Page 127 of Girl Between

The flickering glow from the televisions at the sports bar caught his attention. It was only a few gates down from his. Without hesitation, Jake changed his trajectory.

At least I can have a bourbon while I think over my life choices.

He grabbed a seat at the empty bar and began surveying the slim airport bourbon selection when a news headline caught his eye. “Hey, can you turn that up?” he asked.

The bartender shrugged and handed Jake three remotes. “If you can figure out which one does that, be my guest.”

With minimal trial and error, Jake managed his goal. Volume finally sprang from the news report, filling the empty bar. “… more than sixty linked missing person cases in Louisiana, which are now being called the Casquette Girl killings.” The newscaster paused for dramatic effect. “What we can tell you is the FBI has joined the investigation.”

The footage cut to the precinct Jake had left just days ago. The names, Agent Colby Creed and Detective Vincent George, appeared on screen as aerial footage of a rural farmhouse filled the monitor. Jake spotted CSI, FBI, NOPD and just about every other department acronym in between crawling over the expansive ground dotted with tents and body bags.

“Shit,” he muttered.

The newscaster blathered on without divulging any real facts before signing off. When the camera cut to the weather, Jake hit the mute button. He shoved the remotes back toward the bartender who was chewing her gum like a hyena.

“You wanna order?” she asked.

But Jake was already gone, striding through the airport, phone pressed to his ear. “Change of plans.”

111

George sat at his desk,paperwork sprawled out before him like the disarray of his thoughts. Since returning from Monroe’s, the station was eerily quiet. The usual hustle and bustle was replaced by a heavy sense of dread.

He glanced at the photograph of his father perched on the corner of his desk. A man who’d been a pillar of justice and integrity. More so than ever, the legacy of his father weighed on George’s shoulders tonight.

The Casquette Girl killings had baffled George from the beginning. He’d thrown himself into the investigation, working tirelessly to piece together clues, yet the puzzle remained incomplete. Each dead end felt like a personal failure, a disservice to the memory of his father, who had solved impossible cases with grace and determination.

George's father had always been his guiding light, a beacon of hope in the murky waters of law enforcement. But now, as George faced the gaping chasm of these horrific crimes, he felt the sting of inadequacy.

The mountain of evidence from the Monroe property offered no solace, only a reminder of how little progress they had made.

He rubbed his temples, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. George knew his father wouldn’t have given up, wouldn’t have lost hope. He had to find a way to honor that legacy, even if it meant digging deeper into the darkness of the case. The thought of the victims haunted him. He owed it to them, and to his father's memory, to keep fighting.

This will not be the case that breaks me.

Creed strode into the room, nodding at George. He eagerly joined the young FBI agent, hoping he had some good news to share.

“How’d it go with Fontera?” asked George.

“As expected. He’s lawyering up,” Creed replied.

George swore under his breath. “Did you get anything useful out of him before he asked for his attorney?”

"I personally brought him in for questioning, but he hasn't given us anything useful so far. He's claiming he hasn't had contact with Monroe in years and has airtight alibis for the recent victims."

George frowned, frustration mounting. "These alibis check out?"

"Yeah. Fontera’s a long-haul truck driver now, and according to the GPS tracker on his rig and his phone, he was in completely different states during the times the cemetery victims were found," Creed replied.

George chewed his lip, thinking. "There’s gotta be something we’re missing.”

“I wish there was, but Fontera checks out. Law abiding citizen, husband, father of two.” Creed shrugged. “I’m not sure he’s got anything for us, but I’m holding him for 48 hours. Maybe a night in lockup will loosen his tongue."

George balked, his frustration rekindled. "That's the plan? Keep him in lockup? We have nothing! Monroe is out there. We have to find him before he strikes again."

Creed pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’m aware of the objective, Detective. I’m also aware you expended every resource at your disposal at the Monroe property today and came up without a single lead. From what I see, my analysts are the only ones making any progress around here.”

“They found something?” asked George.