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T hat night the house is quiet after Bellamy and Eric have gone to bed, and I’m up still going over my notes as I watch the news. A new report on the murder of Sabrina Ward comes on, and it’s obvious it wasn’t just his mother’s house that the media swarmed. Interspersed with shots of the outside of his mother’s house as the media waited for Ander to come out are images of the house he shared with Sabrina. The reporters repeat the same information they shared on the initial story last night, emphasizing that police and FBI were still looking for any leads in the situation.

Just as I feared it would, the coverage is leaning heavily into sensationalism, focusing on the frightening details and regularly repeating the link to the Tracy Ellis Ministry. They artfully weave in a mention of Terrence Brooks, stopping short of saying they think the same perpetrator is responsible for all the deaths but making sure to draw enough dubious parallels that it would be easy to confuse the situations as being tangled up together.

I’m particularly frustrated by the aggressiveness of the reporters when I see the trembling, pale face of Annette show up on screen. She’s standing behind her screen door, obviously not thrilled with being seen on camera but likely not willing to just shut her door in the reporter’s face. They ask her about Sabrina, and tears immediately start to stream down her face.

“She was always a good friend and such a sweet person. It’s devastating to think that someone right at the beginning of their life, happily married, expecting their first child, living their dream, could be wiped away in an instant,” she says.

My chest tightens at the words. I purposely had not mentioned the possibility of a pregnancy to Ander. Annette had specifically said Sabrina had been looking for a cute and creative way to reveal the news to her husband, which means he might not have ever gotten to hear about it. I didn’t want to reveal that kind of blow to him, and now it’s likely he heard about it on the news. The thought is deeply sobering.

The footage is still playing when my phone rings. It’s Jesse Kristoff. I’m surprised to see his name on the screen and answer.

“Hello?”

“Are you watching the news?” he asks.

“What?” I ask.

“Are you watching the news?” he repeats, sounding worked up.

“I am,” I tell him. “Why?”

“They haven’t mentioned Gideon even once,” he says. “All of the coverage is about Sabrina. They even talked about Tracy Ellis and Terrence Brooks, but the only mention Gideon got was them saying it was the second murder after the ‘death of a man.’ ‘Death of a man ,’ Agent Griffin. They didn’t say his name or talk about what happened to him. And they didn’t mention me getting attacked at all. He’s being completely overlooked. Both of us are being forgotten in this investigation.”

“Jesse, I know it’s frustrating that it doesn’t seem like Gideon’s death and your attack got as much attention as Sabrina Ward’s death. Sometimes the media decides to latch on to certain stories more than others, and as much as no one wants to admit it, the story of a young wife and mother-to-be is more… compelling for the media,” I tell him.

“So you’re saying that we don’t matter as much,” he says. “Gideon doesn’t matter as much.”

“That’s not at all what I’m saying. Of course he matters. His murder is equally as important as Sabrina’s and is just as much a focus of the investigation as hers,” I say calmly. “I am just as determined to bring justice to Gideon and am applying all of the information that I find out about Sabrina’s death to his investigation as well. I promise you that I have not forgotten either one of you or what happened. I am just building this investigation with the information as it comes.”

“All right,” he says, taking a breath and letting it out slowly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I know you’re going through a lot right now, and you feel like you have to be the voice for Gideon as well.”

“He doesn’t have anyone else. I’m the only one who can speak up for him and make sure that he isn’t forgotten,” Jesse says.

“You aren’t the only one,” I say. “I will make sure that his name is said and that he is not overlooked. This investigation started for him, and I will continue to fight for him until I find out what happened.”

“Thank you, Agent Griffin,” he says. “That means a lot to me.”

I end the call and set my phone on the coffee table before going into the kitchen to make a snack.

As I’m chopping vegetables as quietly as I can so the sound doesn’t reach upstairs to the bedrooms, I hear my phone ringing again in the living room. I hurry back in and grab it, hitting the Answer button and pressing it to my ear without looking to see who is calling.

“Hello?”

“Agent Griffin! Agent Griffin!” The voice coming through the line is so high-pitched and frantic-sounding that I don’t immediately recognize it. “I need you!”

It clicks. “Carla? Carla, I need you to calm down. Tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s Marshall,” she says. “He was attacked.”

“Where are you?” I ask.

“At home. He was here alone, and someone attacked him,” she says. “Please come.”

“I need you to hang up and call 911,” I tell her.

“They’re already here,” she says. “He was able to call during the attack.”

“All right. I’ll be there as fast as I can get there, but I’m about half an hour away.”

“Meet me at the hospital,” she says. “The ambulance is about to leave with Marshall.”

“I’ll be there,” I tell her.

I hang up and rush into the guest bedroom to change clothes. The drive to the hospital feels long as my mind churns with possibilities of what happened to Marshall. He’s obviously still alive, but I don’t know the extent of what he went through and the injuries he’s sustained. But I also have hope that he’ll be able to tell me what happened and who did this to him.

When I get to the hospital, I go in through the emergency room entrance and find Carla in the waiting area with two police officers. She immediately hops up from her chair and runs over to me.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I should have been there,” she says. “I was supposed to be home tonight, and I wasn’t.”

I take her by her shoulders and squeeze her gently to try to get her to focus. I look into her eyes. “Carla, look at me. I need you to tell me exactly what happened,” I say. “Where were you tonight?”

“I was supposed to be home tonight,” she repeats. “But I’m on the planning committee for a charity organization I volunteer with, and there were some problems with an upcoming event that I’m chairing. One of the other ladies called me in a panic because she didn’t know what to do to fix the issues, and she wanted me to come and help her. I almost didn’t go because it was already getting late when she called, but the organization is really important to me, and this is the first event that I’ve headed up, so I want to do a good job and make it the best event it can be.

“Marshall and I were trying to catch up on a show we’ve been watching, and I told him not to watch ahead without me, that I wouldn’t be too long. I left, went, and handled the issues, and then went back to the house. When I got there, there were police cars and an ambulance in front of the house. They didn’t want to let me inside. I finally convinced them to let me in, and they told me that Marshall had been attacked and was unconscious. They were working on him in the bedroom when I got in there. They say he was beaten but managed to get away from the attacker and get to the bedroom.”

The police officers come over and introduce themselves as Officers Massengill and Trammel. I tell them who I am, and they nod their understanding.

“Can you tell me more about what happened tonight?” I ask.

“A call came into dispatch from the Powell residence reporting an intruder. Mr. Powell said that he was being attacked and needed help. The dispatcher heard someone in the background call out for Mrs. Powell, and then the line went dead. Police and an ambulance responded within three minutes and broke through the front door into the house. There was no response to calling for Mr. Powell, and the team found the bedroom door locked. We knocked and announced ourselves, but there was no answer, so we breached the door and went inside. That’s when we found Mr. Powell unconscious and bleeding. Mrs. Powell arrived almost immediately after,” Officer Massengill says with clinical precision. I can almost imagine the words written out on his paperwork.

“Was there any weapon found at the scene?” I ask.

“No,” he replies matter-of-factly.

“You said that someone was shouting for Carla in the background of the call?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Dispatch reported that there was a voice shouting out the name ‘Carla’ and that it was not the person on the phone.”

I look at Carla, who looks shocked and rattled by the revelation.

“Who knew you weren’t going to be home tonight?” I ask.

“No one except the people at the event,” she says. “And Marshall.”

“You park in your garage, right?” I ask, remembering parking in the empty driveway when I visited their house.

“Yes,” she says.

“So if someone came to the house, they wouldn’t immediately know that you weren’t there,” I say.

“Not if the garage doors were closed, which they were,” she says. Her eyes go wide, and what little color was left in her face drains away. “They were coming for me. Just like Sabrina. They weren’t there for Marshall, they were there for me.”

Her body starts to shake, and I put an arm around her to lead her over to the nearby chairs. I help her sit down and sit beside her. Carla leans forward so her head is between her knees and draws in a few deep breaths. I can feel her still trembling and struggling to get the air in.

“Sit tight,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

I go to the bathroom and get a paper towel. Soaking it with cold water, I bring it back and rest it on the back of Carla’s neck.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Are you all right?” I ask. “Do you want to see a doctor?”

She shakes her head and sits up. “No, I’m sorry… I’m fine.”

“Have you heard anything about Marshall’s condition?” I ask.

“No,” Carla says. “They just brought him back, and I’ve been waiting for someone to come out and tell me something.”

Almost as though her words beckoned him, a doctor comes out of the back of the emergency room and comes over to us.

“Mrs. Powell?” he asks.

“That’s me,” she says.

“I’d like to speak to you privately for a moment,” he says.

She looks like she doesn’t want to stand up, but eventually, she pushes herself out of the chair and follows him into the back. Too filled with adrenaline to sit, I stand and start pacing the waiting area.