“Whose estate sale?”
“The Blackwood's. The mansion on Ridge Road.”
The name landed like a freezing rain, sending a chill through him.
“Anything else you can remember?” he asked.
She hesitated. “On my way home from the sale, a black SUV nearly ran me off the road. I thought it was just an aggressive driver—but now…”
“You think it might be connected?”
“Maybe. They might have wanted me to crash so they could search my car. What I don’t understand is why he was so desperate to find that particular locket.”
Blackwood.
Every cop in eastern Tennessee knew the name. Bootlegging. Organized crime rumors, and the eerie legends surrounding Eleanor Blackwood and how she vanished nearly a century ago.
“There are stories,” Jack said carefully. “Old ones.”
“What kind of stories?”
He studied her expression—interest sharpening beneath fear. The same look that had always worried him.
“We can talk more about that later, I need you to think carefully,” he said instead. “Is anyone else following you? Have you had any strange calls or visits?”
“I’ve only been back two weeks,” she said. “I’ve been focused on the shop.”
Two weeks. And he hadn’t known.
“Where were you living before that?”
“Nashville. Consulting.”
He nodded, jotting it down.
He collected the locket she’d been cradling in her palms and placed it in an evidence bag.
If this had come from the Blackwood estate—if it was tied to Eleanor’s disappearance—then Annie had walked straight into something far darker than a break-in.
He glanced at the bruises forming on her arms, anger burning low and steady.
“I’ll need you to come in tomorrow for a more detailed statement.”
“Can I come in early?” she asked. “I have the grand opening.”
“That’s fine.”
As Jack left the apartment, one thought burned through everything else: This was one story about the Blackwood’s he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.
Chapter 2
Cold air pressed against Annie’s skin the moment she stepped into the Fairview police station. The place looked exactly as she remembered. Gray walls, scuffed floors, the faint smell of disinfectant and burnt coffee. Why had she expected it to be different? As if it bloomed into a high-tech crime lab the second she stopped being a cold case consultant four years ago.
The interview room hadn’t changed either. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing harsh shadows across the scarred wooden table. Her hand cramped as she finished signing the last page of her statement. She flexed her fingers, wincing.
She’d insisted on writing it out herself instead of letting someone type it. Some things carried too much weight to risk being misunderstood.
Jack studied the pages. “Is that everything you can remember?”
