Ch 1-10

Summary

“Was our tousle at the cafe this afternoon not enough for you, Agent? Or have you managed to find the nonexistent evidence that I’m a murderer?” When FBI agent Vance Deveraux comes across a novel dauntingly close to a case he’s working, he stumbles into the extravagantly odd life of Lucy Hamilton, a closeted writer with a past she’s unwilling to share, even when she’s suspect number one in a string of murders. Her innocence? More than half of the crimes took place before she was born and in states she’d never been. Her guilt? Every novel she’s ever written perfectly lined to an unsolved murder in real time. So, what’s the verdict?

Chapter 1

Six caskets of mahogany dressed with the American flag sat patiently in a remote warehouse outside of Quantico, Virginia, the silence deafening as Special Agent Vance Deveraux stood with his eyes closed and pain in every feature.

“Don’t you get it, Vance?” Director Jones darkly asked, his suit as firmly pressed as his tone. “Seven men go in, six come out in body bags. A threat to national security, and you to the opposite of your single job. We gave your team everything you needed to stop that bomb from going off in D.C. with plenty of time to cover your bases and get the hell out of there.”

“Sir, I-”

“No, you don’t get to speak,” Jones interrupted. “You get to listen. You get to listen to their families and their loved ones. You get that guilt, forever. In life, people make mistakes, but not in the way you did. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you did it on purpose. That bomb didn’t need to blow. You weren’t ambushed, you weren’t set back. In fact, your team was ahead of schedule. Yet you still lost the mission and they lost their lives.”

Vance felt like he could barely breath, his face grim as his green eyes held back tears.

Director Malcolm Jones, as aged as his view on life, walked a distance from Vance, resting a hand on the coffin containing what was known to be left of his own son. His shallow grey eyes soon found the lone survivor once more, rage burrowing deep inside his heart. “You’re lucky we’re not pending further investigation. I could have you out of the FBI in seconds for this, I hope you know that.”

“I know, sir, and I’m very thankful to keep my job.” Vance kept his facade as best as he could, trying not to let his self hate show too boldly through the ensemble of chiseled features that composed his face.

“A job within the FBI, yes, but you’re no longer with counter-terrorism unit.” The Director dismissed eye contact with the dark haired agent, looking along the caskets that were waiting to be buried. “You’ll be transferred to the Los Angeles Field Office with criminal investigation, working cold cases. You’ll keep your special agent status, but hopefully you won’t be able to do any harm from behind a desk. I’ve already set everything with Dorian, the office head there, and you’ll be under strict watch.”

Vance’s lips parted, surprise taking over his expression. “But, sir-”

“You are in no place to argue,” Jones quickly retorted. “You have a flight booked to LAX in two hours, all of your belongings have been packed and sent on their way.” Removing a boarding pass from his gray suit jacket, he held it out to the agent he once treated like a son. “Take it and get out of my sight.”

The agent hesitantly took the slip from Director Jones’ grasp, eyes wary as he searched for any way to make amends. “Is there anything I can say, sir?”

“Yes,” he replied. “You can say goodbye.”

Briefly closing his eyes, Vance did just that.

Jones’ face held no expression, his own thoughts lost to any who looked upon him. “Not to me. To them.”

The Director’s fingers lightly touched his forehead, blessing the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit before leaving the side of his son’s coffin and walking past Deveraux without a word. His phone buzzed idly, Malcolm immediately putting the device to his ear. “Jo, are the two of you here?”

Vance jumped as the warehouse door slammed behind him, left alone with those he’d killed. His heart throbbed with sorrow, still gripping to ticket to California as his eyes flickered across the caskets that held only pieces of great men. His men, his brothers.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered before turning towards the door and only stopping to look one last time before he’d leave Virginia, shunned by the head of the FBI.

---

The stuffy aroma of the Reagan National Airport swelled around Vance Deveraux as he made his way through the extensive terminals, less than twenty minutes until he had to board his flight across the country. He carried only his briefcase, all that was left for him to take after everything else had been cleared out and shipped to California.

Vance checked the watch face on the inside of his wrist, looking like a secret agent whether he meant to or not. He turned his head, catching a glimpse of a well stocked bookstore. “Thank God,” he lowly expressed as he moved his way through a thicket of travelers, desperate for literature beyond taxi ad pamphlets. When they packed everything, it included his books.

Although blocking only a slight trace of the bustling airport terminal, inside the plethora of books, it was mildly calmer. Various passengers paced through, the coffee scented premise hoping to drown their extensive layovers in words.

“Can I help you find anything, sir?” A petite woman in red at the counter noticed Vance’s arrival, curious to why he looked so unprepared to be flying.

“No, no thank you. Just looking for something to read,” Vance quickly dismissed with a wave of his hand, his hamartia to push people away to avoid as many questions as possible.

Carol, however, took books quite seriously.

Stepping from around her post at the tell, she joined Vance with a warm smile. “You never want to get stuck with a bad book when you’re 14,000 feet up, now do you?”

Vance offered a fairly faked laugh, scratching his brow as he spoke. “I guess not, no.”

“What kind of novels interest you, handsome?” Carol instead gave him no time to answer, “Oh I bet I can guess! Murder mysteries?”

Although hesitating, he assumed it was the world making fun of him for his new position in criminal investigation instead of his well loved counter-terrorism unit. “Right on the nose,” he lied. “You got me.” He had always been more of a Fitzgerald man himself.

“More like who done it,” she joked with a little wiggle of her shoulders, one every aunt in the world did on impulse. “Follow me, we just received a new shipment of her latest.”

“Whose latest?” Vance’s eyebrows knitted together momentarily, following the small figure of Carol over to a colorful display.

“If you like murder mysteries, then you have to know who Stella St. Laurens is.”

Vance softly shook his head with a light lift of his shoulder, “I guess I’m not as invested.”

“Trust me, you’ll love her.” Carol picked up a copy of Where The Willow Waits before glancing back to Vance. “How long is your flight, dear?”

“About six hours,” the special agent replied coolly, it the most civilian interaction he’d come across in nearly five months. “Maybe less if I’m lucky.”

“Perfect, then you can treat yourself to two of her novels.” Carol snagged Mummy Dearest of the shelf next to the St. Laurens display, “This one’s my favorite. You’ll be captured by every word, I promise.”

Vance couldn’t argue, tight on time and going out on a whim to trust her. “Alright, sounds good to me.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with, gorgeous?” Carol brightly asked as they wandered back to the register, not even bothering to hand the chosen books to Vance before ringing them up.

Fishing for his wallet from the pocket of his dark slacks, he began to shake his head before sliding a bag of gummy worms onto the counter.

Carol laughed, agreeing with the choice as she scanned them. “Do you need a bag?”

Vance declined as he held out his credit card to her, “I can put them in my briefcase, I’m fine.”

“Enjoy your flight,” she warmly said, finalizing the sale and returning his card. “And more importantly, enjoy those books.”

Thanking her on his way out of the bookstore, Vance merged back into the crowd once he’d secured the books and candy in his brown leather briefcase. He didn’t blend with the loosely dressed travelers, his suit sticking out like a sore thumb and the click of his designer oxfords louder than those of worn out sneakers.

“Now boarding flight 2365 to Los Angeles, all groups welcome to board.”

Vance picked up his pace slightly, only a few gates down as the message came over the terminal speakers. Sliding into the massive line of people, he soon found himself admitted into the business cabin of the jumbo jet. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been on a commercial plane. His life had been choppers and private jets under fire since he stepped out of the Academy.

The special agent shimmied out of his jacket, making an effort to look as least disheveled as possible as he loosened his tie enough just to relax. He ran a hand through dark hair that laid as it wanted to, reaching for the brand new print of Where The Willow Waits before settling back into his seat. Sighing to himself as he tried to ignore the guilt in his heart, he flipped the paperback over in his hands to read the simple synopsis that Carol had failed to share with him before pressuring him to buy it.

In an attempt to make a name for herself in Hollywood, Bridget Wilson comes across a job that might do her more harm than good. Backed by an agent who pushes for any acting gigs at all, young Wilson steps on set that’s more sinister than it seems…

Vance’s eyes traced down below the synopsis, momentarily questioning why there was no image of the author to join the vague description of Stella St. Laurens.

If Bridget was so intent on seeking fame, then why wasn’t Stella?

Chapter 2

THREE MONTHS LATER

A metal garbage can chimed as another crumpled paper joined the heap, Vance Deveraux’s arm retracting from its curved position as one of the desk agents wheeled in a new load of files to his pathetic excuse for an office.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me, Allison,” Vance said as he sat up in his chair. “I’ve already got a million cases to digitize.”

The older blonde gave a light shrug, leaving the three boxes next to his messy desk among the thirteen others strewn about the room. “Sorry, Vance. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Deveraux closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Did Dorian at least say why?”

Allison only gave Vance a look, her eyebrows slightly raised. “You know why.” She lightly tapped the top box, evident sympathy in her eyes. “Have fun,” she offered as she headed out of the cramped, barely air conditioned office.

“All fun all the time,” Vance mumbled as he ran a hand through his hair. He sighed, not touching the newest boxes and instead returning his eyes to his computer.

But there was nothing new. They were cold cases for a reason.

A knock sounded on the open door, a woman with arched eyebrows and a neat chignon leaning in.

Vance practically jumped up from his relaxed position, “SSA Phillips.”

“Relax, Deveraux,” Phillips said as she walked into the messy office space. Her sharp pant suit lines only grew sharper in the distress of the room, humble superiority radiating off of her. “There’s only so much you can do with a shit stack of cold cases.”

Subsiding from his minor alarm, Vance adjusted his tie before motioning to the head of the LA Criminal Investigation Unit. “What can I help you with, ma’am?”

“I actually need to see one of the files you’ve been given.”

Vance only smiled without much emotion before taking a sip of coffee, pushing the assistant director for the only amusement he could get out of his situation. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

Marina Phillips lightly shook her head, her tamed, chestnut hair not moving an inch. “Should’ve passed through about a month ago. Missing persons case, filed 12 years back. Name should be Emily Morrison.”

“Sure thing,” Vance replied as he set down his coffee mug, pulling his keyboard closer to jump back into the database.

SSA Phillips held no reservations against the special agent that had been assigned to her floor three months prior, rather thankful for the help in filing but concerned that his skills could be used best outside of the building and actually in the field. She, however, had no say in the length or terms of the agent’s punishment. Dorian told her what to do with Deveraux and Jones no less controlled Dorian.

“I’ve got it,” Vance announced, causing Marina to go around his desk to see the screen. “Emily Morrison, missing at age 12 when she went out to play with a friend but never made it to the park. No suspects, barely speculation.” Glancing up the senior agent, he grew curious. “Why do you need this if there’s nothing we can do? They claimed it cold six years ago and it’s spent another six sitting in a box.”

“Because,” Phillips produced her tablet from her suit, it thinner than the material of her blazer, “we might have something.” Angling the technology towards Deveraux, Marina bubbled with the chance of justice. “A girl ran through the woods and into a police station claiming that she’d been kidnapped five years prior by a man named Neil Hunter. He’d been keeping her in his basement the entire time. Hunter didn’t even think to leave, but LAPD found him and got stuffed into County, no bail. Thing is, right now he’s only on one count. When the girl, Eliza, was questioned about the basement itself, she said she could tell there was another if not multiple girls that had been held there before her. He even told her about one – Emily – and that Hunter killed her. Apparently, he told her about it to scare her out of trying to escape, like she did.”

Vance watched the images of the suspect slide by, revealing a photograph of a red hair collected from the floorboard. “Emily had red hair,” he mildly said as he looked back to the photo on his computer of the 12 year old girl. “Do you think they can match this?”

“I already spoke with Mrs. Morrison on the phone,” said Marina, “and after a long conversation she’s agreed to bringing in a of hairbrush of Emily’s that still has strands in it.”

“Ma’am, if I may, I’d like to ask to be put on the case,” Vance almost immediately requested. “Officially, I mean. Not just inside the office. If there’s a chance we can figure out what happened to this girl, I want to help.”

Senior Agent Phillips gave a half smile, “You’re on the team, Deveraux. I’ll pull you later for our interrogation down at LA County Jail. They’re letting us talk to Hunter to see if we can get him to admit to killing Emily Morrison.”

---

The sleek FBI regulated sedan slid through traffic with ease, Vance tucked in the back with a to-go coffee in hand as Phillips and Agent Colton Ramos resided in the front. LA’s August weather remained warm, tourists still roaming for their last hit of summer and clothing seeming rather optional.

Ramos, a field agent based out of LA since his first assignment twelve years prior, drove with ease towards the jail currently holding Neil Hunter. His dark eyes stayed on the road while his ears focused in on Phillips giving what information she had on the case.

“Apparently, he isn’t talking,” the SSA announced as she set down her work phone in her lap, a folder open in her hands.

“Would you?” questioned Vance as he lowered his coffee cup from his lips. “The guy’s just been caught for kidnapping girls and keeping them in his basement. I wouldn’t talk either.”

Phillips lightly shook her head, still trying to understand the situation in its entirety. “It’s not like he can deny it. We’ve got enough evidence to put him away for years.”

“But not to death,” interjected Agent Ramos. “That would come with admitting to killing all of those other girls.”

“We only have insight on one potential.” Agent Deveraux’s eyebrows knitted together slightly, leaned back on the vinyl seating.

“Our witness said there looked like there could be one or more, likely it’s more. Dude’s psycho. There’s got to be more, and if he talks,” Ramos made a noise in the back of his throat, representing none other than death itself.

“He doesn’t have any infractions with the police,” Phillips said as she leafed through Hunter’s file. “He grew up in Anaheim, went to UCLA in the 80s, and there’s never been a complaint to his house. He even paid his taxes on time, every year. Neighbors say he’s quiet, but the block that he lives on isn’t a very big community type. Most people keep to themselves anyways.”

“Clearly a real standup guy,” commented Ramos sarcastically. “Look, everyone can keep a secret. Some do it better. Just because they seem normal enough doesn’t mean they aren’t keep young women hostage in their basement for some unbeknownst, perverted reason.”

“Does he have any family?” Vance questioned underneath Ramos, looking towards Phillips.

“None living,” she replied with a light sigh in her voice. “Both parents deceased within the past ten years. No wife, no kids. No siblings, either.”

Deveraux hesitated a moment, doing what he could to read the paper man with a mere paper history. “Hire his own lawyer?”

“County appointed, D.A. Finstock, I think. We’ve worked with him before.” SSA Phillips turned her head, looking to Vance over her shoulder. “What’s going on up there in that brain of yours, Deveraux?”

Seemingly as perplexed as the other special agents, “I’m not sure yet.”

“That’s helpful,” Ramos mockingly said under his breath as he flashed his badge at the front gate to the county jail, ignoring the camera crews vigorously trying to get a clip. “What’s our play?” he questioned as he took a parking spot close to the main building, it surrounded by barbed wire.

“I’ll go in with Deveraux to talk.” SA Phillips shut the file in hand, sliding it into her briefcase as she exited to FBI vehicle. “Ramos, you’ll get anything you can from guards about Hunter. First impressions, whether he’s talked or not. You know the drill.”

Ramos locked the car as the trio headed towards the building entrance, nodding without hesitation. “Yes, ma’am.”

Brought through the LA County Jail and into its depths with ease, a thin yet intimidating man named Officer Hudson stopped the special agents in front of the questioning room currently holding Neil Hunter.

Marina looked from her agents to Officer Hudson, hiding her mild confusion with a flat expression. “Is there a problem, officer?”

Running his fingers along his dark mustache, Officer Hudson hesitated to reply. “Just try not to look at his eye, he’s sensitive,” he simply said before sliding his key card along the authorization panel.

Ramos remained outside as Phillips and Deveraux went in, nodding almost cockily to the escort guards incase Hunter made a break for it. A chrome burner phone was hidden behind his back, Ramos’ eyes scouring the guards with no sign he was doing anything out of the ordinary. “Hunter given you any trouble?”

Officer Price, young blood not yet broken by the system, gave a light shrug. “He doesn’t talk much. Or ever, really.”

Hudson stepped forward, moving the attention of the hall to him. “Look, Suit, Hunter’s just a quiet guy. He’s not done anything to wrong us.”

An eyebrow of Ramos’ raised, his thumb hesitating to send the message on the hidden mobile. “Does the kidnapping a young girl and holding her in his basement for three years not a reason to be bothered by him?”

“Lots of people have done a lot worse, sir, you’re in a prison. Ask one out of ten of these guys and they’ve got blood on their hands-”

“Do you have any kids, Officer Hudson?” Ramos interrupted, his voice blunt. He could tell from the look in the officer’s eyes that he did, an instant guilt rippling across his worn face. “How would you treat a man who took your child? Kept them away from you for year – possibly forever. Would you just shrug it off?

Officer Hudson didn’t speak, averting his eyes from the FBI agent.

“Exactly.” Ramos slid his phone discreetly into his slack pocket, folding his arms over his chest as intimidating eyes crossed the line of security guards. “So, tell me. What’s Hunter been like?”

“When he talks, if ever,” began the blonde officer behind Hudson, moving out past her boss, “it’s always a name.” Fowler did her best not to look at the glare Hudson was giving her. “We looked into it, but it doesn’t make sense.”

Ramos’ eyes narrowed inquisitively, “Go on.”

“He says, ‘Karen,’ over and over again,” said Fowler.

And the only thing more confusing than Hunter’s choice of word was the lack of surprise on Agent Ramos’ face.

---

Neil Hunter was a man of many things, few which people knew, even less which they understood.

The box of a room held limited furniture, a single guilty body sitting in a chair, dressed in tan scrubs with his head bent low.

His short hair was graying, slowly fading out from what was once the fullest head of auburn hair in his family. Neither tattoos nor piercings graced his body, a clean slate of age and misfortune. His lowly pigmented hands were folded together, eyes searching for anything but the special agents taking their places across from him like the typical TV crime case it had become.

Marina stood with folded arms at the end of the metal table, voice calm and collected beyond belief. “Mr. Hunter, I’m Supervisory Special Agent Marina Phillips, this is my associate Special Agent Vance Deveraux. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Neil remained quiet, eyes on the handcuffs that bound him to the table. The ones that bound him to his grief.

“We can’t help you if you won’t let us,” Vance said, an arm resting on the metal surface as he studied Hunter.

Phillips pulled a school photo of a redhead little girl from her file, sliding it across the table to Hunter. She stayed silent for a moment, watching his body language for any indication of familiarity. “Do you recognize this girl?”

Again, there was no answer.

“Emily Morrison, missing at age 12.” Marina removed a second photo, a close up shot of red hair found in Hunter’s basement. “Emily Morrison’s hair, found in your basement, matched it.”

Vance kept quiet, aware that the call hadn’t come in yet confirming that the hair was Emily’s or not. He knew Phillips’ tactics, ones he’d seen used countless times.

Phillips tried again, her tone unwavering. “Eliza said you told her a story about the girl before her, a girl named Emily, who tried to run away from you. She told us that you killed her. Is the Emily you used against Eliza the same girl in this photograph?”

Neil Hunter’s brown eyes slowly rose to Marina, leaving the glassy ones of Emily’s photograph. A bruise seemed to be painted across his left eye, swollen and puffing with showing signs of large knuckles from none other than an inmate.

“Well?” Phillips questioned with an undertone that could scare a grown man.

Hunter simply held up his hand, fingers spread. He pled the 5th, and that was it.

Chapter 3

The distant crashing of waves hummed through the open windows of the Hamilton home, endless characters dismantling a well-built manuscript as a brunette’s face rested on the worn keys of her laptop. Sea salt dusted the air of the Malibu property, a golden retriever sitting by an empty food bowl with his head cocked to the side as he watched his unconscious owner.

Alex, although young, knew what he wanted. He wanted food. He barked, his red collar jingling against the vibrations of his throat.

The slim figure of Lucy Hamilton lurched up from her deep sleep, a computer key stuck to her face and stormy blue eyes half open in confusion. A light mumble fell from her parted lips, attempting to orient herself as she sat up in her desk chair. She rubbed her eyes, looking over to Alex as if she didn’t recognize him right away. “Long night, huh?”

Barking once more, Alex nudged his food bowl with one of his paws in response to her question.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lucy said as she stretched, tugging the ‘Y’ off of her cheek and tossing it back onto her desk. “Bring your bowl.” Walking through her open upper loft decked with novels and manuscripts in every which way, she headed down the blonde wood stairs to the living space that housed the kitchen.

By the time Lucy had pulled the container of food from the upper cabinet, Alex had already dropped his labelled bowl at her bare feet.

Lucy lightly laughed, pouring a cup of dry food into the bowl before rubbing the top of his head. “Good boy,” she warmly praised before putting the food back in the cabinet. She took down a tourist Arvada mug from a random trip to Colorado, clicking on the coffee pot after wincing at the time on the machine. “She sure was a talker last night, huh, Al?”

The morning sun glinted on Lucy’s tanned skin through the slatted blinds covering the glass doors, flannel shorts and a slouchy top surprisingly not out of place in the relaxed home atmosphere. Alex remained passive, eating sloppily without a care.

The brunette jabbed a finger on the small TV set up on the island as she passed by, the news already preset as the colors seared onto the screen. She yawned as she leaned on the counter, idly waiting for her coffee to brew.

Lucy’s eyes wandered to the kitchen window over the sink, a clear view of the ocean staring back at her. “What do you think, Al?” she absently asked the retriever as she gazed out at the welcoming waves. “Beach day?”

However, she only laughed when Alex’s snout pointed towards the antique sign bearing ‘It’s Always A Beach Day’ next to a yellow umbrella.

“Agreed,” Lucy said with half a smile as she moved off the island counter and headed back upstairs with a soft bounce in her step. She picked up her surfing wetsuit off of the interior balcony, moving it over to her neatly made bed before rifling in her dresser for a bikini.

The noise of the TV muffled up the stairs and into the loft, incomprehensible to Lucy as she changed behind the bamboo panel in the corner of the space that doubled as her bedroom. Distantly she could hear Alex’s hasty eating and waves scuffling outside the open windows, pulling on a pitch black neoprene suit in record time.

Alex barked from below, drawing Lucy’s attention as she braided back her collarbone length hair.

“Al?” she questioned lightly as she leaned over the balcony, half her hair done as she paused. Hesitating before realizing she wasn’t going to get an answer, Lucy headed back down the stairs as she finished up the braids. “What is it boy?”

Sitting on the tile floor with his nose pointed up at the TV, his tongue idly lolled out of his mouth.

Lucy’s eyes fell on the kitchen screen still bearing the news, her brows furrowing as she read the headline.

KIDNAPPER CAUGHT AFTER GIRL ESCAPES 5 YEARS IN CAPTIVITY IN BASEMENT

Shock laced through the brunette’s expression, watching the cropped footage of Neil Hunter being dragged from his home in cuffs and shoved into a police car. A rage stung the back of her throat, hate taking root in her heart.

Not once had they mentioned the name, but Lucy knew it. She knew him, she knew what she’d done.

“That’s Emily’s killer,” she said softly with an odd look on her face. Lucy walked barefoot across her open living space, stopping at a single shelf filled with first editions novels. She went up on her toes, picking out Endless Alabaster from the plethora of books. “I didn’t know he took another girl after her.”

The accredited novel by Stella St. Laurens remained perched in hands that were still raw from hitting away at her keyboard for a solid seven hours the night previous, the brunette flipping to the very last page of a story she was so familiar with, only a thin epilogue waiting in the wings.

Lucy mumbled to herself as her finger trailed down the font bearing a tragic end, “There wasn’t supposed to be another one.”

Night weighed heavily over the forest, light of the house blocked by a blanket of trees that would keep his secrets, his demons until the end of time.

Oliver steadied his breath, dirt caking his overalls and blood painting his sleeves. The warm fog leaving his lips hovered like a shield, protecting himself from what he’d done for only a moment until it wisped away into oblivion. He looked up to the sky, as if it would bring comfort to his sin.

“By God, let her be the last.”

But she wasn’t, and Lucy could’ve done something about it.

The warmth of the city flooded into the cramped office of Agent Deveraux, swirling in gasping breaths that seemed near attempts to suffocate the sole occupant.

Vance sat hunched forward in his chair, a mess of papers shrouding his desk like a shrine to Emily Morrison’s disappearance. He massaged his left temple while scanning through the witness report of the friend that Emily was supposed to meet before she vanished, it merely the ramblings of a child with no leads.

Nothing in the years of documents crammed into his office held anything that tied Neil Hunter to the abduction of Emily Morrison.

Not a damn thing.

There was no video footage, no witnesses, absolutely nothing that pointed to Hunter.

Yet, the hair matched.

The red hair found in the basement matched that of Emily Morrison, and no one could find anything else about her. No one knew where he grabbed her, when or even why.

Vance felt like he was fumbling around for a light switch in an Amish barn.

Philips knocked idly on the door frame of Vance’s office, looking exactly like she had the day before except her suit being two shades darker. “How’s it going?”

“It’s not going anywhere,” Vance replied with an exasperated sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his chair. “The hair isn’t going to be enough. We need something else for a judge to rule it. He’s pleading the fifth and I’m about five steps from jumping off a cliff because of it.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” Marina asked, her arms crossed over her chest.

Vance’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t graduate from the Academy to get your ass handed to you, Deveraux. This is your first real investigation since they shipped you here, so do something about. Show them you can still do your job.”

“I know I can do my job,” said Deveraux, “but I don’t know if I can do this job.” He motioned absently with his hand towards the stacks on his desk, unsure of what to do. “There is nothing linking Hunter to Emily except one damn hair. Sure, maybe she sold him girl scout cookies, but it doesn’t mean she was being held there through her teenage years and then was murdered.”

“If you think he did it, then prove it,” she firmly told Vance. “Do what you can. No one who is guilty of a crime like this can get away with it without leaving some sort of evidence – something more than just a hair.” Unfolding her arms, she gave him a last look before leaving. “Get it done.”

Vance shut his eyes, groaning as he templed his hands over his face. Aggravatedly sitting back up in his seat, he went back to leafing through the files pulled from Hunter’s computer from the weeks leading up Emily’s disappearance.

The only thing slightly less disturbing to Vance than Hunter keeping young girls in his basement for years at a time was that he’d never cleaned his computer hard drive.

Leaning his chin on his palm as he read, his eyes lazily drew to his desk phone when it started to ring. Vance picked up the landline, pressing it his ear with an absentee expression. “Go for Deveraux.”

“…Agent?”

Vance’s eyes narrowed slightly, “Yes, this is Special Agent Deveraux. Who is this?”

The voice on the other end of the line was hesitant, nonverbally questioning whether or not they should even be calling. “That’s not…important. I uh, I saw your name on the news. You’re on the Neil Hunter case, right? They released shots of your team showing up at the jail to talk to him.”

“I am, yes,” he replied as he sat up straighter. “What can I help you with?”

“I, uh, I would actually like to help you. Well, maybe. I’m not sure about it, but it was too strange not to notice.” The woman, age undecipherable, cleared her throat lightly. “I saw there were mentions of Emily Morrison, the girl that went missing years ago, and that Hunter might’ve been the one who did it.”

Vance didn’t respond right away, unsure of how much of that information had gotten out to the public. “Potentially.”

“There’s this book,” the caller told Vance, “and I think it’s worth a read.”

“I’m sorry, but this isn’t a book club, I-”

“No, listen. It sounds just like what happened in the basement, the chains. It’s – it’s hard not to sense something. Just, read it and see for yourself. It’s called Endless Alabaster by Stella St. Laurens.”

Vance absently wetted his lips in thought, the name not unfamiliar to him. “You’re not just messing with me, right? Because I really don’t have time to deal with jokers.”

“I swear,” they quickly assured.

Despite being hesitant, Vance agreed and thanked the caller before ending the call. He checked his watch as he stood from his desk, knowing that his situation was by far the most bizarre he’d been in. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, grabbing his wallet and car keys before heading out of his office.

---

Book’em Mysteries sat welcomingly on Mission Street, the afternoon sun beaming down on the bustling street filled with a mixture of tourists and natives enjoying their day.

Vance Deveraux’s sleek black sedan pulled into a parallel spot outside of the bookstore that he’d found himself a fan of since his arrival in Los Angeles, giving less of an FBI vibe as he took off his tie and left it his passenger’s seat. He stretched his arms behind him absently as he walked around the front of his Audi and onto the sidewalk, his mind elsewhere as as he opened the shop door and ducked inside.

“Welcome to Book’em Mysteries,” a warm voice greeted, it belonging to a young brunette bearing a lanyard filled with pins. “Can I help you find anything?”

“Actually, yes,” replied Vance as he pocketed his hands in his slacks. “Stella St. Laurens, do you-” His eyes followed her finger as the college student pointed towards a major display with Stella’s name hanging above the stacked books. “Right, thanks.” Walking over to the kiosk, Vance scanned the various titles – all belonging to the infamous writer.

He couldn’t help but wonder how he hadn’t heard of her outside of the airport bookstore despite the mass of novels that she had published, especially with the ‘International Best-seller’ stickered onto more than half of the covers.

Vance mumbled the titles under his breath as he ran his finger along the spines of the books that had been moved from displays and shelved. He’d read two of her more recents on his flight to LA, but Endless Alabaster was amiss to him.

However, there it was.

The agent pulled out a copy of the novel that had caused such suspicion over the phone, leafing through the fairly thick hardcover. Vance rubbed a finger under his nose absently, shutting the book with one hand. “All right, let’s see if I’m just being tricked into buying a copy for sales.” He wandered to the check out, not taking the time to look through anything else before setting the book on the counter.

“Is this all?” The clerk asked, picking up the novel from the other side of the register.

Vance nodded slightly, his thoughts elsewhere. “That’s it.”

Although working on his graduate degree at UCLA, Jefferson enjoyed his job more than anything else he’d done in his 25 years. “I love this one,” he told Vance in idle chatter as he processed the purchase. “This was one of her firsts. Published it about five, six years ago. She’s only gotten better, and that seems hard to do when it comes to how she writes. She’s, amazing.”

“I haven’t read much, but she’s got talent,” Vance agreed as he tapped his watch, the credit card machine beeping as it accepted his digital payment.

“You’ll enjoy it,” Jefferson said in response as he bagged up the book, sliding the receipt inside. He held it out to Deveraux, “Happy reading.”

Vance thanked him as he took his bag, offering a good day before leaving the building. He ran a hand through his hair, finding the attached cafe a rather enticing spot to read. Taking a seat at one of the metal tables, he pulled free the new book. “Publicity stunt or actual issue?” he asked himself softly as opened up to the very beginning of the novel.

But then he knew.

~ For Emily

Chapter 4

Morning clung to Los Angeles with hopefully warm air, the FBI Field Office bustling with agents and coated in the scent of strong coffee.

Vance Deveraux practically stormed through the Criminal Investigations floor, holding a mass of papers under his arm as he bypassed multiple coworkers and walked directly into Phillips’ office.

Marina quickly looked up from her laptop, her work phone against her ear. “Deveraux-”

Dropping the file onto the senior agent’s desk as he ignored the nearly horrified look on her face, Deveraux didn’t speak. His expression alone could move mountains.

“Let me call you back,” Phillips begrudgingly said into the phone before hanging up. She folded her hands, turning in her chair towards Vance. “What is so important you think it’s necessary to burst into my office?”

Vance remained deadly silent as he dropped his marked up copy of Endless Alabaster on top of it all.

Marina didn’t seem to understand, looking up from the novel to Deveraux. “Is this FBI book club?”

“No, this is enough for a warrant.”

“What are you talking about? Stella St. Laurens doesn’t have anything to do wi-”

Vance had to disagree. “It has everything to do with the case, ma’am. This book is a guideline for what happened to Emily. It matches Neil Hunter to a T.”

Marina hesitated, “I’m confused.”

“I received an anonymous call yesterday from someone who knew this book and had heard of what was happening on the news with Hunter. They said the correlation was too outstanding to overlook and I read all of it. It. Matches.”

Phillips finally reached out, picking up the copy that looked mauled despite being freshly bought the afternoon before. “She’s a New York Times bestseller, I don’t see how she could be involved in a national case without someone noticing.”

“Someone did notice,” Deveraux counter with a pain in his side as if he couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “Look at the dedication.”

Marina played along, sighing internally as she opened up the hardcover to one of the first pages. “For…Emily.” She bit the inside of her cheek, softly shaking her head. “Emily’s a very common name-”

“Young girl gets kidnapped on her way to the park to see a friend, held in a basement for years. She attempts to escape, is murdered on her way out. It’s Emily’s story. It has to be.”

Supervisory Special Agent Phillips flipped through the pages almost absently as she scanned, “Deveraux, this is so unorthodox-”

“The basement is described to almost exactly what we have photographs of from Hunter’s home,” Vance told her as he leaned his palms on her desk. “It’s a complete story, Phillips. It says where, when and how she dies.”

“It’s a book-”

“Please just give this a chance, ma’am. This is the only break we have,” he begged. “If we can figure this out, then it’s a family given closure and a man finally put away forever.”

Marina ran a thumb along her bottom lip, setting down the book. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want to send a team out in the woods behind Hunter’s home, following the directions of the novel, in attempt to find Emily Morrison’s body.”

“Vance, come on-”

“Please,” he quickly said. “Give this a chance.”

Phillips watched her younger agent for a moment, studying the desperation in his features. “What about going to St. Laurens first?”

“No one knows who she is.” Vance took the book back, flipping it to the back jacket of Endless Alabaster. “No picture.” He went on the moment he saw her hesitancy, “It’s a pen name. She doesn’t exist outside of her publications.”

“Have you called the publisher?” Marina questioned, still curiously leafing through the notes Vance had pinned throughout the book.

“They have a contract, they can’t release her real identity,” Vance replied. “They could only give me the number of her agent, but she also wouldn’t say.”

Phillips cleared her throat slightly, “I’ll get you a warrant to take to St. Laurens’ agent. I will also send out a team to the woods to look for Emily’s body.” She set the book down on her desk, leaning back in her chair. “You have until the end of the day to tell me whether or not this book is a real lead. Understood?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, practically grinning as he backed out of her office with a gleam in his eyes as if he finally had a chance at redemption.

---

WhatADo Associates was struck by an afternoon glint of the sun, lunchtime traffic rumbling outside as its employees worked tirelessly. Although a load of hopeful manuscripts had arrived at the company, they hadn’t anticipated a small fleet of black cars flanking the building at 12:03 p.m.

Vance led in a group of agents through the glass doors, pulling off his sunglasses as he removed his badge from his suit pocket. He walked directly up to the front desk, tucking his glasses away. “Special Agent Vance Deveraux, FBI. I need to see Natasha Archer immediately.”

Almost paralyzed by fear, the receptionist motioning shakily towards the elevator with wide eyes behind her lenses. “Sh- she’s on the fifth floor,” she stammered. She had yet to be posed with the proper way to handle the situation.

“Thank you,” Vance said with a clipped tone, turning for the elevator as he and four other agents walked through the crowd that had stopped to gawk at the movie-like scene. “I want two of you to stay in the hall, block the office while we talk to Archer.”

The helping agents glanced to each other as they stood behind Deveraux, questioning his authority as well as how he manage to drag his ass out of the hell that the Director had put him in three months prior.

In the brief moments that the doors were closed and the agents were carried upwards, Deveraux’s mind was racing with possibilities of what would happen the moment they opened Archer’s doors. If St. Laurens really had a reason to hide her name, there had to be something more sinister behind it.

A ding sounded overhead, the elevator coming to a smooth stop and releasing the FBI onto the fifth floor of WhatADo Associates. Two agents peeled off as Vance went for the end of the hall, the others still at his side as he practically rushed the door.

Deveraux idly kept a hand on his gun, the warrant poking out of his suit pocket as he exposed his belt. He motioned with two fingers before leaning up against the door of Natasha Archer’s office, one hand on the knob and the other clutching his standard issue weapon. Nodding once, he opened the door swiftly. “FBI.”

He had no means to treat the situation as such, but the pit of his stomach told him to deal with it as high stress.

The blonde in a fashionable suit jumped, dropping her pen onto the floor as she looked up, hair sweeping down in front of her face. Quickly brushing it away from her brown eyes, she held a questionable yet startled look. “Can I help you?”

“Natasha Archer?”

“Yes…” she hesitantly replied as she scan the three agents. “Who are you?”

Vance walked a little closer, releasing the heavy hold on his gun. “I’m Special Agent Deveraux, I’m here on behalf of Stella St. Laurens.”

Natasha remained quiet for a moment, adjusting herself in her seat. “What about Miss Laurens?”

“We need to know who she really is,” Vance told her directly.

“She’s a private person, I’ve agreed not to release her identity. I imagine you’re the man I spoke to on the phone last night?” Natasha, an extremely successful woman for her age, crossed her arms lightly. “I’m sorry but you’ll need a wa-”

Deveraux pulled the folded piece of paper from his suit jacket, holding it out to her with a flat expression.

Natasha lightly sighed, looking over the paper signed by LA judge French. “All right, fine. Her name is Lucy Hamilton. An incredibly bright woman, remarkably private.”

“Can we get an address?” Vance questioned almost sharply, feeling as if he could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Even I haven’t been to her house, agents,” Natasha said as a counter. “Like I said, she’s private.”

Vance watched the publicist carefully, eyes slightly narrowed. “That doesn’t mean you don’t know where she lives. We need an address now or we can hold you on obstruction charges.”

Natasha closed her eyes briefly. “She lives in Malibu.” She scrawled down an address as she spoke, knowing that Lucy wouldn’t be too thrilled with her. “Check the ocean if she doesn’t answer the door instead of busting into the house. She’s likely out on the water. Her dog Alex will be there with her and he won’t hurt you as long as you don’t hurt her.”

“Let me ask you one more question.”

“I don’t think I really have a choice,” Ms. Archer replied with a flat tone. “So what is it, your majesty?”

Vance’s jaw tightened lightly from a lack of appreciation for her sarcasm. “Is Lucy Hamilton a murderer?”

Natasha’s eyebrows shot up, “God, no. She would never hurt a fly.”

Deveraux only nodded his head softly, leaving Archer’s office once he took the piece of paper from her neatly manicured hands.

As Vance headed down the hallway back towards the elevator, his fellow agents joined him with questionable looks.

“Do you really think she’s a murderer? The author?” asked Agent Carson, her hair neatly pinned up. “My wife loves her work. A psychopath couldn’t write like her. I don’t think she’s a killer.”

“Well,” said Vance, “we’re about to find out.”

Chapter 5

Afternoon waves crashed lovingly onto the Malibu shore, violently blue as the Pacific tried to kiss the Atlantic once more. The sun beamed down warmly, the coast line stocked with kids flaking on school and adults calling in sick alike.

Lucy Hamilton, however, had her own stretch of shore to call her own. She was alone in the wake, hair clinging to her just as tightly as her wetsuit as she sat on top of one of her well loved surfboards.

Still on land, Alex was laid out on a towel with his head down and his eyes on the brunette tackling the waves. His nose was white with sunscreen, a bowl of water just to his left where he could reach it perfectly without moving.

But that would be the last few peaceful moments for the Hamiltons for a while.

Around the front of the house, Vance Deveraux and his team of four raced up to the front of the beautifully designed seaside home, tires screeching as they forced their vehicles to a stop. All of them pulled out their guns as if on cue, their suits doing nothing to constrict their lowered positions.

A Jeep sat in the driveway, the maroon box a treasure of Lucy’s. The curtains were drawn on both levels at the front of the house, echoing a presence.

Agent Carson put a manicured hand on the hood of the Jeep, no warmth coming off of it. “Negative,” she said, an English accent ringing in her voice. “She’s not been anywhere in a while.”

Parrish knocked on the large front door with a heavy hand, one still gripping his gun. “FBI,” the agent called.

Moments passed and no response came, the agents seeming to forget what Natasha Archer had told them earlier that afternoon.

Agent Parrish counted under his breath before slamming his foot against the door and busting it open.

Parrish and Carson quickly filtered in, scanning the surroundings of the beach home, it clearly one of a recluse. Their guns remained at eye level, taking the loft while Danielson and Dane manned the ground floor, Deveraux going in last.

Agent Danielson’s eyebrows furrowed, finding a solo shelf holding copies of St. Laurens novels. “Every book ever published,” he said aloud. “This is definitely her.”

“I’ve got occult books and news clippings,” called Carson over her shoulder as she scanned a cork board hanging on the wall of the upstairs bedroom that doubled as Lucy’s bedroom.

Parrish, crouched in front of a large brown trunk at the end of the unmade bed, had put his gun back into his holster as he looked to the contents with confused eyes. “I’ve got a manuscript cache,” the Army discharge said. “I don’t recognize the titles. These must be her unpublished ones.”

Downstairs, Deveraux walked through the home as his co workers tore it apart, taking in the aura the building was giving off. He could sense seclusion as well as comfort, deducing that this Lucy Hamilton was perfectly happy in her aloneness. Spotting a photo hanging on the just outside of the kitchen, her went up to the glossy frame with curiosity in his eyes.

It was a brunette he’d never seen before crouched next to a gorgeous golden retriever with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, the two still damp from the ocean as they were posed on the sand of the Malibu beach.

Vance caught a similar image outside, turning his attention to the shoreline. “Hang on, everyone. There’s the dog.” He went to the sliding glass door, pulling it open enough to slip out. Still holding his gun, Deveraux made his way down the back balcony stairs.

Alex’s head perked, the golden retriever looking over his shoulder and finding the FBI agents that were slowly coming out of the home. He sat up sharply, sunscreen still on his nose. He barked twice, beginning to back up towards the water as if he could keep the stranger away from Lucy by doing so.

“Easy boy,” Vance coolly said as he put his gun away, instead offering out a hand towards Alex. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” He looked up beyond the dog, finding a figure in black rising above the water inside a wave, her board skimming marks throughout the blue. “Oh great, our unsub is just a lousy surfer.”

Alex continued barking, not making an attempt to attack Deveraux but clearly against the idea of the suited man going anywhere near Lucy.

Lucy’s attention pulled towards the shore as she rode out of her wave, dropping down onto her knees on her board before stretching out on her stomach. She paddled towards land, getting close enough to sense the authority radiating off of the five. “Don’t touch my dog,” she said as she reached the beach, carrying her board out of the water as it remained latched to her ankle.

Dauntingly handsome, Vance stood at the head of the small fleet, removing his attention from Alex. “Are you Lucy Hamilton?”

“Yes, I am,” the brunette replied as she pushed her dripping hair out of the way. “How can I help you, agents?”

Agent Carson hesitated, narrowing her eyes. “How did you know we were agents?”

“Wild guess,” she said as she noted their crisp suits and mild expressions. She undid the velcro strap of the leash, planting the surfboard in the sand next to her. “What brings you to Malibu?”

“We’re with the FBI. We’d like you to come down to the Los Angeles field office,” Deveraux told her, no real question in his request. Nearly blinded by the intensity of the mission, he’d not even noticed how her eyes embodied the ocean behind her.

Lucy remained quiet for a moment, glancing between the stiff agents as Alex sat at her feet. “May I ask why?”

Vance kept eye contact with her, monitoring the situation at a level it wasn’t at. “Come with us and we’ll talk all about it.”

She cleared her throat lightly as she looked down to her attire, “Do you think I could change first? I’d hate to leave your fancy car smelling like a lousy surfer.”

Vance, although silently appreciating her wit, clenched his jaw as he motioned toward the home. “By all means.”

Lucy headed between the agents after picking her board up, well aware Vance had sent the two female agents to follow after her in case she would attempt to run for it.

Alex followed closely to his owner, cautious glancing to Agents Carson and Dane as they made her way towards the house.

“If you’re only asking for me to come to the office, you don’t have much grounds,” said Lucy as she racked her board on the shelf mounted outside of the deck. “None at all if you don’t even have enough to tell me why you even need me.”

“What’s your point?” the youngest agent questioned as she and her partner followed Lucy into the house while the others went around to prep the vehicles.

“It means you don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”

Carson and Dane looked to each other with annoyed expressions as they waited on the stairs of the loft while Lucy shed her wet suit and gathered a set of clothes.

“Just hurry up,” retorted SA Dane as she checked her watch.

Hidden behind the bamboo panel of the loft, Lucy kept down a subtle laugh as she tugged on a pair of light wash jeans. “I was just in the ocean, I can’t dry that quickly.”

Alex sat just outside of the panel, facing the two agents as Lucy changed.

“What’s a British gal doing with the FBI?” questioned the writer, buttoning a chiffon vest top as she watched their figures through the bamboo, the light striking where she could make out their images but she was hidden. “Shouldn’t you be out James Bond-ing with MI6?”

Carson looked flatly in her direction despite being unable to see Lucy. “How terribly ethnocentric of you. I was born in America, raised by an English family. I’m as much a citizen as you are, Miss Hamilton.”

“Whether or not you’re a citizen,” said Lucy as she dried her hair with a nearby towel, “did you accent cause the government to question you before allowing you to become an FBI agent?” She walked out from behind the bamboo panel, running a hand through her chestnut hair before setting the blue towel over the balcony to dry.

Agent Carson, the ripe age of 24 with a quickly earned master’s degree in criminology, hesitated before speaking as she watched the novelist zip up a pair of heeled ankle boots. “I don’t see how that’s relevant to the situation.”

“It’s only small talk,” Lucy defended with a light sigh, petting Alex’s head with a soft stroke. “Did they question you on your accent versus your citizenship?”

“They did, yes,” Carson agreed, hazel eyes cautious.

Lucy only softly smiled, “It’s not myself who’s ethnocentric, agent, but instead the nation you work for. Where you are persecuted for simply being you.”

Dane stepped in before Carson could respond, “Alright, that’s enough. I see what you’re doing. Don’t spin this off of her. Let’s go.”

The 27 year old held up her hands idly, “Okay, all right. I’ll go quietly into your sweet night.” She silently told Alex to stay where he was, walking down the loft stairs in between the two agents. Grabbing her cell phone and key ring, Lucy made an effort to lock up the house once she’d been brought back out into the sunlight. “Which vampire car am I getting in?” she questioned as she approached Agent Deveraux rather defiantly. “Because I know my Jeep’s not an option.”

Vance remained deadly silent, opening the back seat of his own vehicle. Ignoring her curtsey to him, the agent shut the door on her the moment she got inside.

The only thing worse than Lucy Hamilton pressing her limits was that she knew exactly where they were.

Lucy would cause a lot of problems, and not only for the bureau.

Chapter 6

The overhanging smell of coffee dug into Lucy’s senses as she was exposed to the criminalistics floor of the LA FBI office, surrounded on all sides by the suited agents that had brought her in.

“Welcome to the FBI, Miss Hamilton,” Vance said with a smirk, stepping out of the elevator in front of the group.

Lucy rolled her eyes as she followed the agent out, drawing stares from all around as she was escorted out. “Smells like hierarchy and sleep deprivation.”

“Deveraux,” SSA Philips called from across the office, a steady click of heels bringing her to the small cluster of agents at an alarming speed. She cleared her throat, eyes glazing over Lucy for only the briefest of moments. “Paperwork and then you can question her. Ramos,” Marina looked over her shoulder, waving the slick agent toward her, “I want you to escort Miss Hamilton to the questioning room.”

“You can call it an interrogation room,” Lucy interrupted rather flatly. “You don’t have to sugar coat it for me.”

“Fine,” Marina’s eyes went from a bitter Deveraux to Ramos, “take her to the interrogation room. Get her some coffee too. From the look in Deveraux’s eyes, this’ll take a while.”

Although Carson, Parrish, Dane and Danielson parted to return to their desk, Ramos put a hand on Deveraux’s shoulder before he could go anywhere, Philips already in an aggressive retreat to her office.

Ramos leaned in to Vance, “Next time you pull something on a case we’re working together, you tell me. Got it? I don’t like surprises.”

Vance’s eyes stayed on Ramos’, jaw clenched in subdued anger. “Sure thing, Ramos,” he bit with a lack of sincerity.

“Good man,” Ramos said, patting his back before taking Lucy’s attention. “Follow me Miss – Hamilton, was it?”

“I hope I’m worth the trouble,” Lucy said, winking at Deveraux as she passed, following Ramos towards the back of the office.

The two dipped into the long stretch of hallway that led to the interrogation rooms, footsteps quiet as they continued on.

Ramos softly sighed, keeping his voice low. “What the hell are you doing here? I told you he was coming. That moron doesn’t know how to keep anything quiet. You should’ve run.”

“I’m not running from anything,” Lucy murmured, a slick suited woman passing by the pair. She glanced over her shoulder, judging the distance before lifting her voice. “Does he know you’re involved?”

“He doesn’t know a damn thing,” remarked Ramos as he opened the door to interrogation room B.

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

---

With her mind elsewhere as time ticked away, Lucy was situated in a metal chair, her cup of caffeine leaving a heat ring on the silver table that was separating her from an empty seat. Her thin blouse did little against the temperature of the room, goosebumps arising on her legs when she ceased to bounce them.

Minutes had turned into hours in front of Lucy’s eyes, her coffee seeming to drain itself as she waited for someone – anyone – to come in.

After it seemed unbearable, the door of the interrogation room finally opened to reveal Vance with several files in hand. He didn’t address Lucy immediately, instead filling the seat across from her. Setting his papers onto the metal table, he looked up.

Silence lingered, Lucy remaining voiceless as she waited for the accusation.

Vance hesitated, “Did you really name your dog Alexander Hamilton?”

Having to take a moment to process his words, Lucy’s eyebrows lifted. “Is that seriously what you’re asking me in an FBI interrogation room?”

“And in your author’s description, his name is John. As in John Laurens? As in Hamilton’s best friend?”

Lucy held back a laugh, softly shaking her head, “More like lover, but I don’t see what my pseudonym has to do with anything.”

Deveraux pinched the bridge of his nose before forcing himself to move forward, “Okay, all right, why do you use a pseudonym, Miss Hamilton?”

“I prefer a simple life, Agent Deveraux,” Lucy replied. “I’d rather surf and spend time with my dog, and be seen as a normal person to my neighbors. I don’t like being looked at or held up, so the situation works. Stella St. Laurens writes and publishes a book, I still get my beach day.”

“And when you started writing, did you think that your work would blow up like it had?” Vance questioned, trying to get anything he could out of her that would amass to something useful.

Lucy gave a light shake of her head, “Not in the slightest. I just didn’t want its publication to inflict with my personal life at the time.”

Deveraux searched for a way into her brain, contemplating his words cautiously. “How long have you been surfing?”

The woman’s eyebrows narrowed, “What?”

“Surfing. How long have you been surfing?” Vance repeated.

“Since I was a kid, I learned on a trip to Hawaii.” Her beat quickly switched, “I don’t see how any of this is relative. I deserve to know what I’m doing here.”

“How about murder?”

Lucy looked appalled within a split second, “I’m an author, not a murderer.”

“Krystian Bala, used his own killing to plot a best seller. Anne Perry, Michael Peterson. It isn’t an impossible route, Miss Hamilton.”

“I would like to be presented with the said evidence incriminating me, Agent,” she coldly said, blue eyes dead set on Vance.

Vance smirked, opening the top file and spinning it to face Lucy. “Your novel Endless Alabaster oddly matches to the Neil Hunter case as well as the Emily Morrison one. Have you heard of either of them?”

“The media makes it a little hard not to hear about most people,” Lucy vaguely replied. “Hunter has been on TV for the past couple of days, as well as Morrison.”

Agent Deveraux held eye contact with the writer for a moment of silence worthy enough for the grave, forcing himself not to show any outward signs of frustration. “Your novel depicts Emily Morrison’s time while held by Hunter, does it not?”

“I’m a fiction novelist, Agent Deveraux, my novel depicts fictional characters.” Lucy leaned back in the metal chair as comfortably as she could, not even bothering to look into the file set in front of her. “There are coincidences in the world.”

“Not in mine, Miss Hamilton. When it comes to murder, there are no coincidences. Everything is intentional, including every single novel you’ve written.” Deveraux spread out seven files, all with sharpied titles that matched those of Lucy’s books. “I’ve got a team busy with the rest of your works, but let’s start with these, shall we?”

Lucy lifted a hand lightly, “By all means.”

“Harbor Lights, tied to a similar case of a girl drowning in the gulf, killed supposedly by her father while your novel shows that it was the mother. Moonlit Murders, a Halloween haunted house turned to be a den of a real killer, tied to an oddly familiar one from five year ago in Omaha. Abundance of Dreams, in the Satanic Panic era with a city worshiping the Devil – an urban legend of said city that turned into the death of a young child, near exact to a suburb outside of Seattle four years ago. Stargazers Anonymous, two joggers find a body in the woods, cut in half. How strange that it was overlooked upon publication despite the exact same thing happening two years before in lower wine country. Tell me, how does this happen?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Lucy flatly responded.

Deveraux’s jaw clenched, having to take a moment. “Miss Hamilton, you do realize you’re in custody of the FBI, don’t you?”

“If I’m in custody, then tell me what the charges are. I came willingly, I can leave in just the same manner.” Lucy leaned forward on her elbows, tone lacking any insincerity or fear. “If you’d like to keep me, charge me.”

“We don’t work under the police-”

“But you do work under the law,” Lucy quickly objected. “So, I would recommend you remain within your limits or I will take you to court.”

Agent Deveraux idly kept a finger against his lips, an arm balancing on the table. “With such strong statements, don’t you think you should’ve asked for a lawyer by now?”

“I have nothing to be guilty for,” she countered without hesitation.

“It doesn’t make sense.” Vance spoke firmly, losing his professional mannerism within minutes.

Lucy weirdly managed to keep her composure, looking directly into the agent’s eyes. “Lots of things in the world don’t make sense, but what also doesn’t make sense is attempting to holding someone without charges, on a claimed federal offense. And yes, it would be considered a federal offense if you were to use the alleged plots of my books to assume I had something to do with multiple deaths across the country. You know what also doesn’t make sense? That you’re accusing me of affiliation in cases that some of which I wasn’t old enough to have been capable, or that I wasn’t anywhere near them.

“I’ve never left this part of the country. I grew up in Phoenix, came to California for school and decided to stay. Yes, maybe it does seem odd, but you have no right to treat me like a murderer.” Lucy shut the open file in front of her, standing up from the uncomfortable chair. “And as a non-murdering crime writer, I’m going to leave because you have nothing to hold me on. If you do find something tangible, although highly unlikely, I will willingly come back. Thank you, Agent Deveraux.” She looked to the reflective panel of glass, motioning to what seemed herself. “As to you, Agents.”

Vance’s fist gripped underneath the table, not saying a word as Lucy left the interrogation room. He swore to himself, able to hear laughter from the room over behind the one-way mirror.

SSA Phillips came through the door of the room, a light smile on her lips instead of the expected scowl. “She knows how to handle herself, and apparently you, too.”

Agent Deveraux began leafing the papers back together, shaking his head as he did so. “She can handle herself all the way to jail.”

“She’s got fire,” said Marina as she glanced over her shoulder. “I like her.”

Chapter 7

Los Angeles bustled around Sage Cafe, the aroma leaking out into the streets to guard off the smell of the city for a few feet each way. Students and business professionals alike inhabited the indoor-outdoor building nestled between a retail shop and a personal law firm, varied drinks atop tables throughout.

Lucy sat alone within the shop, music playing in her ears loud enough to block out the other occupants as she typed ceaselessly on her laptop. She was on her fourth cup of coffee and fading fast as her fingers moved not nearly as quick as her thoughts.

It had been only a few days since her endeavor with the FBI, and she’d barely slept since.

A manuscript, however, had arisen to near completion from it.

Her stress had kept her awake, and with those mounting hours, she turned it into words. It had happened at twice the rate of her typical novels, bouts of meetings and surfing typically in between chapters, yet she had done nothing but stare at her laptop screen and write.

She was three months ahead of her next deadline and although she would benefit financially, it would be hell on her mental state.

Her cell phone dinged through her music, drawing her attention from the final paragraph. She flipped over her phone, her mother’s contact across the screen. Running a hand through her hair, she hesitated before responding.

Ramos is taking care of it

Lucy quickly resumed her work, as if it had been nothing to say, and found herself running out of words. She was losing the ending as she attempted to write it, the characters slipping away into oblivion as she tried to hopelessly catch up.

“You look like a woman on a mission.”

Recognizing the voice through her headphones, Lucy briefly shut her eyes as she stopped her fingers mid sentence. “Agent Deveraux.”

When she looked up, however, she was presented with a seemingly different man than before.

Vance stood in a distressed maroon shirt and a pair of jeans, dark hair flipping up at the front graciously. He held a to-go cup in one hand, the other pocketing his phone before motioning towards her laptop. “New manuscript?”

“In fact it is,” Lucy answered as she posed a light hearted persona, taking out her earbuds. “What brings you here?” she inquired mildly as she raised her coffee mug to her burgundy lips.

Deveraux motioned to her phone as it was briefly lit up, seeing her music choice. “Beethoven?” He sat as he spoke, not waiting for her to offer; he knew she wasn’t likely to. “Doesn’t seem your type.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes slightly but didn’t force him to leave, instead giving in on her lack of sleep. “It helps me focus. It’s pretty much the only way I managed to get through college.”

Surprisingly, Vance laughed. “I guess I’m not the only one. When I wasn’t on the court, I could only listen to Bach to get my homework done.”

“I can’t do organs,” replied Lucy. “Symphony or no go, so I just stick to Beethoven.” She shut her laptop with her free hand, keeping a watchful eye on the agent. She put down her mug, questioning Vance’s motives despite being equally curious about what college he had gone to. “Did you just happen upon my safe space, or have you been following me?”

“I work for the FBI, Miss Hamilton,” remarked Vance with half a grin as he leaned back against the vinyl seating. “I can find anyone.”

“Imagine that.” Lucy finished off her coffee, placing the ceramic mug to the side of the booth table. “So, have you come to arrest me or just talk about classical music? Because I doubt the staff here will treat me the same if I’m carried off in handcuffs. They give me really good deals right now and I’d rather not risk that.”

Vance glanced down, lightly shaking his head. “Neither, actually. Trust me, I’d never risk a good deal on java.” He grew quiet for a moment, watching for any visual cues off of the author. “I want to know what’s going on.”

Lucy held eye contact with Vance, the abyss of green attempting to see into her soul. She knew exactly what he was doing. “I know as much as you do, Agent. I’m sorry I can’t be more help to you,” she said as she dragged her attention from him and reopened her laptop.

He put out a hand, stopping her mid-motion. “I don’t care if this case goes anywhere or not, I just want to know how you’re involved. How do you do it? How do you know all of these details in crimes no one else could solve?”

“My works are fiction-”

“There’s no chance,” Vance interrupted hastily. “There’s no possible way on Earth that you could write a book that matches so closely to Emily Morrison’s unknown story and it only be fiction.”

Lucy could see him losing it, the agent beginning to lean in out of sheer frustration. She shook her head, chestnut hair moving with her graciously. “It was just a book, Special Agent Deveraux. I probably got the idea from a Criminal Minds episode or something. I swear, I have nothing to do with these crimes you’re linking to my novels.”

Deveraux wouldn’t accept it; he couldn’t.

“Come on, Hamilton,” Vance practically pleaded. “You have to give me something.”

“How about this?” questioned Lucy in response. She packed her things as she spoke, a fierceness to her actions. “I have no blood on my hands, only ink. Begging me to be an accomplice will get you nowhere.”

Vance grabbed her arm across the table before she could leave the booth, desperation in his eyes. “I read your book cover to cover, and there’s no way it can be that close to Emily Morrison.”

“Who says it’s actually what happened?” Lucy haughtily asked with a lowered voice, seething with irritation. “No one knows. Isn’t that the point? I know what happened to my character, not what horrors your Emily was submitted to.” She forced his hand off of her, pulling her bag over her shoulder with jerky movements.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Deveraux said with a dare in his tone. “There’s a copy of the book on the way to Neil Hunter and if he contests that what you wrote is true, we’re gonna have a problem, Miss Hamilton.” He stood, suddenly taller than the novelist.

Although having to look up to him, her ferocity never wavered. “If he admits the book is right, Special Agent, then he would’ve confessed to committing the crime, so I don’t see how that will incriminate me. No judge would let that stand trial. If you try to get me to testify, it will only be ruled as hearsay because I wasn’t there, therefore holds no meaning. You have no case.”

Vance’s expression changed at the sound of her vocabulary, suddenly wishing he’d done more investigation on the writer herself and not thrown himself into the physical novels.

“Yeah,” Lucy smugly said, “Stanford Law, asshole.”

Knocked down a peg, Vance still wouldn’t stop. “I’ll find something, Hamilton. I know you’re involved, somehow. I know it.”

Lucy’s jaw clenched as she stared into the agent’s eyes, her voice low and daunting. “Then prove it.”

Agent Deveraux lifted a hand to his head, staring after the author as she boldly left the coffee shop.

His evidence was fleeting, and so was his case.

Chapter 8

The raging sea crashed distantly in the night, an Atlantic breeze sweeping over Malibu’s sandy shores. A single porch light remained on, the private patch of land in comfortable silence other than the incessant clicks of a laptop and the snores of a golden retriever.

The Hamilton deck swing swayed, Lucy sitting with one leg pulled underneath her as she stared at the fluorescent screen littered with Times New Roman font. Alex was sprawled out next to her, his head rested in her lap as he slept peacefully.

Lucy, dressed plaid sleep shorts and a gray Stanford Law pullover rolled up to her elbows, idly tapped at her keys as she sipped a glass of red wine. Her phone had been powered off to void her of any distractions as she worked through the final chapters of the roughly titled book revolving around the life of a woman poisoned by her youngest son, while the husband was locked away for it.

Yawning against the time displayed on the bottom right of her laptop screen, Lucy’s hair was falling messily from her bun as she looked down to Alex. She softly pet behind his ear, the massive yellow dog beyond comfortable on the cushioned wood. “You’re a mess,” she warmly said to the sleeping beast, soon returning her watery-blue eyes to her document that had seemed to build itself in a matter of a week. “And so am I.”

“Are what?”

Lucy jumped in her seat, riling Alex awake on accident. “Dear G-” she cut herself off, having nearly knocked her laptop off of the swing armrest as she found Agent Deveraux walking around the back porch towards her. “What are you doing here?”

Vance, a navy zip up covering his arms as he kept his hands pocketed in his jeans, looked as innocent as he could be as he motioned towards the house with his chin briefly. “I knocked up front but when you didn’t answer, I had a sneaking suspicion you were out here. I did expect night surfing, to be honest.”

“Only on Wednesdays,” Lucy replied without hesitation as she noticed Alex hadn’t barked at the FBI agent’s arrival. “Was our tousle at the cafe this afternoon not enough for you, Agent? Or have you managed to find the nonexistent evidence that I’m a murderer?”

He took his hand out of his pocket, holding a thumb drive in her view as he remained at the bottom of the porch. “I wanted to show you something.”

“Oddly vague.” Lucy used her hand to motion towards herself, setting down her wine glass with her free hand. “Let’s see then.”

Vance didn’t make an attempt to move Alex from his spot, instead going up the stairs and around the other side of the swinging bench. He crouched slightly, plugging in the flash drive as Lucy clicked away her document off of the screen.

Neil Hunter’s face popped up not a moment later as the file opened a recording from the LA County Jail.

Lucy’s expression flipped almost immediately, “What is this?”

“It’s Hunter, reading your book.” Vance put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder when she made a move to get up, keeping her on the swing. “No, I want you to watch it.”

“Night weighed heavily over the forest, light of the house blocked by a blanket of trees that would keep his secrets, his demons. Oliver steadied his breath, dirt caking his overalls and blood painting his sleeves. The warm fog leaving his lips hovered like a shield, protecting him from what he’d done for only a moment until it wisped away into oblivion. He looked up to the sky, as if it would bring comfort to his sin. By God, let her be the last.”

Hunter seemed to stumble through the words, a bewildered look on his face as the last line fell from his lips. He looked up towards the camera, watery eyes finding an unseen agent across the table from him. “How did she know that?”

Deveraux reached forward, stopping the recording. “Now why would he say a thing like that?” he asked quietly, incredibly close to Lucy. “He’s talking about you, Hamilton. He wants to know how you knew, and so do I. So now’s your last chance to tell me what’s going on.”

However, Lucy remained quiet.

“The police found a body in the forest behind Hunter’s land,” said Vance as he remained crouched next to her. “Exactly where your book said it would be. I don’t know about you, but that seems a little odd, doesn’t it?”

“You still don’t have a case,” Lucy replied without looking over to him.

“Maybe not, but one of your other novels might have something more tangible.” Vance reached into his jacket pocket, holding out a folded piece of paper. He shut the lid of her laptop as she quickly unfolded the letter, watching Lucy’s expression shift.

Lucy’s head turned towards Deveraux, “A warrant?”

“For your laptop under probable cause,” reiterated Vance.

“Fine,” she replied as she practically shoved the laptop at the special agent, “fine, take it.”

“Oh, don’t worry. You can keep the laptop.” He pulled the flash drive free from the side of the computer, holding it up slightly. “I’ve got everything I need. Your compliance in appreciated, Hamilton.”

Lucy held up her hands, the warrant resting in her lap. “Go ahead then.”

“Just like that?” asked Deveraux with an arched eyebrow as he stood up.

“It’s not like I have anything to hide.”

Vance’s jaw clenched as Lucy rose from the swinging bench, her laptop under her arm. “If we find anything out of the ordinary, we’re going to take you to court.”

“Good thing I’m already a lawyer,” Lucy retorted haughtily as she went through the glass with Alex right behind her, shutting the blinds in Deveraux’s face. She ran a hand along her face as she set her laptop on the kitchen counter, walking through the house. Swearing under her breath, her attention snapped to the front door as the bell sounded throughout the beach house. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Nearly growling, Lucy rushed to the door and swung it open with enough force to break the lock if it had been latched. “What-”

Johanna Hamilton’s eyebrows raised at the velocity of her daughter’s voice, standing on the front porch with a small suitcase and a surprised look. “Is that how you greet your mother?”

Lucy’s expression immediately changed, relief crossing her as she brought her mom into a hug. “I thought you cancelled this week because of school.”

“I couldn’t wait,” Johanna replied warmly as she squeezed Lucy, her hair the same shade but cut six inches shorter. “What’s got you so riled up?” she questioned as she went into the home as Lucy offered it. “Did it happen to be that boy sneaking out the back of your house?”

“Trust me, sneaking was the last thing he as doing,” grumbled Lucy as she shut and locked the door behind her mother. “That was Agent Deveraux.”

“FBI making house calls?”

Lucy pet Alex’s head as he shifted back and forth from her and Johanna, unsure of who he could get the most attention out of. “Only when they want something.”

“How true.” Johanna hesitated, sitting down on the sofa in the living room. “Did he get what he wanted?”

“He thinks so,” Lucy answered as she poured two wine glasses in the open kitchen not too far away from her mother. “He took all of the files on my laptop, and before you say anything, he had a warrant. A fake one, none the less, but I’ll let him have his glory for now.” Bringing both glasses, she handed one off to Johanna as she sat in the settee across from her. “Sweetheart,” Johanna said lightly after taking a sip of the sweet red, “I know that the pressure must be strong on you, but you can’t tell anyone-”

“I know, Mom,” interrupted Lucy in a soft voice, “I know.”

“They haven’t released anything about you to the public,” Johanna noted with slight hope. “But there’s been insinuation by an SSA at the FBI that there’s a possible connector to multiple murders around the country.”

Lucy was making her way through her third glass of wine with no trouble at all, shaking her head as she lowered the glass from her lips. “They can only insinuate because they don’t have a case.”

“I knew you shouldn’t have published,” Johanna said almost miserably. “I knew someone would catch on. You should’ve just kept the stories to yourself. This could ruin the family-”

“Mom,” Lucy eased, “there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

The room seemed to swell around the two, the air sticky as it felt hard to breathe. The clock on the wall ticked into oblivion, Alex’s steady huffs warming as he was laid across Johanna’s lap.

“Have you been sleeping?”

Lucy looked up from her wine, having lost her thoughts in the maroon liquid. “What? I, uh, not really.”

“Get some sleep, honey. We can catch up tomorrow, we’ll go to breakfast.” Johanna motioned with the half empty glass towards the loft, “Go on. The bags under your eyes are getting deeper than my Louis.”

Cracking a smile as she stood, she took her glass to the sink and exchanged it for her laptop before moving towards the staircase. “I bought you that bag.”

“Yeah,” defended Johanna with a laugh, “and it’s not supposed to be a role model.” She patted Alex’s side, whispering for the golden retriever to go with Lucy.

“Love you,” Lucy called over her shoulder as she went upstairs with Alex close behind.

Johanna has started to make her way to the guest room on the first floor, glancing upward as she repeated what her daughter had said.

“Make the bed, Al?” Lucy requested in a warm tone, looking down to him as she reached the open loft.

Alex moved immediately, leaping onto the messy bed and beginning to pull the sheets to the proper corners of the queen mattress.

Lucy softly laughed to herself, stretching her arms after setting her laptop onto its designated space among the mess on her desk before taking a spot next to the retriever. Lucy glanced over her shoulder mildly as she listened for the patter of her mother’s footsteps, scratching behind Alex’s ear with salty fingertips. She leaned over from her perched position on her newly made bed, grabbing the pair of sneakers waiting on the wood flooring.

Alex tilted his head, watching Lucy curiously. He knew what time it was, and she wasn’t supposed to be putting on her shoes.

“You’ve gotta stay up here bud, okay?” the brunette told him in a soft voice, standing from the beckoning mattress. “Don’t go bug Mom. She knows you always sleep in my bed.” Lucy gave the retriever a knowing look as she fitted a maroon ball cap over a mess of hair, on the move to grab an ambiguous zip up hoodie. “Don’t give me that look.”

Resting his head down on the bulky duvet with eyes still on his owner, it was evident that Alex was judging her.

Lucy begrudgingly replied in a guilty sigh as she pocketed her cell phone, heading towards the loft stairs. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.” She cautiously went down the blond wood steps, listening between motions for any sign that Johanna would reemerge from the guest bedroom.

She knew she was an adult, but there was nothing quite worse than being reprimanded by parents for something you knew you weren’t supposed to be doing.

With careful footwork, Lucy made her way silently across the open living room and hastily out the front door, but not without snagging her keys on the way. She shut the door behind her slowly, wincing at the all knowing click of the door handle it settled back into place. She mumbled a convincing noise to herself, silently praying Johanna hadn’t heard with her bat like hearing.

The Malibu night greeted Lucy once more, thoughts of Vance Deveraux on her mind as she moved past her Jeep and headed for the nearest bus stop.

Lucy’s adamant studying on Vance has only made him more of an enigma than before.

Despite knowing the ins and outs of his extensive basketball career through high school and during his undergrad at Michigan State University, his loving parents, graceful French roots and utter determination to graduate at the top of his class at the FBI Academy in Quantico, she didn’t know what made him tick.

Flashes of their encounters greeted her subconscious as she stepped onto an eco-friendly metropolitan bus, blips of their time together – often fueled by Vance’s frustration and Lucy’s quip – buzzing like flies around her.

Using her phone efficiently as well as absent mindedly, Lucy paid her way onto the fluorescent lit vehicle and took a lone seat in the front sector. Her eyes flickered to the time at the top of her cell phone, impatience revealing itself in the light shake of her left leg as it was draped over her right.

Deveraux had slammed into her life so forcefully that it was hard to remember what it was like before he was there.

Lone surfing, constant clicks of keyboard and coffee. Lots of coffee.

But what was a typical day now that an FBI Special Agent had bashed in the doors of her cozy Malibu life?

It was constant anxiety, balled up inside of the writer every moment of her day and in every place she went. Another potential house siege or being dragged into an interrogation room, perhaps?

She was no longer quite sure of anything, other than that Vance Deveraux was on a mission to expose something she’d worked so hard to bury.

But she was on a mission as well – one potentially more invasive than his.

The transport bus pulled to the side of the dark road just beyond that of an LA suburb, it a quiet, middle-class neighborhood lined with weeping willows and a dusty sky.

Lucy hauled herself up from a poorly padded seat that had seen its fair share of horrors, wishing a soft goodnight to the driver as she took the three plastic steps out into the mild summer warmth of the night. Glancing both ways before crossing the street, she pocketed her hands in her hoodie with awareness in every feature.

Not once had she stepped foot in the patch of two story craftsman style houses, but she knew where she was going.

She always knew, even if she didn’t.

Although more trained at sea habits, Lucy’s legs carried her hastily through the suburban neighborhood along the patchy sidewalk, indirectly hidden by the hazy street lamps towering in the ever growing darkness. Dark hair billowed behind her, the soft wind brushing against her face as she made her way down the row of out-of-place houses for the typical beach lifestyle Los Angeles staple.

Lucy stopped shy of a gleaming black mailbox pegged at the curb, hesitant eyes falling on the hauntingly dark home marked with yellow crime scene tape. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth idly, toes daring to touch the asphalt driveway as her heartbeat remained frighteningly calm. Blue eyes glanced around cautiously, no house lights on along the lone street.

And in one swift motion, she ducked under the warning tape.

Chapter 9

The stiff air of the Hunter residence had been undisturbed by Lucy Hamilton’s arrival, her breath near non existent as she kept her presence to a minimum. Boards creaked under her athletic build, it as if she were waking up the home from a deep sleep.

Neil Hunter had been away for days on end since the escape of Eliza Soo – an event he’d tried so vigorously to avoid.

Gasps of terror and ghosts of fear lingered in the heart of the home, hints of a lonely man laced through the personality of the wood paneled walls and aged, uneven furniture. Worn images of times long past clung to the chipping plywood by crooked nails and dented hopes, faces unsettled and happiness unclear.

Lucy’s eyes flickered around her surroundings, a suffocation threatening at her lungs as she inhaled the life lived within the walls. A chill clouded around her ajar mouth, no typical evening fire burning warmth and no alcohol to simulate the ambiance, both of which were a must of the house’s owner.

The author did her best to keep her hands at bay, carefully making her way deeper into the space of twisted man. She couldn’t leave a trace of herself, for Vance Deveraux would know from ten miles away if fingerprint had found its way onto a wooden banister.

Echoes reached Lucy’s ears as she moved with utmost caution, fire logs lining a definitive path along the walls towards the space she was looking for.

Although she didn’t need to search for her location, as it was scarred into the back of her mind, she followed the oak to a flight of stairs that weaved beneath the earth.

Lucy leaned forward softly, eyes dilating with the darkness that stared back at her. She held little hesitation, stepping down into the cellar.

A sheer blackness draped itself over Lucy’s entire existence, a sleeve-covered palm gasping a pull string with no question in where it was, introducing yellow light over a murky, graying room with enough personality to kill the hopes of humanity.

Mounted to a steel plated loop bulging from the cement floor was a rusty chain-link that reached only as far as the bottom step, an everlasting wish for escape lingering in the build of a bolted cuff broken at the hinges. A lumpy mattress was unsettled in the farthest corner of the room, a beam of moonlight hinting on a torn quilt disheveled among a withered pillow. Few books remained stacked as a makeshift nightstand, it evident that many had been removed, either by Hunter himself of the FBI in pursuit of a DNA match to prove that anyone other than Eliza Soo had inhabited the gimmick of a home.

With focused attention on the shattered vanity placed across the room from the bed, Lucy came across polaroids with aged corners that idealized not victims of the home’s owner, but of the state it had been seemingly before the arrival of young souls doomed to either the psychological damage that escape provided, or death.

Neat drapes, delicate vintage furniture that looked newly purchased, and no less, a warmth and care to the air below ground.

Lucy was quick to note the outlines of pieces that had been hastily removed, likely made of use by occupants of the cellar to air in escape or physical harm to themselves or the man keeping them.

A dresser with the capability to offer a way to break a limb or the single window above the bed. Shelves that offered sharp edges and framed photographs that made wounds more probable.

The room had been altered into a prison, and for years, that was exactly what it served as.

Closing her eyes, Lucy could hear panicked screams of Emily Morrison and desperate requests for fresh air, unadulterated compliance in fear of losing her life and no less, the pursuance of knowledge in the long hours she remained awake, unable to sleep on account of Hunter’s appearances.

Wisps of a redhead passed as Lucy turned her head, the rattle of chains following Emily’s every motion. A book vaulted across the room in utter anger, tears littering supple cheeks among cries for a family that had no idea if she was even still breathing.

“Hang on,” Lucy softly said, staring after the quick moving nineteen year old pacing the excuse for a home. “You can’t do this.”

The redhead reached as far as she could, tugging on the chain around her ankle as she peered up the dark staircase. “Something’s happened,” Emily mumbled with cautious eyes. She let her attention dart from the mounted clock to the only window she’d had for seven years. “He always comes down at nine.”

Emily hastily darted from one end of her chain the to next, peering out the weathered window for any sign of headlights. She hadn’t heard him come home and she wasn’t sure if it was comforting or not. Her heart rammed in her chest, the echo of it bleeding through her ears as she let her ambition raise itself higher and her eyes fall on the oddly lumpy pillow on top of her makeshift bed.

Lucy’s eyebrows furrowed, unsure of what a pillow could provide in her panic. “Emily?”

But the teen saw no evidence of Lucy’s existence as she forcefully picked up the ruby square and flipped it over. She pulled the overlapping middle apart, revealing a collection of items accumulated over the years that had remained stealthily hidden from Hunter at all costs.

“I can do it now.”

Glancing over her shoulder to the staircase, Lucy somehow knew that Hunter was growing too close for comfort. “Emily, you shouldn’t. He’ll be here soon.”

Emily, however, couldn’t hear her.

The redhead was quick to remove a hefty screwdriver, her breath uneven as she went up on her toes and grasped the ledge of the window. She drew back her arm, wielding the handle of the tool she’d collected two years prior and slammed the sharp end against the window.

Both Lucy and Emily jumped as the glass shattered, the author impulsively looking above as if someone would emerge from the vacant floors above.

Emily took no consideration on her palm, pulling the remaining pieces of glass from the frame viciously and dropping them to ground around her bare feet. Although only momentarily, she allowed herself a deep breath of fresh hair, inhaling like she’d never be able to again. “Get it together,” she quickly told herself, suddenly on the move to use her stacks of books as a boost to get out of window.

It was only when Emily turned to Lucy that the room grew cold, fully submersing the writer like a tidal wave.

“Help me or he’ll catch us,” the ginger nearly demanded, putting the heaviest volumes at the bottom of the pile. “This might be the only chance we have.”

Lucy’s motive switched, immediately beginning to help Emily build the pile high enough for the two of them to climb out the high window.

But then there were headlights.

“No, no, no, this can’t be happening,” Emily wailed, still tied to the dead bolted platform on the basement floor.

“Keep stacking,” Lucy told her with hope in her voice, any other intention gone. Her heart was telling her that if they didn’t get out, she would die too. She bolted across the room, quickly hauling it up the stair to the first floor of the home. The moment she’d come across the bolt cutter she’d seen previously by the door, a band of yellow light crossed her face through the living room curtains, eyes widening to the size of the moon. She swore to herself, tripping over firewood on her dash to get downstairs. “Here!” she called in the quietest voice she could, running over Emily.

Lucy quickly snapped the chain from its clutch on Emily, dropping them to the side and helping the redhead gain her balance on the makeshift stool. “You have to do this now,” she said, eyes going upwards as she heard a door shut. “Now, Emily.”

The skinny figure of Emily wiggled her way out onto the grass she’d dreamed of touching for seven years. Her muscles were weak from lack of use, but she still made it.

“Run! He’ll catch you on the street, go to the woods!” Lucy jumped up onto the pile of books, able to hear a sudden commotion from above. “Go!”

But Emily wouldn’t take it, instead reaching down and grasping Lucy’s arms, helping to pull her through the thin window.

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

Covered in dirt and fear, Lucy quickly jumped to her feet, hand in Emily’s. “Don’t look back. Now!”

And at Lucy’s word, the two bolted across the back of the Hunter property at the fastest speed humanly possible, fear in every inch.

The front door slammed behind them, Neil Hunter on the move.

“GET BACK HERE!”

Panting and covered in cold sweat, Lucy looked over to Emily as they ran for their lives. “You keep running. You keep running no matter what, okay?”

With fear embedded into her features, the freckle faced girl gave Lucy a nod, it the closest thing to a blood promise that they could reach.

Lucy could feel herself losing it, her stride growing slower. She let go of Emily’s hand, “Go! Keep going!”

“I-” But in the terror that reached Emily’s eyes when she looked back to Lucy while running gave away a whole story.

Hunter was behind them.

“RUN!” Lucy yelled through a struggled breath, falling behind but attempting to remain persistent in her escape. She was never one for running, but she tried to be a better self in the face of death.

It was only when the air shifted and a pang of a flying object caused Lucy Hamilton to stop dead in her tracks, a warmth of pain blossoming through her spine and overtaking her senses.

Lucy’s lips parted, the heat of pain soon being overturned by searing cold as she fell to her knees on the crumpled leaves, a wisp of blood dripping from the corner of her mouth.

The wind blew heavily, ruffling the leaves above Lucy’s eyes before vanishing into the sky. The pain flooded away and the night moved back into the calm, warm late summer air.

“Who’s out there?”

Lucy brought a hand to her face, any sign of blood gone from her lips. Reaching behind her, she felt for the axe that impaled her back but was only met with the soft fabric of her hoodie. She let out a wincing sigh, slowly rising up from the ground, seemingly in the very same spot Emily Morrison had met her end. The brunette brushed off her knees, only finding that she’d lost her cap when she’d gone to adjust it.

“Drop something?”

Lucy turned over her shoulder, half expecting Neil Hunter to be holding her ball cap and an axe.

However, Marina Phillips stood in wait.

The author shut her eyes as she recognized the FBI agent carrying her cap and a flashlight pointed directly at her. “Well, shit.”

Chapter 10

The criminalistics floor of the LA field office was seemingly calm, but in conference room B, it was a completely different story. Coffee cups littered the massive oak table as the watches of the last standing agents flipped to 3 a.m., Vance and his team fading fast under the early hours of the morning.

Each agent had been assigned a different novel of Lucy Hamilton’s, published and unpublished, in a desperate attempt to find something – anything – they could pin on the author.

The bags under Deveraux’s eyes were deepening at the rate the FBI were tearing apart Lucy’s life, the agent’s tie long gone and his stress undeniable. No one has said a word to him from hours, and for good reason.

He was slowly losing his mind, and they could all see it.

“Report,” Vance suddenly said, running a hand along his jaw as he looked up from his own computer baring all of Hamilton’s files and photographs.

A varied selection of eight agents aimlessly glanced to each other, all of them hopeless and nearly asleep in their dismantled suits, slouched in office chairs with a mass amount of information that no one could solve.

“Report,” repeated Deveraux when he received no eye contact and low mumbles. “Anyone, literally anyone. I need something.”

“Mariner’s Tale takes place in Florida, Hamilton’s never been.”

A young brunet agent itched the side of his nose idly, post-it notes sticking out of nearly every page of the book he had been assigned. “Takes place well before she was born.”

“Only went to Vegas once when she was five,” said Holloway as she motioned to Aftermath with a cramped hand. “Linked case was ten years after that.”

“All I’m hearing is a whole lot of nothing-”

SSA Phillips appeared in the doorway of the conference room in civilian clothes, having been roused by an irritated call from Ramos an hour before. Marina, in jeans and an FBI Academy pullover sweater, had her arms crossed over her chest and depressions under her eyes. “And because you have a whole lot of nothing, you also have no case against Lucy Hamilton aka Stella St. Laurens. From this point on, we will no longer be looking into her. However, I want every case that has been linked to her novels to be reopened and investigated under the information provided through her works that didn’t appear in the real case. I want this under wraps,” Marina looked to Deveraux directly, “and I want Lucy Hamilton to be left alone. She is no longer a suspect, but a instead potential consultant.”

Vance opened his mouth to defend pursuing Hamilton as a criminal, only to find Phillips glaring intently at him.

“I want all of you to go home immediately,” Marina announced. “Keep your asses home until eight, I don’t want you passing out on me. We’ve got a big day coming and there will be double shot coffees for all of you when you get here.” She motioned over her shoulder, “Now get the hell out of here.”

Deveraux stood alone as agents began to filter out, dropping their research on Lucy into the recycling as they packed up the rest of their files. He shut his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.

“Sorry Deveraux,” the young agent Holloway said as she was the last of the team to leave, mahogany hair swept into a neat chignon as her professional attire had begun to wither. “Maybe your girl has some secret power.” Patting him once on the shoulder, she left the conference room with her case folder tucked under her arm.

Vance remained quiet, leaning on the conference table with his palms on the wide oak table and stress in every feature.

“Give me it.”

Turning around, Deveraux found Phillips standing behind of him with a stony expression. “What?”

“The flash drive, Vance, give it to me.” Marina regretted allowing him to dive in so deep, even that she let him off of his punishment. Hones would have her ass if he found out.

Vance pulled the thumb drive from the side of his laptop, wrapping his fingers around it without holding the tech out to his superior. “Phillips-”

“No, you don’t get to make excuses. You had no right to take her files, let alone a fake warrant.” Marina slammed a document that had been faxed to her not an hour before, “You must be an idiot if you think a Stanford Law student would fall for a fake warrant, Deveraux. You’re lucky she’s not pressing charges for false seizure.”

“Ma’am, none of this makes sense-”

“What doesn’t make sense is you going around me and stealing a renowned author’s work, one who could easily make a statement to the press and ruin the good graces we’ve built at this field office. I know you’re new to LA, but we’ve just come out of a rut with the public and if you screwed this, you could’ve ruined us.” Marina reached forward, snatching the flash drive from Vance’s hand, anger written all over her face. “You’re so lucky, Deveraux. Do not forget that.”

Vance bit the inside of his cheek, gaining the same feeling he had when Director Jones had belittled him. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Forget what Hunter said, forget about Lucy, all right?” Marina lowered her voice, her knuckles practically white as she clutched the thumb drive. “You need to leave her alone. You should be glad I’m not pulling you from the case.” She backed up towards the door, her jaw tightened. “Go home,” the SSA said stiffly before walking out.

Vance’s hand had clenched into a fist, using every ounce of his will to keep from slamming it against the oak. This couldn’t be it. He couldn’t let it go.

But Phillips needed him.

Marina headed back towards her office, glancing behind her as she shut the glass door with lowered blinds. She took out her phone without hesitation, opening her messages to the most recent strain to Lucy Hamilton.

It’s done.

She let go of a deep sign, running a hand along the curve of her face as she set her phone down on her desk. Marina shook her head softly, her heart jumping as a heavy knock sounded on her office door.

“It’s Ramos.”

Philips lifted herself off her desk with relief, crossing the impersonalized office and opening the door.

Ramos’ eyebrows were raised as Marina pulled the latch free, curious. “Rough night?”

Marina motioned for Ramos to come in, shutting the door behind him. “More like rough night catching Hamilton at Hunter’s place.”

The special agent sighed, his eyes shutting briefly. “She’s asking for it at this point.”

“We promised her dad we’d watch out for her,” Marina said, folding her arms over her chest. “I doubt allowing her to be a suspect in a case would be seen as watching out for her.”

“Hey, we’re doing fine,” Ramos countered. “You just stopped it from going any further, it’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine, including Lucy.”

“I shouldn’t have let Deveraux try this at all,” said Philips.

“He’s a hard ass. It was better for you to let him have us around instead of pushing him go behind our backs, because you know he would have.” Ramos sat on the arm of the sofa in Philips’ office, arms folded. “Man’s got tunnel vision.”

“Did we ever find out who called in the tip?”

Ramos only shook his head with a soft shrug, “Phone booth. There’s no way of knowing. Could’ve just been someone who was actually scared. All the locals knew about Emily Morrison going missing, and aside from what we’d prefer, Lucy’s books are popular. There are intuitive people everywhere.”

“Not quite as intuitive as Lucy,” Marina countered.

Ramos laughed with little heart, “No one’s as intuitive as Hamilton.”

“Fair enough,” Philips said with a sigh. “But you know that he’s not going to give up on her.”

“Of course not, it’s not in his nature.”

“He gave up on Tyler quick enough.”

Ramos shook his head, “It’s better he doesn’t know about him. Lucy, too. She doesn’t need that, not now.”

“Then what does she need?” questioned Marina, a neat eyebrow arched. “She needs us to keep her safe, like we always have.”