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“C arla? What do you mean there’s someone in your house?” I ask.

“There’s someone here,” she says. “I heard them come inside.”

“Where are you now?” I ask.

“I’m barricaded in the bedroom. I’m so scared,” she says.

“Call the police,” I tell her. “I’m on my way.”

Feeling an intense sense of déjà vu, I change directions and head for the Powell house. The police haven’t gotten there by the time I arrive, and I take my gun out of the holster at my hip before climbing out of the car. Looking around carefully, I try to see into the shadowy areas around the house so I can see if anyone has come out or is lurking there being a lookout. I don’t see anyone, and I race up the steps to the front door. It’s locked, and I pound on it, then ring the bell.

“Carla!” I shout through it. “It’s Agent Griffin.”

There’s no reply, and I run around the side of the house. I immediately notice a side door standing partially open, and I go inside. The door leads to a mudroom and then a laundry area before going out into the main house. I run inside, my gun still poised, calling out for Carla.

“Agent Griffin?” I finally hear her shout from upstairs.

“It’s me,” I reply, running up the stairs toward her voice.

I see the broken door of the master bedroom to one side and the bloodstained white carpet beyond it, so I turn down the hallway and find a closed door. I knock on it, and Carla opens it just as I hear sirens coming down the street. She’s shaking as she cautiously steps out into the hallway. I put my arm around her and walk with her back down the stairs and into the living room.

The police knock on the front door, and I open it with my shield already out. I introduce myself and bring them into the room with Carla. She’s curled up in a chair, her knees tucked close to her chest as she rocks slightly, tears falling silently down her face. I crouch down beside her.

“The police are here,” I tell her. “Tell us what happened.”

She lifts her head and sniffles. “I came home from the hospital and took a shower. I was hungry, so I made something to eat and watched some TV, just trying to unwind from everything. I was so tired, so I went upstairs to go to bed. I couldn’t bring myself to go into my bedroom, so I went to the guest room to sleep. I couldn’t fall asleep, and I heard the sound of the door opening down here. There’s an alarm on the front and back doors, but the one on the side door broke, so it didn’t go off. That’s how I knew for sure it was the side door. I could hear someone walking through the house toward the steps, and I panicked. I locked the door and screamed that I was calling for help,” she says.

“You didn’t see anyone?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “I didn’t leave the room. But I know I heard someone walking down there.”

“The side door was standing partially open when I got here,” I say. “That’s actually how I got inside. Was that door locked when you got home?”

“I’m pretty sure it was,” she says. “We don’t use it very often. But it’s also a really old lock. We’ve been able to pick it to get inside when we’ve locked ourselves out before. We meant to replace it but just never thought about it. Maybe that’s how whoever attacked Marshall got in tonight.” Carla covers her face with her hands. “How could I be so stupid as to not check the locks? Why did I even come back here?”

“You have a lot on your mind,” I tell her. “But everything is fine now. We’re here. We just need to talk this through. You said you heard someone walking through the house. Did they say anything?”

“No,” she says. “I just heard footsteps.”

A knock on the front door makes all of us turn. I stand up and go to it. A nervous-looking woman in pajamas and a bathrobe is standing on the porch.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“I need to talk to the police,” she says.

“I’m an FBI agent,” I tell her. “What do you need?”

“I saw someone,” she says.

“Come in,” I say.

We go into the living room where Carla is making her statement to one of the officers. The officer looks up from the notes she’s writing and narrows her eyes at the neighbor.

“Bonnie?” Carla says, sounding confused.

“Who is this?” the officer asks.

“Bonnie Klein. She’s my next-door neighbor,” Carla says. “Bonnie, what are you doing here?”

“I thought I saw something, but I wasn’t sure, and then when I saw the police back here, I knew I needed to say something,” the shaky woman says. “I saw all the commotion that was happening here earlier tonight, and I didn’t know what happened, but it really shook me up.”

“Marshall was attacked,” Carla says.

Bonnie’s hands fly up to cover her mouth. “Oh god. Is he okay?”

“He’s in the hospital. I’ll know more tomorrow,” Carla says.

“I’m so sorry. I was afraid it was something like that since I knew both of you worked for that Tracy Ellis woman and everything that’s been happening. But I was hoping it was something else,” Bonnie says.

“Please tell us what you saw tonight,” I say, trying to move her along.

“I was just too anxious to sleep, so I was up in my sewing room, and I noticed a light go on outside. I looked out and saw that the motion-activated light on the Parrish house had come on.”

“That’s the neighbors behind me,” Carla explains.

“I saw what looked like someone running out of your backyard and in between the houses to the next street over,” she says.

It sounds very similar to what the neighbor described seeing after Sabrina Ward’s murder.

“Could you see any details about them?” I ask.

“I’m pretty sure it was a man just by the way they moved and their size, but I couldn’t really tell you how tall they were or anything. I wasn’t able to catch any real details. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m not being as helpful as I thought,” she says.

“No, we really appreciate you telling us this,” I say. “I’m going to have one of the officers walk you back to your house, and I want you to make sure that all the doors and windows are locked.”

She nods, and I look at the second officer, who stands.

Bonnie looks at Carla. “I’m so sorry about Marshall. Please don’t hesitate to tell me if there’s anything I can do for you. You can just stop by.”

“Thank you,” Carla says.

They leave, and Carla goes back to making her statement. I sit with her, but my mind is wandering. The events of the night aren’t adding up. This situation feels too different from the others, but I don’t know what to think of it.

“Do you want to stay here tonight or go somewhere else?” one of the officers asks after Carla finishes providing her formal statement.

“It would probably be best if you went somewhere,” I tell her. “Just for your own peace of mind.”

She nods. “Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to feel safe here for a long time.”

“I’ll make sure she gets somewhere,” I tell the officers. “Make sure that Detective Fuller gets her statement.”

They agree and leave. Now that Carla seems calmer, I have the same question for her that I asked Ander earlier.

“It’s come up in the investigation that it’s expected that everyone who works for Tracy Ellis acts as sort of a watchdog and reports anything against the company’s morality standards directly to her,” I tell Carla.

“That’s true,” Carla says. “It’s presented as a means of keeping the community close and holding each other accountable, so we’re helping each other stay on the path of the truth. Tracy’s favorite words.”

“And if someone makes a report like that, the person who was turned in can face serious consequences, can’t they?” I ask.

“They can be disciplined in a few different ways, all the way up to being fired. That’s usually reserved for really egregious things or for people who refuse to accept responsibility for what they’ve been accused of and won’t cooperate with other forms of discipline,” she says.

“It sounds like dealing with children,” I say.

“Discipline is important for everyone. Maybe even more important for adults than it is for children. How can we expect to raise the next generation of responsible, moral, strong people if they don’t have that as their example? Besides, the people who work for Tracy know what they are getting into. They agree from the very beginning to act in a certain way or risk having others expose what they are doing. If they decide to go against those standards, then they should expect to deal with the consequences they were warned about,” she says.

She doesn’t defend Tracy Ellis’s views or teachings, but I reluctantly know she’s right about the reports. Regardless of how I feel about people being in a climate where they feel constantly judged and vulnerable to the people around them, fearing they could lose their livelihood for any perceived transgression, it is the reality of the company. No one forces anyone to work for Tracy Ellis. If these adults willingly seek employment by her and agree to the terms she puts forward to them, then they have made that choice for themselves. That doesn’t change the impact the policy has.

“That could be a very pressing motive for retaliation,” I point out to her.

“I thought that you were investigating this as someone who is acting against the ministry,” Carla says, looking alarmed. “Are you saying you think this might be personal?”

“I’m saying I’m looking at the situation from all angles to make sure I don’t miss anything. Have you or Marshall reported anyone to Tracy recently?” I ask.

She hesitates, her eyes locked in front of her like she’s lost in thought. She jumps slightly as she seems to come back into the moment.

“Oh. I don’t think Marshall ever has,” she says. “He prefers to stay out of things. Not that I think he’s ignored anything serious, but he’s never told me about anything that he heard within the company that would warrant being reported…”

Her voice trails off, and I can tell there’s something more to the thought.

“But what?” I ask, encouraging her to continue.

“Except for one situation,” she says. “And he didn’t make the report. I did. One person in a married couple making a report is sufficient for both people, according to Tracy, but it also works the other way. If one spouse knows something and doesn’t say anything and the other doesn’t either, both can get in trouble. So when he told me he’d heard someone in the outreach department talking about filing for divorce, I knew I had to say something so we wouldn’t both have problems.”

“Getting divorced is against the morality standards of the company?” I ask.

“Yes. Especially for people who deal directly with the public like the outreach team. They are considered the face of the company, and they are held to even higher expectations by Tracy. Which means happy couples,” she says.

“What happened to the person you reported?” I ask.

“They were forced into company-mandated therapy,” she says. “And were barred from attending public events with the company until further notice. Which means a major decrease in pay.”

“I’m going to need this person’s name and contact information,” I tell her.

“It’s Gloria and Vince Pryor,” she says. “I have Gloria’s phone number, but that’s it.”

“That will work,” I say. She picks up her phone and goes to the contacts, reading me the number so I can jot it down. “Did this happen recently?”

“About two months ago,” she says. “Neither of them works for the company anymore.”

“They were fired?” I ask.

“They quit,” she says.

“Do you know if they ever worked with Gideon?”

“He would have done security for events that they worked at,” she says. “But I don’t know for sure how well they knew each other.”

“Okay, thank you for that. Let’s get you packed for the night and somewhere safe. Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t want to disturb anybody at this hour, so I’m just going to go to a hotel,” she says.

“I’ll escort you there,” I tell her.

“Will… will you go upstairs with me while I pack?” she asks. “I don’t want to face that room alone.”

“Of course.”

We go upstairs, and Carla hesitates before stepping into the bedroom. Her eyes drop to the blood on the carpet, and I put a hand on her back to gently guide her past it. She gathers a few things and we leave, making sure all the doors are locked before we go.

I follow Carla to the hotel and wait until she texts me that she is safely in her room before going back to Bellamy and Eric’s house. A hot shower later, my head barely hits the pillow before I’m asleep.