibly uncomfortable with the tension.
Casey met Jack’s eyes, feeling strange all of a sudden being in a position of proximal authority over a man whom he had worked under at PRINCE for multiple summers, his imposing stature seeming all the more so back then.
“Best we can do right now is stay calm. Chief is organizing a search party.”
A flicker of faint recognition passed over Jack’s face, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he gave a stiff nod, acknowledging Casey’s point, or at least letting it go for the moment.
The cold air bit through Casey’s jacket as he stepped down the station’s front steps to where Joe stood, staring off toward the Riverwalk and the glistening lights on the Showboat, bright white reflecting on the pitch-dark Slate River.
Joe grabbed at his nose and adjusted his jacket. “I just… needed some air.” His voice was strained, as if speaking at all took everything in him.
Casey placed a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll find her, man. We will.”
Joe’s jaw tensed. Before he could respond, the station door creaked open behind them.
“Casey. A word,” the Chief said.
Joe didn’t wait. He just turned, walked toward his truck, climbed in, and revved the engine. Casey watched him go, headlights cutting through the thickening fog, tires grinding against the pavement as he peeled off into the night.
A prickle crawled up the back of Casey’s neck.
He turned and saw Jack Thompson, standing in the doorway. Watching.
Not after Joe, not entirely. More like looking out into the town, to the neighborhoods, searching the aether for anyone who knew anything about Millie or had anything to do with it. For a moment Casey had the strange sense that Jack was hearing something none of the rest of them could. That the cold air carried a frequency only the old man’s ears were tuned to.
It was the same look Casey remembered from high school basketball regionals, when Jack had stood at the edge of the court, eyes locked on Joe’s every move. Like he was memorizing it all, or watching something slip away. Casey glanced down the street, toward the old high school. Where that very game had been played.
Then Hart cleared his throat, drawing Casey’s attention back up the stairs.
“You need some rest, son.”
Casey turned back to the Chief, shaking off the unease. “I’ll manage.”
Though even now, his skull swelled with stored-up fatigue.
Hart studied him. “I’m sure you would. But you’re way over on hours.”
Casey clenched, the protest rising in his throat. “I’ve got this. I’m not going to sit on the sidelines.”
Hart’s expression didn’t change. “Can’t have you burning out on me, Benson. Go home.”
Casey shook his head. “Millie may as well be family.”
Hart nodded. “Which is why I need you to step back. At least for the night.”
“With all due respect, sir, I know how to parse the job.”
Hart’s eyes narrowed, something harder settling in them now. “I’m not sure you do.”
Casey straightened, heat flaring in his chest and brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hart exhaled, slow. “I didn’t ask too many questions about why you moved back from Chicago. Lord knows the job is tough as is, let alone in the homicide capital of the country.”
Casey’s breath hitched, but he didn’t respond.
“There were some rough ones, sure. I got over it.”
Not easily, though.
One of his first crime scenes in Chicago had been a murder-suicide. A father who botched the job, left his own son alive with a bullet wound through the eye, barely holding on by the time Casey arrived. He remembered the kid’s breathing. The sound of sirens cutting through the night. The weight of the bullet casings in his hands as he bagged them for evidence.
He got over it. But the nightmares stuck.
Hart didn’t let up. “Maybe. But you haven’t been the same since the wreck with the Hopkins kid.”
Casey’s fingers twitched. His shoulders pulled back.
“That was almost two years ago.”
“Exactly.”
The words hit deeper than Casey expected. Hart’s voice softened, but his eyes didn’t waver.
“I’ll handle the family. You get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Casey nodded stiffly, knowing Hart was right, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
He needed rest. But that didn’t mean he was backing off. He had to help find Millie. Any way he could. As he turned toward the station, a shudder of unease crawled up his spine.
Tomorrow, Hart had said.
But as Casey stepped outside, starting the mile walk home as his breath curled in the cold air, he couldn’t shake the deep-seated worry that tomorrow would be too late.
12
That night, patrol cars prowled the dim streets of Westville, county sheriff’s and W.P.D. cruisers alike, creeping down back roads and dirt lanes. Foot patrols combed the state game land, sweeping along the North Country Trail, flashlights cutting jagged paths through the darkness.
Chief Hart had ordered Casey to stay away until dawn, to rest. But rest wasn’t possible. He lay awake feeling the night press down like a wet blanket.
Olivia Fischer fared no better. She stewed in silence, simmering over the expectation that she should simply wait, play along, pretend everything was fine. When sleep did come, she dreamed of being somewhere hollow and cold, alone and afraid.
Somewhere where Millie might be.
Sometime after midnight, the Westville United Methodist Church bus rumbled away from the loading dock at PRINCE Milling. It rolled onto Main Street, but Ethan Crawley wasn’t aiming for the church. He guided it onto Riverside Drive, past darkened houses and into the looming pines, their shadows flickering over the windshield. He whistled along to Nirvana’s Lithium, cranking the volume to drown out the stifled sobs from the bound and helpless man in the back.
He preferred the new stuff over the likes of Hendrix and the Stones, which had blared in the helicopter speakers while he mowed down villagers and tasted the burnt flesh and chemical tang of napalm.
Years ago. But yesterday.
He tried to forget. So did the men at the next stool over at Riverbend, the ones who’d come home from one war or another and gone quiet about it. Westville helped them forget. That was part of what the town did.
Though the new part of him wished he would remember. All of it.
Ethan nudged the bus up Burroughs Hill, veering it onto the shoulder and bringing it to a rough stop. He rolled his shoulders, trying to keep the boiling rage beneath his skin from spilling over. The red wanted out. Wanted to tear, burn, break. But he kept it leashed, for now.
“Almost done,” he muttered to himself, as if soothing a rabid dog.
He snapped off the radio.
Turning, Ethan ripped the gag from the man’s mouth and jammed a cheap bottle of liquor against his lips.
“Drink,” he ordered.
Howard Meyers sputtered, whiskey spilling down his gray-white beard.
“Francine… please… she needs to know where I am…”
“No one needs to know,” Ethan said, his voice low and final.
Howard struggled, fear turning his movements jerky. He managed a clumsy punch that caught Ethan on the jaw.
Red.
Ethan’s vision blurred, rage painting the world in shades of crimson. He inhaled sharply through his nose.
“Thank you for that.”
With a quick, brutal twist, he snapped the fat man’s neck. Howard’s head slumped forward, pressing the horn into a blaring wail that cut through the stillness.
The red purred, satisfied. Ethan’s lips curled.
He hummed the guitar line as he stepped off the bus, searching the area until he found a rock that would do the trick. He wedged it onto the gas pedal, revving the engine to a fevered roar. Then, with careful precision, he grabbed the shifter and slammed it into drive.
The bus lurched forward, wheels spinning wildly, and Ethan threw himself out the door. He tumbled down the hill, arm snapping at an unnatural angle with a sickening pop. Pain shot through him, but the red relished it.
Ethan gritted his teeth and forced his arm back into place, rising just in time to watch the bus barrel down the embankment, flip violently, and crash into the river. It rolled once, twice, before plunging in, disappearing beneath the water with a frothy churn.
He stood, shaking his head, the red inside him momentarily sated. But beneath that satisfaction, a sudden fear crept up. Had he gone too far? That small, weak part of him, the one that still cared, clawed at the edges of his mind.
But he couldn’t afford to let it resurface. The red wouldn’t allow it. It needed to consume, to tear apart anything that lingered of the old him.
His new employer had made that clear.
This was the better way.
He wanted to Seethe.
The StarTAC phone in his pocket rang, and Ethan flexed his jaw, cracked it open, and held it to his ear.
“Is it done?”
“Yes,” he answered.
Ethan snapped the phone shut and slipped it into his pocket. He glanced once more at the dark, rippling water, red brake lights fading into blackness.
He turned and walked back up the hill, whistling Cobain as he went.
13
Casey stood by as the crane groaned, pulling the mud-slick minibus with Westville First UMC painted on its side from the Slate River’s depths. Its emergence displaced water in choppy waves that slapped against the banks. The Slate widened here into a lake at Burrough’s Bend, where swirling eddies suddenly seemed tailor-made for swallowing secrets and keeping them.
There was something to be said for a kid’s imagination, but the scene playing out now was one his wandering mind never conjured up while fishing in the summer here with his dad.
Casey had been roused by the wail of sirens cutting through the crisp dawn air. The cacophony shattered the stillness of his sleepless night, where fractured dreams twisted past regrets into new horrors.
Metal scorched orange. The Hopkins wreck. Only it was Millie in the wreckage of that twisted Camaro.
Careful not to lose his footing on the steep incline where the bus had carved a path, Casey approached the scene. Yellow police tape cordoned off the immediate area while Chief Hart, in his mud-streaked boots, surveyed the chaos. EMTs and divers worked in tandem, heaving a large bloated body onto a stretcher, plastic sheets crinkling with every move.
Johnson, standing at the tape’s edge, raised a hand. “You quit wearing the uniform or what, Benson?”
Casey lifted the arms of his heavy flannel coat and slapped them back down. “Not on today. Just here to support.”
Johnson sniffed with a grin, stepping aside. “Right. Well a fisherman spotted bubbles near the bank. Said he smelled fuel. Now here we are.”
Casey nodded, scanning the crowd of Sunday morning onlookers attending some kind of gallows humor–driven church service. Half the town had gathered on the ridge above, their murmurs growing louder. In Westville, rumor spread faster than confirmation. Casey cast a wary glance at the spectators from the neighborhood across the street, many clutching mugs of coffee and whispering behind their hands.
Casey’s gut tightened as he came closer to where they’d set the body, though he already knew who it was.
Howard Meyers.
By now, nearly every soul in town knew Millie Thompson and Howard Meyers had vanished hours apart. Speculation filled the gaps law enforcement hadn’t yet bridged.
Casey’s boots squelched in the muck as he reached the water’s edge. Chief Hart stood with arms crossed, rubbing his mustache in that telltale sign of nervous deliberation. The divers had secured the minibus, and techs snapped pictures. One placed numbered markers near fuel-slick patches on the bank.
“Thought I told you to get some rest,” Hart said, his tone heavy and tired.
“Got some,” Casey lied. “Anyone called the family yet?”
Hart shook his head. “Francine’s in the nursing home. Not sure she’d understand. And his kids are out on the West Coast mostly, I think. Tried calling, no answer yet.”
Casey nodded, recalling Francine Meyers’ sharp wit when she worked the antique mall’s ice cream parlor, now claimed by old age and mental withering.
Hart’s eyes tracked the stretcher being carried up the incline. Then came the commotion.
The gurney slipped, and Howard Meyers’ body tumbled onto the wet slope, rolling several feet before stopping. The crowd gasped, a few onlookers clutching their mouths in shock. Someone up on the ridge dropped a coffee mug. It rolled down the bank, bouncing twice, and came to rest near Howard’s outstretched hand. Hart thundered out some good old-fashioned blasphemy on the bright crisp Sunday morning as they both rushed to help, steadying the body while EMTs repositioned it.
Something slipped from the pocket of Howard’s soaked overalls. A flash of pink catching Casey’s eye. He picked it up, brushing mud away to reveal a W.W.J.D. bracelet. The clasp broken.
In his mind, he saw Millie waving with that same pink bracelet on her wrist the last time he saw her on Joe’s porch.
Then a flash of red.
A high-pitched screech, a distant scream.
Casey lost his balance for a moment but steadied himself, his left temple pulsing.
“What’s that?” Hart asked, walking up alongside him.
“Fell out of his pocket,” Casey murmured, shaking off whatever that was.
He glanced up at the road, where the tow truck strained and whined, pulling the crumpled water-logged church bus free of the forest slope.
The sky felt too blue, the sun too cheerful for this morning tableau, and for what he’d just seen. He didn’t want to believe it was Millie’s.
A gnawing instinct laced with creeping dread whispered that it was.
14
The flickering red neon sign that spelled out Westville Lanes buzzed overhead, drawing a twitching cloud of moths and flies near the glow.
Olivia stalked under the yellow awning, pushed through the doors, and was greeted by the clatter of pins, the rolling crash of a ball. The air was thick with the smell of old popcorn, pizza grease, and shoe leather. Her gaze cut through the dim arcade, past the battered booths and flickering game screens, until she found Austin and Kyle. They were glued to House of the Dead, fingers tight on the triggers, eyes locked on the screen as pixelated zombies lunged.
They flinched, fingers twitching on the trigger as another wave of undead shambled forward. Austin knocked into his friend as he veered the neon green plastic gun right.
He stood a head taller than Kyle, the gangly running type, and wore one of maybe two or three striped long-sleeve polos he always wore (and she’d begun to realize wasn’t just a preference), this one green and blue and a little big, his bowl-cut black hair framing swarthy cheeks.
Kyle’s wardrobe, on the other hand, consisted of overpriced American Eagle band-branded t-shirts, a plethora of shoes and pants in more colors than Olivia would have wanted to deal with choosing between, and over-gelled hair that often developed a strange kind of crustiness.
“Take that, bitch!” Kyle yelled as a zombie head exploded in a mess of digital gore. His face twisted in concentration, mouth curled into something feral.
“Watch your mouth, Anderson!” Mrs. Rodgers barked, slapping a pair of rental shoes onto the counter. Her gray MSU sweatshirt was damp with sweat, her usual look of unmovable exasperation settling over her features. “I got grandkids in here on Sundays.”
Kyle barely glanced her way. “Yes, ma’am.”
Austin barely looked up. “Hey, Liv.”
Olivia’s patience snapped.
She circled around them, boots squeaking on the sticky tile, and smacked each of them across the back of the head.
“Ow!” Kyle yelped, twisting to face her, one hand gripping the fake, oversized pistol.
Austin blinked, slow to surface.
“How can you two play games right now?” Olivia demanded. “Millie’s missing, and you’re here shooting zombies like it’s just another Sunday.”
Austin opened his mouth, but no words came.
Kyle dropped his gaze, shuffling his feet. “We’ve been asking around, just trying to keep busy.”
Austin nodded, his voice small. “What else can we do?”
Olivia clenched her jaw. The anger was fading, leaving something heavier behind. Something thick and cold.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, softer now. “But it feels wrong. She’s out there. Scared, or worse. And we’re just standing here.”
Silence thickened between them, swallowed by the bowling alley’s noise. The rhythmic crash of pins, the sound of zombie groans clashing jovially with the Macarena thumping through the overhead lane speakers, like the shambling corpses wanted to dance.
“You think the cops are close to finding her?” Austin asked.
Olivia shook her head. “I doubt it.”
The game’s tinny speakers erupted in a high-pitched cackle as CONTINUE? flashed across the screen in blood-red letters, a thirty-second countdown beginning.
“Dammit,” Kyle muttered, slamming the plastic gun onto the console.
“Last warning, Anderson!” Mrs. Rodgers yelled. “You want me calling your father?”
Kyle gave her a sheepish shake of his head, digging through his pockets. “Got any more quarters?” he asked Austin.
Austin shook his head.
Olivia rolled her eyes and grabbed the thick black cables tethering the weapons of undead destruction, holstering them back on the arcade machine.
She sighed, dropping into a chair, eyes drifting toward the group of younger kids huddled by the Street Fighter machine.
“I keep thinking it’s my fault,” she murmured, more to herself than them. “Millie got mad at me Friday night and took off.”
Kyle looked up. “Why? What happened?”
“Does it matter?”
Kyle frowned. “I guess not.”
Austin cleared his throat. “It’s not like we can just go wandering through the woods looking for her.”
Olivia sat up straighter, a spark flaring in her chest. “Why not?”
Kyle scratched his head. “Uh, because there are, like, a hundred reasons.”
Olivia’s eyes flicked to the House of the Dead screen, where the zombies staggered forward, hungry for more quarters. The demon on screen let out another high-pitched cackle.
“Shut the hell up,” Kyle snapped at it.
Mrs. Rodgers threw open the counter flap, storming toward them. The three of them scattered, beelining for the exit.
At the door, Olivia nearly collided with her sister.
Aly’s expression was too much like their mother’s. One part wrath, two parts worry.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she snapped. “You can’t just take off, not with what’s going on.”
“Quit acting like Mom,” Olivia muttered.
Aly’s eyes narrowed. “Mom’s flying home tonight. I’ll let her deal with you.”
“I don’t want to sit around doing nothing while Millie’s out there.”
Aly’s face softened, but her stance didn’t. “We’re going. Now.”
Olivia glanced back at Kyle and Austin, resignation settling in. Aly stormed out to the car.
“Your sister is so hot when she’s mad,” Kyle blurted.
Austin jabbed him in the ribs.
Olivia rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you guys later.”
Kyle lifted a hand in a halfhearted wave. Austin just watched her go, uncertain.
As she followed her sister outside, a hundred worries churned in her chest, mining it with fear, frustration, and regret.
More than anything, she just wanted to know where her friend was.
15
A throng of reporters, from Westville’s small-town Ledger to regional news stations, clung to the front steps of City Hall as Chief Hart took his place on the makeshift podium late Sunday afternoon.
They crowded along the narrow sidewalk, a space clearly never meant to withstand this much buzz and bluster. Their microphones jutted forward like spears, camera lenses capturing the Chief’s every twitch and frown.
Casey hovered to one side, still out of uniform.
The Chief had continued to deter him from any more direct involvement for now. None of that cautioning did anything to lessen the pull, the way he felt grafted to finding Millie. He owed it to Erin and Joe. He owed it to Millie.
Westville wasn’t used to chaos. Unless you counted debates over what to do with the decaying Ulysses S. Grant showboat, the first letter of the northern general’s last name on the stern having worn away to read, appropriately, “Rant,” which is what people loved to do about it.
But a missing kid in a town with nothing of the sort in its history had a way of unraveling things fast.
Holt County sheriff’s cars lined Main Street, a grim parade. An added presence Hart wouldn’t typically welcome, but the scale of this was beyond typical.
Rumors were already spreading like the flu in February. Some insisted Howard had fallen back into his old drinking habits, let loose some long-dormant darkness inside him. Others swore it was nothing more than a tragic accident. As for Millie, theories ranged from she ran off, to she fell in the river, to the kind of talk people didn’t want to say out loud. The kind that made people keep their kids a little closer, check their locks twice.
The potential truth was hard to swallow, but it loomed all the same: the tire tread marks found near the Boy Scout cabin were consistent with the size and weight of the Ford E-350 Econoline Howard had driven into the river.
Not to mention that bracelet.
Had he run the bus off the road intentionally? Had he done it after doing the unimaginable to an innocent girl, because he couldn’t live with himself? Or had it been a freak accident and the consequence of a twenty-year-delayed relapse?
And if Howard had done something to Millie, where was she? Where was her…
No. She’s out there still. We just need to find her.
Worst-case scenarios would have to wait.
Locals had gathered beyond the press, drawn by dread or morbid curiosity. Some had been at the river that morning. Others had only heard whispers. Drivers slowed to gawk, turning Main Street into a gallery of faces pressed against car windows. He felt a strange dissonance watching his town turn into this. As if a sordid Chicago headline had followed him home, waiting in some dark corner these last two years.
A fissure in the dam spidering unseen in jagged shoots.
And now Westville’s rural bubble was bursting. Casey wondered what might churn up to the surface when it did. Above him, the sky darkened, a quiet omen that quickened his pulse.
They were coming up on 48 hours fast.
Hart stepped up to the podium, shoulders squared, and cleared his throat.
“Good evening and thank you all for being here.”
The murmurs ceased, replaced by the eerie stillness of a crowd holding its breath.
“Yesterday morning, Emily Grace Thompson, a girl we all know as Millie, was reported missing.”
Hart’s voice was steady, but Casey caught the weight beneath it. A quiet crack only those who knew him well might hear.
“Since that time, every available resource has been dedicated to locating her and bringing her home safely. We’ve mobilized search teams with the help of local volunteers, our department, and neighboring agencies.”
A camera clicked. A reporter from Channel 7 raised a hand, but Hart pressed on.
Casey scanned the crowd. Familiar faces stared back. Teachers, store clerks, retirees. Their faces full of the panicked kind of terror that came with realizing the world wasn’t how you thought it was.
He looked away.
“The safety of our residents, especially our children, is our highest priority,” Hart continued. “We are doing everything in our power to reunite Millie with her family.”
Erin and Joe clutched each other’s arms. Joe glanced over to Casey, a look that said he was glad he was there. For as much as Joe was the guy who had it together and had the looks to back it up, he was fragile too. And it was Casey’s turn to be there for him.
A reporter near the back shouted, “Do you have a suspect? Is this an abduction?”
Hart didn’t flinch, though his grip on the podium tightened. “At this time, I am limited in what I can share about the specifics of our investigation. However, I want to assure everyone that we are pursuing every lead with urgency and care.”
“Chief!” a voice from the press pack broke through. A wiry man from Channel 7 thrust his microphone forward. “The body of one Howard Meyers was pulled from the Slate River this morning at the site of an accident. Are the cases connected?”
Casey didn’t think Howard’s name had been released yet. Neither did the Chief, from the look of it.
Hart paused, eyes narrowing slightly, reining in his composure. “As I said, I’m limited in what I can share. We are treating all leads and incidents with the seriousness they deserve, but at this time, our focus remains on bringing this girl home.”
A worthy stretch of the truth. No need to feed the rumor mill. It was already churning fast enough.
The murmurs returned as Hart stepped back, signaling the end of his speech. Questions broke out, words blurring together in a cacophony of urgency.
Casey looked across the street, where a shiny, new, black Crown Victoria was pulling into a spot by the curb. An unfamiliar sight for Westville, especially with Illinois plates.
The doors opened.
A tall, older Black man stepped out, followed by a woman with dark copper hair. The sun caught the yellow flash of the three letters emblazoned on their jackets.
Casey’s gut clenched.
Feds.
The reporters felt it too. Some invisible wire tugged them toward the federal agents, a ripple through the pack, microphones snapping up, voices rising in unison.
The county sheriff’s deputies stiffened. Chief Hart’s face darkened to a shade Casey knew well. The color of barely contained fury.
“Chief Hart,” a reporter fired off, “are these cases now under federal jurisdiction?”
“And if so, why?” another piled on.
Hart didn’t answer, though the sudden redness in his cheeks and seeming instantaneous deepening bags under his eyes said enough. “No more questions,” he muttered, before shouldering through the double doors of City Hall.
Reynolds ushered Joe and Erin inside after.
Casey hung back, watching. The agents flashed their badges, cutting through the press like a hot knife. When they disappeared inside, he slipped around the back, through the station’s garage, and into the building. Casey made his way around the back entrance, avoiding the chaos.
Through the bullpen, past the cracked-open office door, he heard Hart’s voice, sharp-edged with irritation.
“You want to tell me why I wasn’t informed you were coming?”
A pause. “Let’s get off on the right foot, shall we? There’s only one side here. The side of the victims.” A smooth, measured reply.
Casey stiffened. Victims. Plural.
A sharp sting, a catching burr on the skin. When the agent slapped multiple files onto Hart’s desk, his gut twisted.
Hart stared at the folders like they held a bad poker hand.
“How about some names first?”
A hand extended across the desk, firm and unflinching. “Special Investigator Stephen Lochlear.” His voice had a buttery sort of starkness to it, a strange combination of hardness and ease. “And this is Special Field Agent Dana Reeves.”
Hart muttered something and shook their hands.
Casey lingered in the hallway, debating his next move. He wasn’t technically supposed to be here, but whatever the feds were digging into, it wasn’t going to make life in Westville any simpler. It never did.
The door swung open.
The male agent stepped out first. Tall, crisp edges, polished demeanor. He filled the doorframe like it had been built for him. His gaze landed squarely on Casey.
“You must be Officer Benson.”
Casey straightened. “That’s right.”
Lochlear extended a hand. “I like to know who I’m going to be working with.”
Casey shook it.
Up close, the man smelled faintly of leather and paper. His suit was impeccable, but something about him set Casey’s nerves jangling. Fastidious bureaucratism at its finest punctuated with a forced smile. The kind that said I already have you figured out.
Behind him, the female agent, Reeves, observed with sharp, hazel eyes. Copper-red hair framed her face in deliberate, no-nonsense strands. A gray pantsuit, navy FBI jacket. Professional but not rigid. There was a hardness to her brow, though. A wryness to her mouth, a mirror of the badge he saw hanging down, obscured a bit by her jacket. But he noticed bold letters next to “Field Agent” that read “PK.” Some kind of security clearance, maybe.
“Your name came up in the brief,” she said, flipping through a folder. “Seems you’ve been close to this investigation.” A pause. “And a hometown boy.”
Casey’s jaw tightened. “I’m off-duty today. Chief’s orders.”
“Yet here you are,” Lochlear noted, tilting his head. “Interesting.”
Casey simplified his first impression of Lochlear to asshole.
He glanced to Hart, whom he could tell was already flustered, and he didn’t blame him. Casey looked back to Lochlear.
“You want to tell me what you’re here for? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re about to step on a lot of toes.”
Hart cleared his throat.
Lochlear didn’t blink. “We’re here to ensure this doesn’t turn into something bigger than it already is. These situations have a way of spiraling if we’re not careful.”
Casey’s gut twisted again. “What kind of situations might those be?”
Reeves flicked to another page. “The kind that involve multiple victims over a period. A pattern.”
“So serial killings,” Casey said flatly.
Reeves only nodded.
“Howard Meyers is our best suspect regarding Miss Thompson,” Lochlear said. “And you recovered a bracelet at the scene.”
“We’re not sure if it’s hers. He handed them out all the time.”
Reeves was listening, but Casey could see it. She was working angles he couldn’t.
“We’ll need to set a time for a more formal interview and take a statement,” Lochlear said.
“Sounds like a waste of time and manpower,” Casey muttered.
Lochlear pocketed his glasses. “The cooperation of this department is paramount to ensuring the best outcome.”
“And that sounds like a bureaucratic mouthful of nothing.”
“Benson,” Hart snapped.
Reeves stepped forward. “All it means is that we’re here to help.”
Lochlear nodded. “And if you’re at all interested in finding Emily Thompson, I suggest you take that help.”
“Millie.”
Lochlear’s brow arched. “Pardon?”
“She goes by Millie.”
“So you know the victim personally?”
That word. Victim. It caught in Casey’s ribs like a rusted nail.
“That’s right.”
Lochlear didn’t blink. “Noted. But let me give you some advice, Officer. There may be more at play here than you realize. And the sooner everyone in Westville understands that, the better off they’ll be.”
Before Casey could respond, Reeves snapped her folder shut. “We’ll be in touch.”
He turned back to Hart.
“Don’t you think it’s weird the feds showed up this fast?” Casey asked.
Hart exhaled hard. “Not if they think there’s a link to other missing girls in the greater Iron Falls area.”
Casey flipped open the file.
Brittany Renee Foster.
Stephanie Michelle Wright.
He vaguely remembered hearing about these over the past year and a half or so. They were the sort of unthinkable stories that were earth-shattering and life-ruining for the people they happened to, but for those removed were nothing more than a blip on the news cycle.
They were girls Millie’s age. One bore a striking resemblance.
Hart sighed, grabbed a bottle of scotch from under his desk, and poured it into his W.P.D. mug. “Things are about to get a lot more complicated.”
Casey pushed back from the desk. “And Howard Meyers could be pinned for all of them.”
Hart gave him a hard look. “No one’s saying that. Yet. But you know how this goes. People need answers. They’ll latch onto the first explanation that makes sense, even if it’s the wrong one.”
Casey nodded absently, his thoughts spiraling.
Why had the feds come down so fast?
As he stepped outside, cold air biting his skin, the Crown Vic was already pulling away.
He was walking to his car, the dull silver curves of the Monte Carlo’s long hood glimmering faintly under the streetlamps, when across the street just beyond the flickering glow of a streetlamp, a figure shifted. And stood there.
Still. Watchful.
Casey blinked, heart quickening. He stepped forward.
The figure stepped back, vanishing into the dark.
Casey got into his car and started the coughing, sputtering engine in fits and starts. He glanced in his rearview at the street corner by the mill.
Casey was starting to feel something he had never felt living here.
The town, or something in it, was changing. And right now he wasn’t so sure change was a good thing.