When the Hunter Becomes the Target
Lucas POV
The Denver hotel room smelled like stale cigarettes and industrial disinfectant, the kind of place where federal agents stayed when the bureau wanted to remind them they were expendable. I spread the missing person files across the scratched wooden table, each photograph staring back at me with the same haunting familiarity. Seven women. Seven different towns. Seven eclipse cycles spanning the last century.
All dead.
I picked up the first file—Margaret Riley, 1982, Thornwick Hollow, Montana. Twenty-five years old, inherited a bookshop, found dead three days after a lunar eclipse. The local coroner ruled it a heart attack, but the crime scene photos showed defensive wounds on her hands. I'd seen enough bodies to know the difference between natural death and murder.
My phone buzzed against the table. Assistant Director Morrison's name flashed across the screen. I let it ring twice before answering.
"Barrett."
"Tell me you're not still chasing ghost stories in Colorado." Morrison's voice carried that particular brand of exhaustion reserved for agents who'd gone rogue.
"I'm following a pattern, sir. Seven victims across—"
"Seven unrelated deaths across a hundred and fifty years." Papers rustled on his end. "I've got your expense reports, Lucas. Hotel bills, car rentals, gas receipts. All for what? Mountain folklore?"
I pulled Margaret Riley's autopsy report closer, studying the unexplained bruising around her throat. "These women didn't die of natural causes. The pattern is clear if you—"
"The pattern is that you're seeing connections where none exist." Morrison's tone sharpened. "You've been on this case for eight months. Eight months of chasing shadows while real crimes go unsolved."
My jaw tightened. "Give me two more weeks."
"You have forty-eight hours to file your final report and return to Denver. Consider this your last warning, Barrett. The bureau doesn't have time for conspiracy theories."
The line went dead. I stared at the phone, then at the files scattered across the table. Eight months of work. Eight months of following a trail that led from isolated mountain towns to newspaper obituaries to coroners who asked no questions. All dismissed as folklore nonsense.
I reached for the bottle of bourbon I'd bought at the gas station, pouring two fingers into a plastic cup. The alcohol burned, but it didn't wash away the taste of failure. These women deserved justice, not bureaucratic dismissal.
The laptop screen glowed as I opened another database search. Town records, property transfers, inheritance documents—anything that might connect the dots Morrison refused to see. My eyes burned from staring at screens for twelve hours straight, but I couldn't stop. Not when I was this close.
A news alert popped up in the corner of my screen. I almost ignored it, but the headline caught my attention: "Seattle Marketing Executive Inherits Mountain Bookshop."
My blood went cold.
The article was brief—local newspaper fluff about a young woman leaving corporate life to run a family business in rural Montana. But the details hit me like physical blows. Twenty-seven years old. Recent inheritance. Great-aunt died unexpectedly. Bookshop in a mountain town.
Thornwick Hollow.
I clicked through to the full article, my hands shaking slightly as I scrolled down to the photograph. A professional headshot showed a woman with dark hair and intelligent eyes, smiling at the camera with the kind of confidence that came from boardroom victories and corner offices.
The plastic cup slipped from my fingers, bourbon spilling across the table and soaking into the case files. I barely noticed. I was too busy staring at a face I'd seen seven times before in seven different decades.
Not the same woman—that was impossible. But the bone structure, the eyes, the way she held her head slightly tilted to the right. It was like looking at variations of the same person across different generations.
Rosemary Decker. Twenty-seven years old. Inherited property in Thornwick Hollow three weeks ago.
I grabbed my phone and pulled up the lunar calendar app I'd downloaded months ago. My heart hammered against my ribs as I scrolled through the dates. The next eclipse was scheduled for October 31st.
Twenty-six days away.
"Shit." I shoved back from the table, pacing to the window. The Denver skyline stretched out below me, normal and safe and completely removed from whatever was happening in those mountain towns. Whatever was about to happen to Rosemary Decker.
I pulled up her social media profiles, scrolling through photos of office parties and weekend hiking trips. She looked happy, successful, completely unaware that her great-aunt hadn't died of old age and that she'd inherited more than just a bookshop. She'd inherited a death sentence.
My phone rang again. Morrison, probably calling to make sure I was packing my bags like a good little agent. I let it go to voicemail.
Instead, I dialed the number I'd memorized from the Thornwick Hollow phone book. The bookshop number. It rang four times before a woman's voice answered, slightly breathless.
"Ember & Sage, this is Rosemary."
The voice matched the photos—confident, professional, alive. For now.
"Ms. Decker? This is Lucas Barrett with the Denver Post. I'm working on a story about urban professionals relocating to rural areas. I wondered if I could interview you about your transition from corporate life to small business ownership."
A pause. "I'm sorry, did you say Denver Post? How did you get this number?"
"Your story was picked up by the wire services. Very inspiring, actually. A marketing executive trading the corporate world for a charming bookshop." I kept my voice casual, journalistic. "I could drive up this weekend if you have time."
"This weekend?" Another pause, longer this time. "I don't know. Things have been a bit overwhelming since I got here."
"I understand completely. New town, new business. It must be quite an adjustment." I waited, letting the silence stretch. Sometimes people filled silence with information.
"It's just... some of the locals have been acting strange. Like they're waiting for something to happen."
My grip tightened on the phone. "What kind of strange?"
"I shouldn't have said that. Look, Mr. Barrett, I appreciate the interest, but I'm not really ready for media attention right now."
"Of course. But if you change your mind, here's my number." I rattled off my cell phone digits. "Sometimes it helps to talk to an outsider about small town dynamics. People in rural areas can be very... traditional in their thinking."
"Traditional." She repeated the word like she was testing its weight. "Yes, that's certainly one way to put it."
The line went quiet except for her breathing. I could almost hear her thinking, weighing whether to trust a stranger's voice on the phone.
"Ms. Decker? Are you still there?"
"I'm here. You know what, maybe talking to someone from the outside would be helpful. But not this weekend. I have some... research to finish first."
Research. My stomach clenched. She was already looking into things, already asking questions that might get her killed before I could reach her.
"Whenever works for you. Just call that number if you need anything. Anything at all."
"Thank you, Mr. Barrett. I might just do that."
The line went dead. I stared at the phone, then at the files spread across the table. Forty-eight hours to close the case and return to Denver. Forty-eight hours to abandon Rosemary Decker to the same fate that claimed seven other women.
Not happening.
I grabbed my laptop and started booking a flight to Montana. Morrison could threaten reassignment all he wanted. Some things mattered more than career advancement. Some patterns were too clear to ignore, even when your supervisor called them folklore nonsense.
Especially when a woman's life hung in the balance and you were the only one who saw the danger coming.
The bourbon burned in my empty stomach as I packed my files into the travel case. Twenty-six days until the eclipse. Twenty-six days to figure out what was killing these women and stop it from claiming another victim.
Twenty-six days to prove that some ghost stories were real.