Page 50 of Jonah’s Lure

Miguel’s knuckles were white as he gripped the back of one of the chairs. He stared at the board as though the answers might rearrange themselves if he looked long enough.

“We’ve got nothing, Angus. No witness, no case, no footage, and someone out there who walked into this building in broad daylight, killed our only witness, and walked back out again without leaving a trace.” He shook his head. “Every time we get close, we hit a dead end. Literally.”

Angus pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Stop looking at what we don’t have,” he said.

Miguel looked at him.

“That’s all this board is right now. A list of what’s gone.” Angus kept his voice even. “Turn it around. What do we actually have?”

“I just told you⁠—”

“You told me what we lost. Tell me what’s still standing.”

A beat. Miguel’s grip on the chair loosened slightly.

“Two bodies,” Angus said. “A method. A pattern. Whoever did this has a signature, and we’re staring right at it.” He nodded toward the board. “That’s not nothing. That’s a thread. Pull it.”

Miguel straightened slowly. He picked up the marker.

“Same method,” he said. Not a question.

“Same compound, most likely,” Angus said. “Murphy’s preliminary on Walt pointed to a specific sedative—clinically controlled, not recreational. If Cobb’s autopsy comes back with the same compound⁠—”

“Same killer.”

“Same killer.”

Miguel drew a single line connecting the two names. He capped the marker and turned around.

“Which means Walt’s death wasn’t a coincidence,” he said. “Someone killed him because he spoke to you and could identify the man who came asking questions about you.”

Neither of them said anything. The office remained locked down and quiet. Deputies were searching the streets, and the front desk was unmanned. It was just the two of them, the board, and their thoughts.

“And Cobb was killed before he could formally testify,” Angus said. “Two people who could have moved this investigation forward. Both dead within a day of each other.” He looked at the board. “Someone is cleaning up.”

“Cleaning up implies something left to clean,” Miguel said. “Which means—” He stopped.

“Which means it’s not over,” Angus finished. “Whatever this is, it isn’t finished yet.”

* * *

They worked through it methodically, the way they had always worked through things that mattered, as the day turned into evening. They pulled what they had, examined what they didn’t, mapped the gaps between them. The planted evidence against Angus—the device, the bank account, the witness. Someone who always knew their next move before making it. The surveillance footage showed nothing usable. Sixteen months of Cobb in Weyport before anyone noticed. The pre-built watch alert on Cobb’s state record. A dormant bank account that someone had known about and knew how to access.

“This wasn’t improvised,” Miguel said at some point, standing at the board with his arms crossed, looking at what they’d built. “Sixteen months minimum. Probably longer. It has to be someone with institutional knowledge—how permits get processed, how state records work, and how this office operates.” He paused. “How you operate.”

Angus said nothing.

“The level of preparation,” Miguel said. He wasn’t accusing. He was thinking out loud, the way he did when he was close to something. “The patience required for it. Everything carefully staged. Every piece of evidence designed to hold up. Nothing left to chance.” He looked at Angus. “Who hates you that much? And who has that much time?”

The question lingered between them.

“There’s something else,” Miguel said behind him, his voice quieter now. “Jonah.”

Angus turned.

Miguel was looking at the board—at Jonah’s name, separate from the two columns but connected to both by lines of reasoning rather than confirmed fact. He looked at it the way a man looks at something he has been trying not to say but has run out of room to avoid.