Searching the surrounding trash cans and dumpsters for the gun used to kill Seagrave had been a stretch, too. The Black Bandit wasn’t that stupid. Obviously.
“We’ll have the dolls and candles you bagged up from the Voodoo Tree scanned for prints. If the Bandit was the one who built the shrine, maybe we’ll get a fingerprint hit. Maybe that’ll give us a legit lead. I’ll start the paperwork first thing tomorrow morning.”
I scoffed.
“Takes time, Jagg. You know that.”
“We don’t have time, Colson. We’re already three damn days into this.”
He didn’t respond because he knew just as much as I did that after the first forty-eight hours of a homicide, every hour that passed made it less likely the culprit would be caught.
“Have any of the other Cedonia Scroll heists been associated with homicides?” heasked.
“No.”
“So, the Black Bandit stole the scroll, got busted by Seagrave on his way out, put a round of bullets in Seagrave’s chest, then disappeared in a blue four-door sedan?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a B&E ended in a homicide.”
“We’ve got no murder weapon, no prints, not a single piece of trace evidence. Only a random car and a blurred side-shot of the Black Bandit.”
“And this.”
I pulled out my phone and hit play on the video I’d watched a hundred times since that morning.
6
DARBY
Iwaited until Colson’s flashlight faded into the woods before resuming my search around the Voodoo Tree. I assumed he was headed to find Jagg, and I hoped he’d let him know I was still working the scene.
Flashlight raised, head on a swivel, I moved carefully. Growing up in Berry Springs, I knew better than to take witchcraft lightly.
The town was made up of three groups. First, the traditional cowboys—old-school, southern, and proud. Second, a smaller group of nature enthusiasts who’d settled here for the hiking trails, rivers, and caves. And third, the smallest and most controversial group: the self-proclaimed Wiccans. For decades, they'd claimed ties to the area, saying their ancestors fled the Salem Witch Trials and settled in the Berry Springs caves. Over the years, stories of curses and strange rituals circulated, earning them the town’s suspicion and resentment. Many dismissed it all as folklore. Others weren’t so sure.
I wasn’t taking any chances.
As I stared up at the Voodoo Tree, a sick feeling settled in my gut. The age-old feud in Berry Springs wasn’t just simmering—it was about to erupt again.
And it was going to start with Detective Max Jagger of the state police.
It took me a minute to piece it all together. The sudden urgency about fire hazards. The fact he’d been prowling the woods alone with a bottle of whiskey in his back pocket—though, for Jagg, that wasn’t exactly out of character. The man could drink a fifth and still walk a straight line better than most sober. A local legend, really. And as everything clicked into place, it became clear: Jagg didn’t care about the candles. He cared about the connection. He believed this shrine had something to do with the murder of Police Lieutenant Jack Seagrave, three days ago.
I’d seen him at the funeral—stood just behind him, in fact. He positioned himself at the edge of the crowd like he always did. Close enough to see everything, far enough to keep everyone away. Jagg didn’t mingle. Didn’t pretend. He moved through life with a kind of quiet brutality—unapologetic, sharp, and completely untouchable.
He wore dark Ray-Bans and a sun-bleached gray suit, standing motionless in the center of the cemetery’s midday heat. While the rest of us huddled under the shade trees, he stood tall in the blistering sun, like he welcomed the punishment. Not a flinch. Not a word. No tears. No prayers.
And when the casket dropped and people began comforting one another, Jagg stayed rooted in place. Silent. Staring. Men gave him a wide berth, glancing warily as they passed. Women, on the other hand, lingered. Even grief couldn’t dull that instinctual pull.
I didn’t get a single glance—by anyone. Not that Iexpected one. I’d long accepted my place as wallpaper in this town.
Unlike me, Jagg had the bad-boy edge: six-foot-four, all muscle, covered in ink, with a stare sharp enough to cut steel. He rarely smiled, never sugarcoated, and didn’t bother with small talk. Cynical, relentless, and driven by a kind of internal compass no one could quite understand. Most assumed he didn’t trust anyone—and they’d be right. He didn’t believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt. In his eyes, everyone was guilty until proven otherwise. That was what made him so effective.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw him in action. My first week on the job, he walked into the precinct dragging a man twice his size. Bloodied, bruised, and handcuffed, the man was Pistol Pete—one of the most dangerous gang members in the region. Rumor had it Jagg spent a month tracking him, including thirty hours in a hickory tree behind Pete’s house, waiting for the moment he could catch him dirty. And he did. Photos led to a search warrant. That led to an arrest. Which led to a confession. Six homicides, closed.
He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t gloat. He just grabbed a cup of coffee and moved on to the next case.
They said Jagg never slept, barely ate, and lived for the job. When he joined the Berry Springs PD, crime dropped by nearly 30% in under a year. After that, he was recruited by the state police, and wherever he went, crime stats followed suit. His past as a Navy SEAL was surrounded by rumors—some claimed he’d walked away from the military, others said he’d been forced out. No one knew for sure. All that mattered was this: when Jagg took a case, it got solved.
