The last four victims all visited the same bar the night they were attacked.

The note included a link to the bar’s website.

I pulled up the address—the center of Briarport, Maine. It was the local bar frequented by most of the town, High Tide Pub. Hundreds of photos pulled up beside the address, and I swallowed hard, realizing anyone could have been a victim.

Still could.

It was a cold case.

There had been no new evidence for a few years. The killer had completely ceased murdering women in Briarport.

My heart pounded in my chest, my mind racing with possibilities. The endless puzzle, the abundance of evidence and leads—I knew there was more that could be done.

Why was this case grabbing my attention?

Sometimes, I hated my never-ending desire to know everything there was to know about something.

I finished flipping through the batch of tips and found four more similar notes on the same case spanning the last couple of months, all small details I was sure the FBI had already recorded, but I wasn’t convinced they’d explored them thoroughly.

When we missed details, people died.

I compiled the tips and typed them into a document, adding a few of my own personal thoughts and suggestions in the margins.

I got up from the desk after emailing a copy of my briefing memorandum to Grey. The document would be in his inbox before I made it to his office a floor up. I grabbed my belongings and left the office.

The elevator was slow, and I tapped my foot impatiently on the floor.

The bar couldn’t be a coincidence. It was a clear hunting ground, one that still operated to the fullest. What happened when the killer gave up his hiatus?

I knocked on Grey’s door before walking in.

He sat behind his computer, typing away ,and barely looked up as I stepped in. I caught sight of the FBI seal hanging on the wall behind him, multiple awards around it, thirty years’ worth of accomplishments.

‘You finished the report already?” he asked, glancing up at me, never ceasing his typing.

“I sent you a write up on a few tips we received-” I started.

“Just forward anything of interest to tech,” he grumbled.

“I think you should see this,” I insisted.

He paused his typing and glanced at the screen as his fingers scrolled quickly, clicking here and there. I waited as he read through the memo.

“It’s a cold case,” he said, turning to look at me.

“One with a lot of leads,” I noted.

“One with a lot of dead ends.”

I shook my head.

“You can’t seriously think-” I started, unable to hold my tongue.

“Beck…” Grey warned. “Don’t fixate on this. It’s not the way to fix things.”