Clay called. "Liam, Sheriff Cooper is pulling footage from every camera in town. Gas stations, ATMs, the hardware store. Someone saw something."
"Tell him to check stolen vehicle reports. This guy wouldn't use his own car."
"On it."
Diane Levvett from the FBI called. "Walker, I heard about the abduction. We're mobilizing resources, but without an ID on the suspect?—"
"Check your databases for stalking cases, erotomania focused on celebrities. This guy's done this before or wanted to. He's practiced, planned. The way he took her shows experience."
"Running it now, but it's a wide net."
Owen was calling. I hung up and switched phones. "Every deputy in the county is searching. Clay and Hunter are organizing civilian search parties."
"Tell them to stay back. We don't know how dangerous?—"
"Try telling that to the town. Liam, half of Copper Creek is out looking for her. She's one of ours now."
My throat tightened. The town had adopted her, protected her, and now they were fighting for her.
Sixty minutes into my drive, the sheriff called, voice tight and urgent. “Walker, we’ve got something. Gas station just outside Dallas, two days ago. Same morning your perp probably left LA.”
My grip on the wheel tightened. “Talk to me.”
“Blue Honda Accord reported stolen. Basic, clean, unremarkable—exactly what you’d pick if you wanted to blend. But that’s not the part that got my attention.”
“What did?”
The sheriff exhaled. “We pulled the security footage. Male, early thirties, thin, pale, brown hair. Looks like he hasn’t slept in a month. He keeps glancing over his shoulder like he’s expecting someone to drag him away.”
That already sounded like him. But then?—
“And listen to this,” the sheriff continued. “Before he stole the car, he went inside the convenience store. Bought a pack of duct tape. Zip ties. Rope. A hunting knife. Two energy drinks. Paid cash.” And”—he paused—“a white dress from the boutique next door. Size small."
Every muscle in my body went rigid. My stomach dropped. He was already on his way. Already hunting her.
“Send the footage to the FBI,” I said, voice flat, lethal.
"Already done.”
He hung up, and my hand gripped the steering wheel hard enough my knuckles cracked. A white dress. The sick fuck bought her a wedding dress. “Over my dead fucking body,” I murmured to myself and pressed harder on the gas.
Five minutes later, Levvett called back, voice urgent. "Holy shit, Walker. We know who he is."
My pulse kicked, and I sat up straighter. “What?”
"The footage from Dallas—facial recognition hit. Marcus Fitzgerald, thirty-one. We've been tracking him for three years. Identity theft, credit card fraud, cyber stalking. He's a ghost—always one step ahead, never stays anywhere long. He's been on our radar for multiple celebrity stalking cases, but we've never been able to pin him down."
"Why wasn't he flagged in the LA case?"
"Different MO each time. He learns, adapts. But Walker, if this is Fitzgerald, he's escalated. He's never physically taken someone before."
"What else do you have on him?"
"Highly intelligent, possibly genius-level IQ. Tech savvy—that's how he stays hidden. Creates false identities, uses cryptocurrency, bounces his internet through multiple VPNs. He builds entire fantasy relationships with his targets through their social media and public appearances."
"How did he find her in Texas?"
"The festival. Someone posted videos that went viral. 'Stevie Wilson spotted in small Texas town.' He would have seen it, traced the location."
