“How did he react?”
Sloan looked uncomfortable.
“He said there was something he should have told us last night.”
I hated that sentence.
“What?”
“Evan Cole’s mother died fourteen years ago.”
“And?”
“Before she married Nathan Cole, her last name was Hayes.”
I stared at Sloan.
“No.”
“Her full name was Lorraine Hayes.”
My mind raced.
Hayes was common.
It meant nothing.
It could mean nothing.
Then Sloan continued.
“Lorraine Hayes was your father’s younger sister.”
I sat down.
My father had a sister.
I vaguely remembered hearing about an Aunt Lorraine who had “left the family” before I was born.
My parents never discussed her.
“Evan is my cousin?”
“Yes.”
“Sheriff Cole is my uncle?”
“By marriage.”
I almost laughed again.
This time it hurt.
“So my father dies in Oak Haven, in the custody of a deputy working for his brother-in-law, and nobody tells me?”
“There’s more.”
Of course there was.
“There’s always more.”
Sloan sat across from me.
“Lorraine didn’t die from cancer like the family apparently told relatives.”
“What happened?”
“Vehicle explosion.”
I looked up.
“Explosion?”
“Her SUV caught fire on Route 114.”
The same road.
“When?”
“Fourteen years ago.”
I whispered, “Jesus.”
“Investigators called it mechanical failure.”
“Do you believe that?”
“No.”
“Does Sheriff Cole?”
“Not anymore.”
My phone buzzed.
Morales.
“Derek, we found Evan.”
“Where?”
“Abandoned ranger station in Pine Ridge State Forest.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Did he surrender?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“He called us.”
That didn’t fit.
“Why?”
“He says he has evidence.”
“Against Mitchell?”
“Against everyone.”
“What does that mean?”
Morales’s voice dropped.
“He says the traffic stop last night was staged.”
I looked at Sloan.
“Staged by Mitchell?”
“No.”
Morales paused.
“By Evan.”
My throat tightened.
“He says he deliberately gave Mitchell your vehicle information.”
“Why?”
“He says he needed Mitchell to stop you.”
I stood.
“Why?”
“Because according to Evan, the only way to expose what happened to your father was to make Bradley Mitchell repeat it while federal witnesses were watching.”
For a second, I couldn’t speak.
Sloan took the phone from my hand and put it on speaker.
Morales continued.
“Evan claims he manipulated Mitchell. Told him an armed man impersonating a federal agent would be on Route 114. Told him the department wanted the suspect intercepted quietly.”
I stared at nothing.
“Did Evan know the President would be on that road?”
“Yes.”
That was horrifying.
“He risked the motorcade?”
“He claims he believed Mitchell would back down once you showed credentials.”
“He didn’t.”
“No.”
“He fired a weapon.”
“Yes.”
“Evan could have gotten the President killed.”
“Yes.”
“Why would he do this?”
Morales exhaled.
“Because he says the conspiracy that killed your father is still operating.”
“Who?”
“He refuses to say over the phone.”
“Why?”
“He believes county communications are compromised.”
I looked at Sloan.
“Where is he?”
“FBI tactical team has the ranger station surrounded.”
“Then bring him in.”
Morales was silent.
“Lena?”
“He won’t come out unless you go in.”
Sloan immediately shook her head.
“No.”
Morales continued.
“He says there’s one thing he needs to show Derek first.”
“What?”
“A video.”
My skin prickled.
“What video?”
“Your father’s final traffic stop.”
Chapter 4
The ranger station sat at the end of an unmarked gravel road surrounded by nearly three thousand acres of forest.
By the time we arrived, federal vehicles were hidden among the trees.
No lights.
No sirens.
The kind of operation designed to disappear.
Sloan argued with me for the entire drive.
“You are emotionally involved.”
“Yes.”
“You are a potential target.”
“Yes.”
“This could be a trap.”
“Yes.”
“And you still want to walk into a building occupied by a missing deputy who admits engineering last night’s confrontation.”
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“You’re exhausting.”
“I’ve been told.”
Agents searched me for trackers.
Then I entered alone.
The ranger station smelled of dust, old wood, and cold coffee.
Evan Cole sat behind a table.
Thirty-two years old.
Thin.
Unshaven.
His uniform shirt was open at the collar.
His service weapon lay unloaded on the floor ten feet away.
He looked like a man who had not slept in days.
I shut the door.
He stared at me.
I stared back.
“My cousin,” I said.
His mouth tightened.
“I wondered when you’d find that out.”
“You could have called.”
“No.”
“You could have written.”
“No.”
“You could have walked into an FBI office.”
“I tried.”
That stopped me.
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
“What happened?”
“I met an agent in Richmond.”
“Name?”
“Caleb Frost.”
I knew it.
FBI counterintelligence.
Senior.
Respected.
“What did you tell him?”
“Everything I knew.”
“And?”
“He told me I was paranoid.”
Evan laughed bitterly.
“Two weeks later, someone broke into my apartment and put a photograph of my mother on my pillow.”
I stayed quiet.
“So I stopped trusting federal badges.”
“Yet you trusted me?”
“No.”
He looked directly at me.
“I trusted what your father said about you.”
I felt the hit in my chest.
“You knew him.”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“Better than you did at the end.”
That hurt.
He saw it.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Explain.”
Evan opened a laptop.
“My mother started investigating corruption inside the sheriff’s office fourteen years ago.”
“Your mother was a civilian.”
“She handled evidence-room accounting.”
That made sense.
“She found missing property?”
“Missing property that wasn’t really missing.”
He turned the laptop.
Spreadsheets.
Dates.
Case numbers.
“Seized electronics were being logged, removed temporarily, accessed, then returned.”
“Why?”
“To copy information.”
“Whose information?”
“People connected to federal security operations.”
I leaned closer.
“Local departments occasionally assist with presidential or diplomatic movements,” Evan said. “Traffic closures, advance coordination, emergency response. Someone realized those partnerships created access.”
“To route information.”
“Personnel names. Vehicle registrations. lodging arrangements. Radio frequencies. Sometimes only fragments.”
“Fragments can be enough.”
“My mother figured that out.”
“And she died.”
“Yes.”
“Then my father took over?”
Evan nodded.
“He came here after Mom’s funeral because he never believed the explosion was an accident.”
“What did he find?”
“That my mother had copied the records before she died.”
“Where?”
“Your father found them hidden in an old storage unit.”
“And he spent seven years investigating?”
“On and off.”
“Why didn’t he go federal?”
“He did.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
Evan looked at me.
“Caleb Frost.”
The FBI agent.
The same man Evan later approached.
I felt something click into place.
“Frost was involved.”
“I think he still is.”
“Do you have proof?”
Evan reached into his jacket slowly.
“USB drive.”
He placed it on the table.
“Your father gave me this three days before he died.”
“Why you?”
“Because he knew I could access county systems without raising suspicion.”
“You were a deputy already?”
“Probationary.”
“Did Sheriff Cole know?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Your father didn’t trust him.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“Because Uncle Nathan was sheriff when Mom died.”
That simple fact carried enormous weight.
“Did your father think Cole killed her?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“He thought Cole was too afraid to see what was happening.”
Sometimes cowardice protects evil as effectively as corruption.
“Show me the video.”
Evan hesitated.
“You sure?”
“No.”
He inserted the drive.
A file appeared.
Timestamp seven years ago.
Dashboard footage.
Not from Mitchell’s cruiser.
From another vehicle parked across the road.
The video began.
My father’s rented sedan was stopped on the shoulder.
Mitchell approached.
The audio was distant but clear enough.
“Step out.”
My father’s voice.
“Deputy, I have identification.”
“Out.”