“What if there’s another fire?” Palmer piped up for the first time. She looked about as concerned as me.
“That’s a possibility,” August admitted. “But once he realizes we’re all back in town, I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”
“We’re coordinating with the police to do extra patrols around any other spots that might be significant to the Shadow Stalker,” I said.
Palmer’s eyes widened. “Really? Since when?”
“Yesterday. I met with Detective Whize from the Ember Hollow PD, and told him my concerns. He said he’d take care of it.”
“Well,” August pushed his chair back and stood, “that seems to settle everything for now, but I’ve got a lot of coordinating to do.” He turned to Fox. “Do you need help setting up your equipment?”
Fox stood, too, nodding. “It would sure make things quicker.”
And just like that, breakfast was over, and my brothers dispersed. The warmth in the kitchen had shifted entirely, replaced by something colder.
We had a plan. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.
I glanced at Palmer, who had set her mug into the sink. A quiet, dangerous hope seeped through my veins. With any luck, by this time next week, we would be the ones setting the fire and ending the reign of the Shadow Stalker once and for all.
31
Palmer
Cityhallwascrowdedand stuffy the afternoon of the press conference, two days after I returned to Ember Hollow.
The old brick building on Center Street smelled of wool coats and cold air and too many bodies pressed into a space that wasn’t meant for this many people.
The conference room had been cleared out and rearranged. Folding chairs filled the center of the room in tight rows. Cameras lined the back wall—big ones on tripods with station logos taped to the sides, smaller handheld ones, and even a few phones lifted discreetly above heads. Microphones were clustered at the podium at the front, cords snaking across the floor like vines.
Reid said they usually held press conferences in this room. The police department occupied one wing of city hall, so it made sense. It was controlled. Secure. Officers were stationed at both doors, checking credentials and keeping the flow of people steady. No one was just wandering in off the street.
I sat between Fox and Graham in the third row from the front. August and Reid stood near the side of the podium, speaking quietly with a man in a dark suit I assumed was a detective.
Roman was a few feet away from them, shoulders squared, hands clasped in front of him. He seemed calm and steady. When his attention caught on me, though, my heart hammered. Two other men flanked him, but I only recognized Nolan, Hailey’s uncle from her mother’s side.
Roman gave me a quick twitch of his lips, as if he were trying to reassure me.
Fox’s knee bounced beside mine. He seemed relaxed—hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable—but there was a tightness around his eyes. Graham leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, scanning the room like he was analyzing every face.
There were more people here than I expected.
Local news stations had sent reporters I vaguely recognized, and there were regional reporters I didn’t. One woman had a square microphone clipped to her collar; a younger guy, with a camera slung over his shoulder, appeared barely out of college. They’d been lingering in Ember Hollow since Amos escaped,feeding off the story like it was oxygen. The mysterious fires had only made it worse.
The room buzzed with restless curiosity and anxiousness.
An older man I didn’t recognize finally stepped up to the microphones, and the hum quieted immediately.
“Thank you all for coming,” he began, his voice even but firm. He introduced himself as the sheriff. “We know there’s been growing concern in the community following the recent structure fires and, of course, the ongoing search for Amos Anderson.”
Hearing Amos’s name out loud made an unsettled murmur wash over the crowd.
The sheriff continued, “At this time, we will address the recent structure fires within the Ember Hollow city limits. We will not be discussing any ongoing federal investigations unrelated to those incidents.” An air of discontent rippled among the media members as the sheriff launched into a factual and controlled outline of the investigation so far.
When the sheriff finished, he stepped back and Roman took the podium. The room shifted, a subtle tightening as cameras adjusted. Even the podcasters straightened in their seats.
The town seal hung on the wall behind him, framed in dark wood. The shadow of the clock tower was visible through the tall windows to the right, cutting across the snow-dusted street below.
“As fire chief,” Roman said evenly, “I can confirm these fires were deliberately set. We are working closely with the police department and state partners to determine responsibility.”
