She pulled up their tour schedule and reviewed it.
Seattle.
Portland.
San Francisco.
LA.
They still needed to hit Las Vegas, Albuquerque, Denver, Salt Lake City, and Boise.
That would conclude their West Coast tour.
They were talking about doing an East Coast tour in the spring if this one was successful—and by almost everyone’s standards, this had been successful.
As they continued their ten-hour drive, she cross-referenced dates with local news databases, missing person bulletins, and buried articles that never made national headlines.
Most searches turned up nothing.
Some returned too much.
She bookmarked anything that even brushed close—late-night disappearances, witness reports, women who’d gone missing but hadn’t been taken.
She leaned back, staring out the window at the open road and pale morning sky.
Another thought surfaced.
She’d promised to meet an old friend from Texas while she was in town.
She hadn’t seen her former classmate in years—someone from a different life. A life before law school. Before podcasts and tour buses. Before crowds who wanted answers she couldn’t always give.
The idea of seeing a familiar face she trusted—someone untouched by this case or this fear—felt like a small mercy.
Andi glanced up from her laptop as the bus curved along the coast.
The view stole her breath. Cliffs dropped sharply into the Pacific, the water far below a sheet of blue-gray glass broken by white spray. The road hugged the edge, narrow and winding, guardrail thin as a suggestion. Sunlight caught the waves just right, making them glitter like something harmless.
For a moment, the world looked deceptively calm.
She looked back down at her screen, at the growing list of notes and unanswered questions. She knew one thing with certainty: They might be leaving San Francisco . . . but these crimes weren’t staying behind.
They were following the team.
They’d utilized Ben’s services again. He seemed more than happy to help. Right now, he was looking into April Altman for them. Maybe he would discover something.
Just then, the bus seemed to accelerate as they approached a treacherous looking curve.
Andi frowned and glanced toward the front.
Jack’s voice carried faintly down the aisle, low and tight. Not meant for anyone else. “That’s . . . not right.”
Her pulse skipped.
She watched his shoulders tense, saw him press down on the brake pedal.
Nothing happened.
Jack muttered something under his breath—one sharp word she couldn’t quite make out—and the bus lurched forward as the road curved again, the ocean suddenly much closer than it should have been.
