“There.” She pointed to three figures standing in the shadow of the maintenance shed. “Mary, Joyce, and Ava, the photographer we ran into while searching for Marcy.”
I leaned closer to the screen, studying the body language of the three women. They stood in a tight circle, their postures suggesting an intense conversation. Mary kept glancing over her shoulder, while Ava appeared to be gesturing emphatically.
“That doesn’t look like casual conversation,” Greel said.
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
Riley’s brow furrowed. “Check the timestamp.”
“Tuesday, 3:17 PM. About an hour after Mary claimed to have seen the suspicious hiker,” I said.
“Ava wears hiking gear like she described.” Riley’s frown deepened. “This is thirty minutes before Allie spotted the woman in the apron near the pens.”
The coincidence felt too neat, too convenient. “We need to check that maintenance shed.”
Greel grunted, glancing between us. “While you do that, I’ll continue with the footage. See if there’s anything else we need to look into. I’ll check with Gracie and Jessi, too.” He lifted his phone and dialed while Riley and I slipped out the back door of the sheriff’s office.
We took the less traveled path behind Main Street. The maintenance shed sat at the far end of town, a simple structure painted the same weathered brown as the other buildings to maintain the Old West aesthetic.
The door had been secured with a padlock, which I opened with the master key. Inside, the shed smelled of oil, metal, and cleaning supplies. Tools hung on pegboards, and labeled shelves held neatly organized repair parts.
“Someone shares your appreciation for order.” Riley ran her finger along a row of identical screwdrivers arranged by size.
“Suspicious, isn’t it?” I moved deeper into the long, narrow shed, checking each corner.
Riley laughed. “Not everyone with organizational skills is up to no good.”
“True. But not everyone takes such care with a maintenance shed that’s only used occasionally.”
We worked our way through the space, documenting anything that seemed out of place. In the corner behind a stack of lumber, Riley discovered something.
“Dungar,” she called out.
I joined her, kneeling beside the open packing box holding a small wire crate that had been hidden beneath a blue tarp. Inside lay what appeared to be specialized scientific equipment, including a small containment unit with transparent sides, climate control panels, and simple monitoring systems.
“These are designed for transporting living specimens.” I recognized the technology from when we’d imported the first luminooks to the surface. “Maintaining precise temperature and humidity.”
Riley photographed everything. “Expensive equipment. Not something your average tourist would carry around.”
“Or your average maintenance worker would keep in a shed.”
We continued our search. In a desk drawer, tucked beneath repair invoices, I found a shipping receipt that made my blood run cold.
I handed her the paper. “Look at this.”
She read it quickly, her eyes widening. “One specialized specimen containment unit, expedited delivery, addressed to Sillavar Research.” She looked up at me. “I know of Sillavar. They do biological research. They’reaffiliated with the Blainsworths. That can’t be a coincidence.”
I tugged her into my arms and held her while she trembled.
“It’s related. I know it,” she said. “They’ve found me. I should run.”
“Stay. Please. We’ll keep you safe.”
Her sigh rang out. “For now, but the moment I sense something’s off…”
She’d be gone, taking my heart with her when she left.
We parted and documented everything with notes and our phones. Riley remained silent until we had finished.
