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As Riley steered her sedan through the sleepy outskirts of Slychester, the car’s headlights cut a swath through the gloom. A block short of her grim destination, she spotted the familiar outline of a police cruiser.

“Looks like Officer Burgher’s already here,” Ann Marie murmured from the back seat. Putnam, sitting beside Riley, just gave a curt nod, his eyes surveying the scene with clinical detachment.

Riley pulled in beside the cruiser and killed the engine. She saw that two uniformed cops were standing outside the cruiser, waiting.

“Agent Paige,” one of them greeted her, his voice grave.

“Officer Burgher?” Riley asked, and he nodded. Burgher was the cop she’d spoken to earlier about Gwen Beck’s disappearance. She’d messaged him that she would need his help at the cemetery.

“Meet my partner, Officer Truman Gingham,” Burgher said, gesturing to the man beside him. Riley extended a hand to the newcomer, finding his grip firm but cautious. Gingham’s eyes were sharp, taking in the scene with a trained wariness that Riley recognized all too well.

“Agent Esmer, Agent Putnam,” she introduced her companions briefly, stepping aside as Ann Marie exchanged pleasantries, her charm momentarily slicing through the night’s seriousness. Putnam, however, merely grunted a greeting, maintaining his stoic composure.

“Thanks for joining us,” Riley said. “We believe Gwen Beck may be the captive of a man named Timothy Lancaster. We’re planning to intercept.”

“You think he’s brought her here?” Gingham’s eyebrows rose.

“Yes, to a particular gravesite. His mother’s, Martha Lancaster.”

The glow from Officer Burgher’s tablet cast an eerie light on his earnest face as he enlarged a map of Kirkwood Cemetery. He tapped a spot with authority, “Martha Lancaster’s grave is right here.”

Riley’s eyes traced the single entry road and its offshoots that carved through the cemetery. Each branch was a decision point, a potential ambush site, or a place to lose a trail. There would be no simple chase; it was a tactical puzzle where the stakes were human life.

“Only one road in or out,” she murmured.

“Then we can just drive in and grab him at the grave,” Putnam suggested, his voice carrying a clinical detachment that grated on Riley’s nerves. His readiness to confront chaos head-on was typical, though not always practical.

“Timothy may not intend to kill her immediately,” Riley countered, her gaze never leaving the map. “It was that simple, she’d have been found dead closer to home. This could turn into a hostage situation.”

Putnam’s skepticism was clear, his body tensed as if preparing to leap into action at any moment.

But Riley knew better than to rush in blindly. Lives were not chess pieces, and Timothy Lancaster was no predictable opponent. She’d followed many twisted corridors within the thoughts of killers. It wasn’t just about finding them; it was about outmaneuvering them.

“How can we be so sure of that?” Putnam asked, his sharp eyes searching her face for doubt. For a moment he seemed about to challenge her authority, but then seemed to remember that Meredith had specifically told him to listen to Paige.

“We can’t be sure,” Riley replied. “But if I am right, we can’t take any chances.”

She turned back to the map of Kirkwood Cemetery on Burgher’s tablet.

“We go in quietly from different directions, jumping fences if necessary,” she said, tapping three separate points along the edges.

“Ann Marie, you go in here from the west. Putnam, you’re on the east. I’ll come through from the south. ”

Putnam frowned, his sharp features etched with doubt.

“Stealth gives us the advantage,” Riley continued.

“Fine,” Putnam conceded after a tense pause, his tone clipped.

“Burgher, Gingham, you two hold the fort here,” Riley instructed, pointing to the solitary road snaking into the cemetery. “Nobody gets in or out without going past you. Check anyone thoroughly. Check cars, trunks included. Understood?”

The two officers nodded, their expressions serious as they glanced at each other before turning back to Riley. They were the final line of defense, the barrier between the suspect and any hope of escape.

“Got it, Agent Paige,” Burgher confirmed.

Putnam still appeared less than thrilled, his posture rigid as he reluctantly agreed to the plan. “Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered.

With a last look at the map, Riley felt the pull of the chase, the need to end this before another life was shattered.

“Time to move,” she said, her voice low but clear. Ann Marie gave a brief nod, her eyes reflecting the same resolve that Riley felt. Putnam, followed suit grudgingly, his steps decisive as he headed off in his assigned direction.

The three FBI agents dispersed, each moving quietly through the night, planning to converge upon a common goal. Behind them, the officers stood vigilant.

*

Gwen’s senses flickered back more fully as the cold grip of consciousness took hold. She realized that she wasn’t in the trunk of a car. She was out in the open on her knees, her balance unsteady. Her wrists were still bound.

A sharp yank on her hair forced her head back; moonlight washed over a weathered gravestone right in front of her.

The cemetery? She wondered, struggling to focus.

“Look at it,” a man’s voice snarled, his breath hot on her ear. “Say hello to my mother.”

She managed to read the name in silver relief: ‘Martha Lancaster’.

Gwen’s thoughts struggled with the realization of where she was—the Kirkwood Cemetery. But why?

“Apologize to her,” the voice demanded, his tone low and dangerous. “She’s listening.”

Gwen’s heart hammered against her ribs, the reality of her situation settling in.

This was no random kidnapping; this was retribution for a past that Gwen had exposed to the world.

She’d been captured by a man she’d assumed was long since dead—Timothy Lancaster.

The grave before her was a monument to revenge, and Gwen, bound and helpless, was an unwilling participant in some kind of twisted memorial.

Gwen felt a primal fear, but she was not a woman who succumbed to fear easily. She had faced down corrupt politicians and exposed scandals over her long career.

She fought back terror, and began to feel something else —a fierce resolve not to bend to Timothy Lancaster’s will. Staring at the gravestone, she knew Timothy's intentions were as cold and unyielding as the stone itself. He would never let her leave this place alive.

With her life on the line, she realized that perhaps provocation was her only means of escape—if she could throw him off balance, even for a moment. If death was staring her in the face, she would confront it head on, with the same tenacity that had defined her career and life.

“Timothy,” she began, “you expect me to beg forgiveness from a gravestone? You expect me to apologize to the silence of the night?”

She took a measured breath, willing her bound hands not to shake. “Your mother made her choices, Timothy,” Gwen continued. “One of them was to plagiarize someone else’s work. The other was to end her own life.”

She could sense Timothy’s growing agitation, but she pushed forward, fueled by a mixture of desperation and defiance.

“Those were her decisions to make, not mine. I reported the facts, did my job as a journalist. That’s all. I have nothing to apologize for.”

Gwen turned and met Timothy’s gaze, her own eyes reflecting the conviction of her words.

“Your mother’s actions are not my burden to bear. I cannot repent for sins that are not mine.”

In that moment, Gwen Beck was more than a retired journalist or a college teacher—she was the embodiment of every story she had ever chased. She would not bend to the will of a man consumed by the shadows of the past.

Gwen’s breath hitched as she saw Timothy’s jaw clench, his eyes ablaze with fury that threatened to erupt. But then, a sound somewhere off in the distance—perhaps the closing of a car door or just the wind playing tricks—snatched his attention away from her for a split second.

It was all the opening she needed.

Summoning every ounce of adrenaline-fueled strength, Gwen surged to her feet, the layers of tape binding her wrists turning into an improvised weapon.

With a swift and desperate arc, she swung her arms, the impact resounding with a thud as Timothy staggered backward.

His body met the cold marble of his mother’s headstone with a sickening crack, and he crumpled to the ground, momentarily stunned.

Gwen didn’t pause to see if he would rise again. Her survival instincts screamed at her to move, to use this reprieve to put as much distance between herself and Timothy Lancaster as humanly possible.

As she broke into a staggering run for safety, she felt a raw, primal urge to scream for help, to call out into the night.

But Gwen believed any such sound would be futile.

The cemetery was a desolate place at night.

No one would hear her cries here. No one could save her but herself.

No, the best choice was to make as little noise as possible, to disappear among the graves.

She darted between the tombstones, her bound hands a hindrance, but not enough to stop her determined escape.

A labyrinth of graves stretched out before her, and she wove through them with the agility of a hunted animal fleeing its predator.

She knew that if she didn’t escape now, she would never have another chance.