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I ’m up early the next morning missing my Sherwood neighborhood and the predawn jogs I take when I can’t sleep. The neighborhood is so still during these hours that the sound of my feet hitting the sidewalk sounds loud in my ears and I’m sure I’m waking up the neighbors as I run past. Sometimes I get a chance to wave at a particularly intrepid gardener up before the sun to battle weeds and fight pests out of the flower beds and away from their kitchen gardens. Usually, it’s just me.

I take a walk around Bellamy’s neighborhood, but it doesn’t have the same feeling. I remember when I lived not far from here, in the house my father still lives in. Back then I couldn’t have imagined living anywhere else, much less that I would have found my way back to Sherwood and been happy to relocate there.

Back at the house, I make coffee and sit on the back porch looking out over the small backyard as I think about the case. The dangling threads are bothering me. I’ve found myself on paths that have led nowhere, but there has to be something there. The fingerprint found in the car at the lot is being run through the databases today. If it belongs to someone who has been arrested before, it will come up, and we’ll have a possible suspect. But there’s a chance it was left by someone who has never been fingerprinted. Then I’ll be in the same place I am now.

Eric comes out with his own coffee and sits down in the chair beside me. We catch up for a little bit, talking about everything but the case as he seems to be trying to give my brain a break from thinking about it, though I know he’s very aware it’s next to impossible for me to think about anything else when I’m engrossed in a case as intense as this one.

Just as he’s getting ready to leave for work, my phone rings. I look at the screen and see Ander Ward’s number.

“Hey, Ander,” I say. “How are you doing?”

I’m fully aware of how ridiculous the question is. His wife was just murdered, and he’s learning to navigate the world as a widower. But as Xavier would describe it, it’s one of those things you just have to say.

“Agent Griffin, I don’t know what to do,” he says. His voice sounds tense, like something is really frightening him.

I pull my feet down off the table in front of me, sitting up straighter.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” I ask.

“The media is swarming my mother’s house,” he says. “I don’t know how they found out that I’m here, but the front yard is full of them, and their cars are blocking the road. They’ve been out there for a while. I need to get out to go to work, but I can’t go out there with them there.”

“To go to work?” I ask, shocked that he’s even considering going into the office twenty-four hours after his wife’s brutal death. “Do you really think you should be going to work today?”

“I need to. I wasn’t planning on it, but I can’t just sit around here. It’s driving me crazy. I can’t stop thinking about Sabrina, and I can’t stand it. I need something that will give me a purpose and take my mind off of all of that. But now I can’t get out of the house because of all the reporters and cameramen,” he says. “Should I go out there and talk to them?”

“Absolutely not,” I tell him. “Hunker down, and do not go outside unless you absolutely have to. If you do, just walk to your car without saying anything. I don’t want you making any kind of statement or giving any details about anything. We really need to keep as much information as possible contained, especially this early in the investigation. We don’t want details being leaked. We don’t want this turned into a sensationalized media circus. That can compromise an investigation and cause serious repercussions.”

“I won’t say anything to them,” he says. “But you should know that Tracy plans to.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“She called me last night to give her condolences and let me know that she wasn’t going to have Sabrina’s death be glossed over. She has already booked a talk at a local church and was planning on talking about Gideon’s death, but now she is going to add Sabrina to it as well.”

“Shit,” I mutter. “All right. I’m going to have to talk to her about that. You just stay where you are. Let her know that you aren’t coming in this morning. Keep the curtains closed, and don’t go outside. I’m sorry to ask you to essentially trap yourself and your mother in the house, but right now it’s the best thing for both of you. Dealing with the media is a stressor you really don’t need right now. If they start getting aggressive, coming to the door or anything, call the police.”

“I will,” he says.

“I’ll talk to you soon.”

Eric looks at me strangely as I end the call. “What’s going on?”

“That was Ander Ward. He’s staying at his mother’s house for a little while, and apparently, the media tracked him down. They are surrounding the house and trying to get him to come out and talk about his wife’s murder. He was planning on going to work today, but he can’t get out of the house. I can’t believe he would even be thinking about going to work.”

“I can,” Eric says. “If something were to happen to Bellamy or Bebe, I wouldn’t be able to function without having something specific to do. I go to work every day. It’s familiar. It would be my first instinct to just keep with my routine so that I wouldn’t sit around the house and completely fall apart. I don’t know for sure if I would actually be able to do anything when I got to work, but that would be what I would immediately think of. And you would too.”

I know he’s right. I’ve dealt with my fair share of painful losses, and every time, I’ve found solace in leaning into my work. It gives me a sense of meaning and clarity and helps me to feel like I’m doing something in the world rather than just sitting by and letting it happen to me.

“He just told me that Tracy Ellis is planning on having a talk at a local church about the murders. I need to tell her that she can’t do that. The investigation is still far too early for her to be making more speculations that will cause as much chaos as her talking about Terrence Brooks,” I say.

He nods. “Agreed. I’ve got to get going, but call me if you need anything,” he says.

“I will.”

He heads back into the house, and I dial Tracy Ellis. I’m surprised when she doesn’t answer. Deciding that it would be more impactful for her to hear from me in person, I go inside and get dressed. Smoothing my hair up into a bun away from my neck, I put on my usual black slacks and white button-up shirt, opting to leave the jacket off in deference to the steamy heat and humidity promised for later in the afternoon.

When I walk into the lobby, Estelle smiles at me, and I wave.

“I need to speak with Tracy,” I tell her. “Is she in her office?”

“She’s in a meeting right now,” she tells me. “But you are welcome to wait for her.”

“Thank you.”

I go to Tracy’s office, intending to wait outside, but I find the door standing partially open. I step inside and stand, waiting for a few moments, before my eyes fall on a piece of paper sitting on her desk. Bold, block letters spell out, “ Destroy the false believers .” I pick up the note and stare down at it.

“Can I help you, Agent Griffin?”

I turn around and see Tracy Ellis standing at the doorway to the office, staring at me with steel in her eyes. I don’t back down. I hold up the note.

“When did you get this?” I demand.

“You just decided you can walk into my office without my permission and touch my belongings?” she asks. “This is why I need Ander. He needs to figure out a way to get here.”

“Your door was open, and this was sitting in full view on your desk. You can let go of your defensiveness now and answer my question. When did you get this note?”

“I didn’t get it,” she snaps, walking further into the room with a slight swagger in her step. “I wrote it.”

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“I saw some of the notes that were sent to my employees, but I foolishly threw them away without thinking about the value that they hold. People have heard all about these notes and how much fear they are causing. I want the world to see them. To have the visceral reaction of actually seeing what these people have had to face. I am creating a series of them to use as a visual aid for the talk I’ll be doing this weekend,” she says.

“You won’t be using anything like this,” I tell her.

She gives me a withering look. “I beg your pardon?”

“This,” I say, giving the note a shake for emphasis, “is not yours to show to anyone. You might have written this, but you have no place passing it off as real evidence. Even if you tell the people there that you made it yourself, you do not have authorization to discuss the details of this case and its investigation with uninvolved people. None of the notes have been shared with the media or shown to the public. Doing so could compromise the investigation.

“These are people’s lives you are planning on using for entertainment value. They aren’t just stories. Two people, real human beings, have been murdered, and others are terrified because they’ve gotten the threats too. Now is not the time for you to trot them out and cause them more pain and misery by turning them into fodder for one of your performances.”

“They are not performances, Agent Griffin,” Tracy sneers, obviously angry at the way I’m talking to her. “I’m not playing a part. I am a teacher. I am a voice of guidance and reason for those who are lost.”

“And you are also not a member of this investigation. This isn’t a teaching moment. This is an active investigation into two murders and multiple threats. The details of the notes are to be kept confidential. You will not be using them as a visual aid for this talk or any other. I hope I make myself clear.”

She glares at me like she expects me to back down under the sheer force of her will, but I just stare back. Finally, a bemused smile crosses her face, and she takes a step back, opening her hands out to her sides.

“Fine, Agent Griffin. If you feel that there is something damaging behind telling people the truth in this way, then I will respect that. But you can’t stop me from addressing the deaths of these two people when I do my talk. I do still have the right to freedom of speech, and I won’t be silenced. The deaths have been covered on the news, and if they are able to talk about them, then so am I.”

“As long as you are only talking about things that have been shared with the public and not exposing any information about the victims or their families,” I say.

She huffs indignantly. “Fine. Now, if you will excuse me, I really do have work to do.”

I leave the office with a tight feeling in my stomach. It seems like Tracy Ellis is almost relishing the deaths and the content it gives her. She’s savoring being able to rage about another death, drawing a crowd to hang on every word—and pay for tickets. It’s obvious she is eager for all the attention this is bringing to her ministry. It no longer seems like a question of how much she is doing this for the benefit of other people—and how much she is doing this for herself.