"Rhys." Her voice goes tight. "These wire transfers. The dates."
"What about them?"
"They match." She turns the screen toward me. "Every payment to J.M. lines up with a federal case being dismissed. With witnesses disappearing. With evidence getting lost." Herfinger scrolls down. "And look at this one. The day after Emma died."
The payment amount makes my blood run cold. Fifty thousand dollars. Transferred to J.M. the day after Emma's murder.
"Blood money," I say.
"More than that." She zooms in on another document. "This is a federal expense report. J.M. filed for reimbursement for travel to Alaska. To Whitewater Junction." She looks at me. "The Marshal was in your town. The day Emma died."
The truck cab suddenly feels too small. Too hot. Not just giving orders from a distance. He was here. In my town. The day my wife was murdered.
"We need to find out who J.M. is," Harlow says. "Before he finds out we have these files."
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. I answer on speaker.
"Sheriff Blackwater." The voice is smooth. Professional. Familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl. "You have something that belongs to me. I want it back. We can do this easy or we can do it messy. Your choice."
"Who is this?"
"You know who this is. And you know I can make your evidence disappear just as easily as I've made witnesses disappear." A pause. "Former FBI agents make easy targets, Sheriff. Especially when they're operating where they don't belong. Accidents happen in Alaska all the time."
The line goes dead.
Harlow stares at the phone. "He knows I'm here. He knows I'm helping you."
I gun the engine. The tires spin on ice before catching. We have maybe an hour before the Marshal realizes Sergei's in custody. Maybe less.
Harlow's already dialing Chris Calder. Her hand shakes.
We're not just hunting anymore. We're being hunted.
12
HARLOW
Seventy-two hours after the assault on the mining camp, the FBI descends on Whitewater Junction like a federal invasion. Black SUVs line Main Street. Agents in tactical gear set up a command center in the old community hall. The small-town quiet that Rhys fought so hard to protect gets swallowed by the machinery of a multi-state investigation.
I stand outside the community hall, coffee going cold in my hands, and watch my former life arrive in pressed suits and official credentials.
Special Agent David Reeves steps out of the lead vehicle. My former team lead. The man who supervised me for four years before I walked away. He scans the street with the same careful assessment he always had, then spots me. His expression shifts—surprise, then something harder to read.
"Kane." He crosses to me in three strides. No handshake. No smile. Just professional distance that feels colder than it should. "Didn't expect to find you here."
"Didn't expect to be here." I take a sip of cold coffee. Bitter. Appropriate. "But here we are."
"Bureau's taking point on this investigation. We need your full cooperation."
"You'll have it."
His eyes narrow slightly. The Reeves I knew could read micro-expressions better than anyone. He sees what I am not saying. That cooperation does not mean compliance. That I have been working this case for weeks and I am not stepping aside just because the cavalry finally showed up.
"Good. We start interviews with you, first on the list." He gestures toward the hall. "After you."
The command center hums with organized chaos. Agents set up computers, pin maps to walls, coordinate with local law enforcement. Rhys stands near the back, arms crossed, watching federal agents take over his jurisdiction. Our eyes meet. He nods once.
I follow Reeves into a converted office. Two chairs. One table. A recording device already running.
