Chapter One

Bruce Palmer pushed his front door open, lifting a bright-green dinosaur plushie high in the air. “Daddy’s home! Where’s my best little boy?”

He locked the door behind him and slid the chain into place as he waited, grinning like a fool, ready for Mason’s wobbly steps to carry him down the hall. Erin had been coaxing him toward the door to “say hi to Daddy” for weeks, cheering him on. Bruce would sink to his haunches, watching the absolute delight on his son’s face as he toddled into his arms.

It was his favorite time of the day.

He’d known for most of his life that he wanted to one day be a father, but he never expected the pride and love that went with it to be so all-consuming. Never realized watching his wife become a mother would make him love her even more.

The hallway stayed still. No footsteps. No squeal of delight.

He checked his watch. It was 4:30 in the afternoon, and he was home earlier than usual. He’d left Tillworth Construction before the rest of the crew knocked off, trading his hard hat for a quick trip into town. The store’s shelves had been almost bare, the row of plush dinosaurs nearly gone. He’d grabbed the last one, proud of himself for beating the rush. Mason would light up when he saw it.

His fourteen-month-old was obsessed with the creatures.

“Erin?”

But the house was quiet. Too quiet. All he could hear was the steady hum of the vent hood fan over the stove.

Mason should be awake from his afternoon nap by now. Erin liked having him in the kitchen with her when she started dinner. She never left the stove on unattended, even for a few minutes. Paranoid about starting a fire.

One more thing her ex drilled into her head, along with telling her she was stupid.

Bruce hadn’t set out to rescue Erin from her abusive marriage, but he never forgot the torment she’d endured as Neil Hammond’s wife.

Shaking off thoughts of the bastard, he focused on the quiet of the home.

Even when Mason napped, Erin had the TV murmuring in the background or music playing in the kitchen.

A soft click, like the tap of Mason’s spoon against his bowl, came from the kitchen. Bruce stepped into the hall, setting the dinosaur down on the console table.

Something wasn’t right. And he wanted both hands free.

“Erin? Is everything all right?”

A muffled grunt came from the kitchen. Bruce’s gut tightened. Had Erin slipped? Burned herself? He hurried down the hall, past the bathroom door.

As he turned the corner, he caught movement in the hall mirror. Bruce turned as a man in a ski mask rushed out of the shadows and swung the butt of a gun at his head.

Pain split his skull and buckled his knees. He hit the floor hard, twisting his wrist as he went down. Warm blood ran down his temple.

Weight crashed into his back, forcing his ribs into the floor until the air whooshed out of him in a painful gasp.

Who was this? A thief? Someone after cash?

Bruce tried to shout, but nothing came out. Another blow to his head made his vision burst white, then blur at the edges. He clawed at the tile, boots scraping, frantic to get leverage. He kicked violently, driving his elbow backward with all his strength and connecting with the attacker’s hip.

The victory was fleeting—a fist into his temple erased any advantage.

This wasn’t some junkie breaking in. The man was strong and precise.

Erin. Mason.

He couldn’t let this maniac near them.

“Where’s my family?” The words scraped out, strangled. Maybe they weren’t home. Maybe she’d left to run an errand.

Please, God, let them be gone.

He was bleeding and in agony, but his family’s faces flashed into his mind. Fight. Keep fighting.

Adrenaline cut through the pain as Bruce pushed to his feet, pivoted, and drove them both into the wall. The impact loosened his attacker’s grip just enough.

Bruce lurched forward into the living room, desperate to get away, to find a weapon, to do something. He collided with the coffee table, sending it toppling.

Bruce spotted the umbrella stand near the front window. Not great, but still something.

He lunged for it, but his attacker rammed into him, forcing Bruce to crash through the window. Glass exploded around him, shards biting into his scalp and shoulders. His head cracked against the frame. The world tilted, white spots bursting across his vision.

Dazed, he felt hands on his wrists, pulling until his sprained joints screamed. Rope bit into raw skin, the fibers cutting deeper as he weakly continued to fight. His breath came in panicked bursts he couldn’t control.

Sucking in a gasp against the burning inside, Bruce cried out, his own voice sounding garbled, even drunk. “What did you do to them?” Each word stung. “If you hurt them, I’ll kill you!”

A brutal kick to his ribs was his only answer. Bruce caved inward, a ragged choke tearing from his throat.

The man grabbed his ankles and yanked him backward through the hallway until Bruce’s boots scraped against the kitchen tile. His shoulder clipped a chair leg, the jolt rattling through his bones.

Bruce tried to get his feet under him, but as he lifted up on one knee, he froze.

The man had stopped dragging him. Overhead, the kitchen light glared down on a scene from a horror movie.

Erin was there. Tied to a chair at the kitchen table, wrists and ankles bound so tightly, the rope dug into her skin. Strands of her dark hair clung damply to her cheek, her pretty face contorted in a fear Bruce had never seen on her before.

Her eyes—wide, panicked, so dark under the light they looked almost black—pleaded with him. Duct tape over her mouth bowed outward with each frantic breath, her chest heaving in sharp bursts.

Mason sat trapped in his high chair, legs kicking against the plastic frame, tiny fingers twitching helplessly over the tray. Tears streaked his round cheeks, his wide-eyed gaze ping-ponging between Erin and the masked man. He looked too small, too breakable, staring at the world as if begging someone—begging his daddy—to make it stop.

The duct tape across his mouth had begun to peel at the edges, puffing with each frantic breath. A muffled sob slipped through, high and desperate, the sound of a child who should’ve been safe in his father’s arms.

Before Bruce could reach for his child, the intruder grabbed his collar again, yanking him to a waiting chair. Rope already dangled from the arms and legs, prepared like a trap.

“Sit. Now.”

No. If he sat down, it was over. Bruce braced his feet, ready to swing, to do anything, but pain knifed through his side. A brutal punch to his kidney stole his breath, another drove the air from his lungs. His knees gave before he could stop them.

The chair caught him, and rope bit into his skin a second later. He was across from Erin now, her horrified gaze locked onto him, terror shaking her whole body.

Bruce forced himself to lift his head, to meet Mason’s wet gaze. His boy’s tiny hands reached toward his mother, his muffled cries tearing the room apart.

“It’ll be okay, li’l buddy.” It was a lie he had to tell. “I’m here. Mommy and Daddy are here.”

Mason’s cries only grew louder.

Movement drew Bruce’s attention as the intruder brought a gun into view. Heavy and black, like the guns he’d seen most cops use, the weapon was the first one Bruce had ever seen up close.

And this one was aimed at his son.

“Do as I say or watch your li’l buddy die.” He pulled back on the hammer and leveled it at Mason’s chest.

“What do you want?” Bruce couldn’t stop his words from shaking.

The man didn’t move. “Sit up straight like the decent man, the good man, you wish you could be.”

What the hell was he talking about? Bruce was a good man. He was decent. He treated Erin with love and respect and helped her take care of Mason every chance he got.

Keeping the gun on Mason, the masked man looped a rope around Bruce’s neck and pulled, forcing him to sit up straight.

Bruce could only turn his head side to side now, and even that movement made him choke. He focused on his wife sitting across the table.

The gun barrel pressed against Bruce’s throat as the man knelt beside him. “Move one tiny bit, and Erin watches your brains paint the ceiling. That’ll be the last thing she sees before she dies.”

The intruder set the gun aside only long enough to bind Bruce in place. Rope cinched his ankles, his chest, his wrists—crossing the rope over itself in tight figure eights. Bruce’s knees pressed together, locking them in place.

Every tug stole more movement, more hope.

Bruce strained anyway, the chair digging into his back, Erin and Mason’s muffled whimpers urging him on. But whoever this man was, he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Please.” Bruce’s voice was a hollow echo in his ears, as if someone far away were speaking. He couldn’t take his eyes off Erin’s panicked expression, the rope around her throat, and the gag in her mouth.

He wasn’t gagged, though. He could still convince their attacker to let them go.

“Let my…” He swallowed hard, tugging desperately against the restraint that threatened to silence him permanently. After a ragged breath, he continued, each word a whispered battle. “Let my family go. I have a…” Another cough as the ropes tightened with his movement. “I have a thousand dollars in my office down the hall, in my desk. You can take it.”

Silence met his plea.

He strained, twisting against the restraints, his muscles burning. The bonds bit deep into his wrists, the ropes pressing into flesh and pinning his arms to the chair.

The man standing before him wasn’t big, but he carried himself like he was. Confident. Controlled. The kind of presence that filled a room without effort. The black ski mask hid everything except his eyes. They were dark and focused, watching Bruce like he was studying a puzzle he’d already solved.

I know this man.

The copper taste of blood coated his tongue as he tugged desperately against the restraints.

“Neil. It’s…you.” His words came out hoarse as he looked at Erin’s ex-husband, the man who’d beaten her and made her life hell. “I know you didn’t want to let her go, man. But this won’t win her back.”

A soft scoff came from behind the mask, barely audible but unmistakably dismissive. “You don’t know anything. But you will. Trust me. You will.”

Blinking away tears, Bruce pleaded once more. “Don’t do this. It won’t make anything right. It won’t change anything.”

The masked man picked up his gun again, tilting it slightly before pressing the barrel against Bruce’s cheek. Cold metal met burning skin. The touch was light, almost casual, as if the man wanted him to feel it, to acknowledge the power behind it. “You don’t deserve them.”

“And you do?” Bruce had to laugh, though the rope around his neck made him choke. “Neil, you’re out of your mind if you think Erin will ever go back to you.”

“You talk too much.” The barrel swung and pressed against Erin’s temple.

Her breath hitched. A tremor ran through her shoulders, and her fingers curled against the chair’s armrests.

Bruce jerked against the ropes, instinct tearing through him, but the restraints held fast. Heat burned under his skin, his pulse hammering in his skull. “No!” His voice broke. “This won’t make her love you. You hit her. You told her she was worthless.”

The rope dug deeper as he strained, welts rising across his skin. He sagged back, choking, forcing the words out through the fire in his throat.

“Killing her won’t change anything, Neil. You’ll just end up in prison for the rest of your life.” His words dissolved into a strangled cough before he forced himself to continue, voice raw and trembling. “If you really love Erin, you’ll let us go. You’ll leave and forget all about her.”

Hammond didn’t look at Erin. His focus stayed on Bruce. “You don’t even know them.” The voice was soft, almost thoughtful.

He lowered the gun from Erin’s head, and Bruce exhaled, a shuddering, unsteady sound. But the relief barely lasted a second.

Turning slightly, Hammond leveled the gun at Mason.

Bruce’s blood iced. “What the hell? He’s not even two years old!”

Erin’s muffled cry tore across the room. Her body strained against the ropes, shoulders shaking, fingers twisting against the armrests. Her wide, panicked gaze flicked from Mason to Bruce, pleading without words.

In his high chair, Mason sobbed and whimpered, clenching his small hands into fists on the tray. His legs kicked once, a nervous, jerky movement.

Hammond’s shoulders rose and fell in a slow, controlled breath. “What’s his favorite toy?”

The question was so unexpected that Bruce’s mind refused to offer a response. He forced his gaze on his son, desperate to find the answer that would stop this. “It’s okay, li’l buddy. It’s gonna be okay.”

Hammond pressed the gun against Mason’s chest. “What is your li’l buddy’s favorite toy?”

Bruce’s thoughts spun hard as he twisted his hand against the ropes. “What is this?”

“His toy!” Hammond screamed, turning the gun on Bruce. “His favorite toy! What is it?”

“His truck. He…he loves his truck.”

The gun didn’t move.

“What’s his favorite food?”

Bruce’s fingers curled, nails digging into his palms. Hammond had gone insane. He wasn’t going to just kill Bruce and take Erin and Mason away. He was going to kill them all. Neil thinks if he can’t have her, no one can.

The gun rose and came to rest on Bruce’s forehead. “Mason’s. Favorite. Food.”

“He eats everything.” His voice faltered as he fought for air, the noose tightening with each attempt to speak. “Sssp-agh—” He struggled to form the word as his oxygen dwindled. “Ssspa-geh-ttt-i.”

Hammond gave a sharp inhale and a slight shake of the head.

“Ssspa-geh-ttt-i?” He mimicked Bruce’s strangled pronunciation with exaggerated distortion. “No. Not spaghetti.” The final word came out sharp.

Bruce tried to swallow. “P-please. Just go. Please just leave, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

“You don’t even know them. You don’t deserve them.” The gun twitched in his grip, as if he were trying to control his anger. “You don’t even care.”

Bruce’s vision blurred. “Care? About Erin and Mason? Of course I do. I swear I do.”

“Then what brand of diapers does Mason wear?”

“Diapers?”

“Yes, diapers. Babies wear diapers, you know.”

Bruce’s breath stalled. His brain grasped at names he’d seen on packages of diapers. But Erin was always the one who changed Mason, except at night, and she always set out the diaper for Bruce on the changing table. He rarely saw the package they came in.

Images and store shelves flashed through his mind. He’d done the shopping right after Mason was born because Erin was so sleep deprived.

Why can’t I remember the brand? What the hell was it?

Hammond flexed his fingers around the gun grip and swung his aim toward Erin.

“What does she always order at the diner?”

Her body stiffened, a muffled sob breaking behind the tape.

Bruce opened his mouth. Closed it. He lifted his face to the heavens, as if the answer hung somewhere above him. Please, God, help me get this right.

“She…” His voice cracked. “The breakfast special. No, that’s—”

He flinched as Hammond took a step closer to Erin. Sweat beaded on Bruce’s forehead, trickling down his temple.

“The omelet.” Bruce spat out the word. “W…Western omelet with hash b…browns.”

The masked man’s head tilted slightly.

“No, wait.” Bruce jerked against the chair. Whatever insanity Hammond was suffering, he was trying to pull them all into it with him. Asking stupid questions about toys and what people liked to eat. “Just stop! This is crazy, and it won’t change anything. Let us go!”

Click. The gun cocked.

If possible, Erin’s eyes widened further, huge as dinner plates, a panicked sound muffled behind the tape as Hammond pressed the gun against her head. “Wrong answer.”

Bruce thrashed. “Please, Neil!”

He gave a slow shake of his head and made a mocking tsk. “She was never yours to keep.”

“No—”

The shot cracked the air.

Erin jerked as red sprayed the wall behind her. Her body sagged in her bonds like a marionette with its strings cut.

Bruce’s scream tore out raw, inhuman, the sound ripping his throat apart. His chest heaved against the ropes as if he could throw himself across the table, catch her, undo it somehow.

Mason shrieked, high and broken, thrashing in his chair.

Pain sliced through Bruce’s palms. He’d driven his nails so deep into his skin that blood ran between his fingers. He convulsed, every muscle seizing, as if sheer force could rip the world back and give her breath again.

Hammond remained calm, watching Bruce carefully. Studying him. Measuring. Before Bruce could even draw a breath, he slowly and deliberately lifted the gun again, this time aiming at Mason.

Tears blurred Bruce’s vision. “No. No, please. Stop this. Please.”

Hammond rolled his shoulders. “I’ll give you one…last…chance.”

Bruce blinked rapidly, his vision swimming, tears burning hot against his raw, swollen eyes. There had to be a way to get free, to stop Hammond from killing his son.

Rocking side to side, he almost tipped over. He wanted to bounce the chair, hoping to break one of the legs and get himself free. But the rope around his throat held fast.

He yanked his arms harder, ignoring the sharp bite of his restraints. At the edge of his vision, the white plastic frame of the high chair loomed, its presence a horrifying reminder of what was at stake.

If he could just break free—just get his hands loose—maybe, just maybe, he could stop this.

He could save his baby boy.

“What was his first word?”

Bruce didn’t hesitate. “Dada.” He’d never forget that precious moment. “Dada was first.”

Mason whimpered, the tape hanging off his mouth. “Mama, Mama, Mama.”

Bruce’s chest seized. Even now, in this nightmare, his son’s voice was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. “Mama came after.” Raw emotion made it hard to speak. “He says it all the time now.”

Hammond’s head tilted, as if weighing the answer. “Who’s his pediatrician?”

Bruce’s breath stalled. He could picture the waiting room, the doctor’s kind face…but the name? Nothing. Just static and fear.

“What time was he born?” Hammond’s questions came like blows. “What was his birth weight? How many hours was Erin in labor?”

Bruce jerked against the ropes, his pulse threatening to burst his veins. “Stop…just stop! None of this changes the fact that he’s my son. I was there. I held him first.”

“When was his last checkup? What’s his favorite bedtime story?” Hammond’s voice rose as quickly as the questions. “What brand of formula? What size diapers? What song did Erin sing to him to calm him down?”

Bruce’s attention snagged on the use of past tense. “Please…slow down. I can answer all—”

“The point is you don’t remember the details.” Hammond’s eyes glinted behind the mask. “Details matter.”

Bruce strained against his bonds again, and the chair tipped over, sending him to the tiled kitchen floor. Something snapped in his shoulder, and a hot, stabbing pain spread down his arm.

The high chair loomed above him. “Just let us go. Please.”

“You hardly know them. You don’t deserve them.”

“I do. I know—”

The blast was the loudest thing Bruce had ever heard, and he screamed as something warm spattered his cheek. His mind refused the truth, but his body knew—his son’s blood.

A sound broke from him, raw and inhuman. He convulsed against the restraints, his arm a blaze of agony, his chest heaving for air he couldn’t draw.

Hammond crouched, studying him like he was a specimen. Every flicker of devastation, every fracture in Bruce’s soul, seemed to satisfy him. Without a word, he stood and walked behind Bruce.

For one suspended second, Bruce waited for the gun to come to rest against the back of his head. It never came.

The back kitchen door opened.

And Bruce understood. Hammond wasn’t finishing the job.

He was leaving.

“No.” He dragged the words through his ruined throat. “Finish it, you coward. Neil, you coward! Kill me!”

Hammond paused on the threshold, laughter slipping out soft and cruel. “You’re the coward, Bruce. Live with the fact that you lost them. Live with it.”

The door clicked shut.

Bruce roared, a primal howl of rage and grief that echoed off the walls. Agony tore through his shoulder as he slammed the chair against the floor, but still he strained, still he screamed until his voice shredded.

The sound that replaced it was worse than silence—thin, broken sobs that rattled in his chest. It was the only proof he was still alive when everything that mattered was already gone.

Chapter Two

Two hours ago, Special Agent Genevieve Steel had been sitting cross-legged on her couch, laptop balanced on her knees, trying not to wonder how much longer administrative leave would drag on. A week off had been both blessing and curse. Enough time to start a short story, but not nearly enough to quiet the storm the copycat case had stirred inside her.

She’d spent her leave writing about killers. Now she was driving toward a real one.

Gripping the steering wheel of the FBI-issue Explorer tighter, she inhaled the scent of stale coffee thick as twilight bled into night. Special Agent Hudson Callaway rode silently in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed on the ribbon of road unspooling ahead.

Their headlights cut through the dark stretch of curving highway, the only movement in the otherwise still evening. Pine trees swallowed the last hints of daylight.

“A family annihilation.”

Details were thin. A family of three attacked. Wife and child murdered. Husband bound and beaten but alive. The local sheriff’s office had requested FBI assistance, and SSA Darius Sinclair had dispatched Genevieve and Hudson to the scene.

The GPS guided them onto a narrower road where the pavement was cracked and littered with leaves. Clustered small homes sat back from the street, their porches dimly lit. Farther down, past an old gas station with a rusted-out sign, a second cluster of homes circled a cul-de-sac.

Red and blue lights pulsed in front of one house.

Genevieve slowed as they approached, easing the Explorer onto the gravel shoulder. Crime scene tape stretched across the driveway, fluttering in the breeze. A handful of deputies stood near their cruisers, faces shadowed beneath the strobes.

One deputy had his hat in hand, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. Another leaned against his cruiser, gripping his radio. Two more stood with their backs to the perimeter, shoulders rigid. A deputy stepped away from the tape line, removed her gloves and mask, and tipped her face up to the sky, motionless for several seconds.

Beyond them, the house waited, a two-story box with faded siding and dark shutters. The front steps led up to a small porch with railings slanted inward. Leaves dotted the walkway, caught in the uneven cracks of the concrete.

Genevieve cut the engine and stepped out, gravel crunching underfoot. The night carried a sharp bite, with the September air marking the arrival of fall. She pulled her FBI windbreaker tighter and surveyed the yard. The atmosphere was heavy, casting its own kind of shadow.

A figure approached, tall and broad-shouldered, his bald head catching the light. Sheriff Michael Snow had spent decades working homicide, according to the files Genevieve read before coming to the scene.

But now his face drooped with despair.

He wiped his sleeve over his forehead. “Appreciate you coming out. This one’s bad. Nettleton’s a good community. Tight-knit. We get our share of troubles. You know, domestic disputes, occasional break-ins, drug problems like everywhere else. But nothing like this. The Palmers, Bruce and Erin, just had Mason a little over a year ago. Good people.”

He gestured vaguely toward the house, his hand trembling before he clenched it into a fist. His jaw tightened, eyes steely as he looked away, swallowing hard.

When he turned back, the professional mask had slipped, revealing raw fury beneath. “This kind of violence is foreign here.”

“We’ll do everything we can to help.” Genevieve slipped her hands into her jacket pockets to shield herself from the cold.

Sheriff Snow nodded. “Good. We’re understaffed as it is. Office is stretched thin across this county.”

“Any similar cases in the surrounding counties?” Hudson hooked a thumb in the belt loop of his dark dress pants.

“Nothing I’ve heard yet.” Sheriff Snow’s weathered face tightened. “I swear, this one is uglier than anything I’ve witnessed in my life.”

Genevieve wanted that to be true for her as well, but she knew she’d seen worse. Her father had made sure of that. “We understand the husband survived?”

“Mr. Palmer’s barely coherent. Has a dislocated shoulder, possibly a break to his upper arm. Some superficial wounds around his wrists and over the rest of his body.”

Hudson hunched his shoulders. “Any indication what caused them?”

“I’d say trying to get free. He was tied with rope, and there’s blood all over where he was found.”

An image of bloody ropes hanging from a table briefly flashed through Genevieve’s mind. A scene from her childhood that she wanted to forget.

Blinking to clear the memory away, she made a mental note to examine the ropes when they got inside the Palmer house. “Have you questioned Mr. Palmer yet?”

Sheriff Snow shook his head. “Man’s in shock. We tried, but he kept muttering, ‘Mama’s favorite breakfast is Belgian waffles, and Mason’s favorite toy is his truck.’ Twenty-six years on the job, and I’ve never seen trauma manifest quite like this.”

Hudson gestured toward the house. “What do we know so far?”

Sheriff Snow exhaled through his nose. “The neighbor, Sharon Turner, found them. Heard two shots a couple of hours ago, around five, and thought nothing of it. People are always shooting off guns around here. She was watering her plants after dinner and noticed the window was broken. She went to check, and…”

His pause spoke louder than any description could.

Genevieve’s gaze landed on the broken window at the side of the house. “Where is Ms. Turner?”

“Squad car. Over there.” Sheriff Snow tilted his head toward a parked cruiser, where a thin woman with short blond hair streaked with gray sat hunched inside, arms wrapped protectively around herself.

“We’ll have a look inside before we question her.” Donning gloves, mask, and shoe covers, Genevieve led the way up to the Palmers’ door, noting the doorbell camera. They’d have to get the log-on information from the victim. If they were lucky, the camera might have caught the killer.

She stepped across the threshold into the home, floorboards creaking beneath her feet. A coppery scent hung in the air, mingling with the sharp bite of sweat. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled, cataloging the scene before her.

Genevieve’s gaze swept across the space—a knocked-over side table, a green stuffed dinosaur lying on its side, shattered glass remnants from the broken window trailing out of the living room.

Hudson moved toward the shards, stepping carefully around them into the living area. He crouched near the broken pane, where numbered yellow tents marked blood smears on the jagged edges and scattered fragments.

Genevieve followed, careful to avoid the debris. “Bruce fought hard.”

Hudson photographed the window from multiple angles, then with his finger, traced a line of blood droplets leading away from it. “Trail continues toward the hallway. Bruce was dragged.”

Moving in that direction, Genevieve examined the walls, noticing family photos hung at odd angles. One frame showed a baby’s portrait, the glass cracked diagonally down the middle. Others showed Bruce and Erin on their wedding day, Erin cradling a newborn in a hospital bed, Bruce teaching a toddling Mason to walk, the child’s hands stretched up toward his father’s.

“A normal family. At least, on the surface.” Genevieve’s childhood home had displayed family photos like these. “Hudson.” She gestured toward a dent in the wall at shoulder height. “Someone hit this hard.”

“Could be old.” He snapped another photo. “But I’d imagine Bruce wouldn’t go down without a fight.”

As they approached the kitchen doorway, Genevieve paused, bracing herself. No matter how many crime scenes she’d worked, the first glimpse of victims never got easier. She drew a steady breath and stepped forward.

The kitchen opened before them, a tableau of domestic life violently disrupted. The overhead light cast harsh shadows across the scene, making the blood appear black against the white tile floor.

That coppery smell intensified, mixing with the aromas of meal preparation. Chopped vegetables lay on a cutting board beside a plate with raw meat. A pot of water waited in the sink.

Erin Palmer sat upright in a wooden chair, her body stiff, head tilted at an unnatural angle. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, partially obscuring the wound at her forehead. Genevieve carefully stepped around a toppled kitchen chair with ropes pooled around the legs and backrest.

How much did she have to see? Was her baby killed before or after she was?

Genevieve desperately hoped Erin had been spared the agony of watching her son die.

Erin’s wrists bore raw marks where the rope had cut into her skin. She had struggled, too, but not enough to tear the flesh. Redness and angry bruising marked her skin. A strip of duct tape remained over her mouth.

Blood spatter painted everything behind her.

Hudson came to join Genevieve. “Do we think she was killed first?”

“I really hope so.”

She moved around the table to the fallen chair as Sheriff Snow joined them. A chef’s knife beside another evidence marker rested a few inches away.

“Who released Bruce Palmer from his restraints?”

Sheriff Snow aimed a thumb behind him, toward the doorway. “The neighbor. Said she grabbed that knife from the cutting board by the sink.”

The ropes around the chair were tinged with dark-red stains, but the neighbor had cut through them, tampering with the evidence.

She couldn’t have known we’d want the knots intact. She was probably in a panic to get Bruce out of here.

Hudson remained near Erin’s body. “Her chair hasn’t really moved. No scuff marks on the floor, but it’s at an angle from the table.”

“Could be from her trying to get free, or the chair may have just been set crooked.”

“That tracks.”

Genevieve knelt and examined the positioning of each chair, noting how the victims would have been directly opposite each other. “Scuff marks on the floor beneath Bruce’s chair. He fought to get free. Probably ended up falling on his side.”

“That would explain his injured shoulder.”

She stood and placed her feet beside the scuff marks. If Bruce had been sitting there when Erin was shot, he’d have had a literal front-row seat. “They were positioned to witness whatever happened to each other.”

Hudson shuddered. “With Bruce Palmer still alive, I’d say whoever did this wanted him to watch what happened to her.”

The sight of the child hit Genevieve hardest. Mason Palmer, slumped to the side in his high chair. A dinosaur bib still tied around his neck. His small fingers curled slightly, as if he’d been reaching for something in his final moments. The bullet wound at his left temple was devastating in its finality.

Hudson leaned closer to Erin. “Single shot for each victim. Close range, based on powder grains on their clothing, but no contact.”

Sheriff Snow remained by the doorway, watching their examination, as Dr. Sofia Navarez entered the room, moving quietly through the space. The chief medical examiner surveyed the scene, taking in the positioning of the bodies and the blood patterns.

She approached Mason, kneeling beside him for several minutes as she examined his body, before moving to Erin. “First glance, I’d say both victims died instantly.” She straightened. “Each was a single gunshot wound. We’ll still run a tox screen and all the other goodies.”

While Dr. Navarez made notes on her tablet, Genevieve circled the kitchen, studying the arrangement. “Bruce was the focal point. Someone wanted him to feel helpless while his family was slaughtered.”

Sheriff Snow’s brow furrowed. “If the goal was simply to kill the family, why this elaborate setup? Why not break in, kill them, then leave?”

“Because they wanted Bruce to experience powerlessness, guilt, terror.”

Hudson nodded in agreement. “This setup required planning. The killer had specific materials and knowledge of the family’s routine.”

Sheriff Snow exhaled heavily. “So the killer was watching them.”

Making a final note, Dr. Navarez confirmed she would let them know the minute she completed the autopsies. Sheriff Snow acknowledged her with a wave as she left the kitchen.

The man’s attention fell on the high chair, the lines of his forehead deepening. “My granddaughter’s not much older than Mason.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, but not this. Not up close.”

“It’s human. I’d be concerned if you felt nothing.” Genevieve peered out the kitchen window to the backyard. A toddler swing set and a small plastic pool sat on the cement porch. “This wasn’t a random act. The meticulousness points to something deeply personal.”

Hudson turned to Sheriff Snow. “We need to interview Bruce Palmer as soon as possible. Each passing hour degrades recall accuracy.”

Genevieve glanced back down at the scene. “Or gives him time to refine his narrative.” A shiver passed through her. “We can’t dismiss the possibility that Bruce orchestrated this himself.”

Sheriff Snow’s eyebrows shot up. “You think he could have done this to his own family? But how? He was hog-tied.”

Genevieve hated to think the husband was involved, but she had to consider every angle. “What was his condition when you arrived?”

“Almost catatonic.” Sheriff Snow shook his head. “If he was acting, that man deserves an Oscar.”

“Witnessing what transpired here would be traumatic, whether he wanted it to happen or not. So I’m sure his response was genuine, not faked.” Genevieve kept her voice even. “But statistics don’t lie. Family members are often perpetrators in homicide cases. He could have hired someone to help stage this.”

Hudson jotted down some notes. “Or he could have secured his family first, carried out the murders, then created evidence of a struggle.”

Sheriff Snow crossed his arms, his weathered face contemplative. “The neighbor found him still bound. If he staged it, he’d have needed to create a convincing enough setup that first responders would have believed he was a victim too.”

Hudson tapped his pen against his notebook. “Guilt-driven cover-ups can be elaborate. Like Genevieve suggested, someone could have assisted.”

“It might be a while before we can question him.” Sheriff Snow shook his head. “EMT said the head wound wasn’t severe, but he’s not making much sense. Just keeps repeating himself. ‘Mama’s favorite breakfast is Belgian waffles, and Mason’s favorite toy is his truck.’”

Genevieve approached the high chair. A sippy cup lay overturned on the tray, milk drying in a cloudy puddle. Cheerios were scattered across the surface. Ordinary details made grotesque by their proximity to death. “Did Bruce use ‘favorite’ twice like that? Her favorite breakfast? Mason’s favorite toy?”

Sheriff Snow turned away from the high chair and its occupant. “That’s about the only word he’s said. Just over and over ‘favorite breakfast’ and ‘favorite toy.’ And ‘Mama.’ Lots of ‘Mama.’”

Whoever was responsible for the murders had taken pains to inflict as much psychological trauma on Bruce as they possibly could, all while leaving him alive.

Sheriff Snow rubbed his eyes, and Genevieve wanted to tell him that even if he plucked his eyeballs out, he’d still see this crime scene until he died.

“If Bruce truly was a victim here and had nothing to do with the murders, we’re looking for a seriously twisted mind. A sadist who believes they’re above the law and humanity.”

Hudson aimed a finger back at the doorway. “No forced entry reported, right?”

“None.” Sheriff Snow shifted his weight. “Front door was locked with the chain in place. Though the kitchen door was unlocked.” He nodded toward the back entrance.

“So in the event that Bruce is a true victim, either he or his wife let the killer in.” Genevieve examined the chair where the father had been bound. “Or—”

“They were already inside.” Hudson’s focus traveled from the blood spatters to the doorway. “Waiting.”

“They likely had intimate knowledge of the family.” Genevieve’s attention returned to the empty chair. “With Bruce as the psychological target.”

“A punishment of some kind?” Sheriff Snow uncrossed his arms, then recrossed them.

“Or revenge.” Genevieve shifted her focus to the bloodstained table. “We’ll need to dig into his professional connections, personal history. Look for old grudges, rivalries that might have festered. Someone could’ve been carrying this for years.”

Hudson flipped a page in his notebook. “I’ll have Riley compile a list of everyone in Bruce’s orbit…coworkers, friends, anyone who might have had reason to target him specifically.”

Genevieve padded to the kitchen door and pulled it open, taking in the view of the backyard. The kids’ swing set she’d spotted from the window, a neatly mowed lawn, a small garden with lilies and herbs.

The concrete porch extended off the kitchen, ending in a set of steps that led to a stone path through the garden. Just outside the door, a smear of dried blood, roughly in the shape of a footprint, marred the otherwise clean surface.

She knelt and took out her measuring tape. “Size ten, maybe. Perfectly average. Tread pattern is smudged, but we have a partial, at least.”

Stepping around her carefully, Hudson joined her in examining the print. He snapped photographs while she held the tape alongside the mark.

“This is probably his entry and exit point.” He pointed at a cluster of wilted parsley leaves scattered off to one side. “Erin was in the process of making dinner. She came out for herbs and was attacked and forced back inside. Assuming the killer wasn’t Bruce, that’s how they got into the house.”

Genevieve called inside, “Can we get evidence markers out here?”

A deputy emerged and handed a few to Hudson, who placed one beside the footprint and another with the herbs.

Together, Genevieve and Hudson scoured the rest of the porch and the garden nearby. Genevieve noted the broken stems and confirmed that someone had recently pulled sprigs from the parsley plant nearest the steps.

Activity inside the house drew their attention, and the agents went back inside. Six evidence response team techs filed in, each carrying specialized equipment. The lead tech approached, her expression paling as she surveyed the scene, though her tone remained professional. “We’re ready to process.”

“We need a lot of attention on the kitchen door and porch, plus any pathways leading toward the backyard. That looks like the unsub’s entry and exit point.” Genevieve turned to Hudson. “Let’s look at the rest of the house and talk to the neighbor.”

As they made their way out of the kitchen, she paused, her attention caught on the calendar hanging on the refrigerator. Dates marked with doctor’s appointments, playgroups, Bruce’s work schedule. A shopping list in neat handwriting. Milk, diapers, coffee, chicken. A magnetic frame holding a photo of Erin and Mason at a pumpkin patch, both smiling widely.

Genevieve opened the refrigerator to find prepared meals in labeled containers, juice boxes arranged neatly, vegetables washed and chopped in clear bins. On the middle shelf sat a small bakery box with a Belgian waffle inside. A sticky note on top of the box read, Your favorite for no reason except I love you. —B.

It was heartbreaking. A family’s life organized, structured. All violently disrupted by the warped mind of a killer.

“Genevieve?” Hudson stood waiting by the back door, his expression questioning.

“Coming.” She took one last look at the kitchen tableau, committing each detail to memory before stepping away.