Chapter Two

Tara briskly made her way up the sidewalk to the entrance of the J. Edgar Hoover building and her heart swelled with pride. It was the same feeling she had each time she arrived at work for the past week, and she still couldn’t wrap her mind around that this was now a part of her normal routine.

It was something she had dreamed about for so long, ever since she was a child and then as she grew older—watching true crime late into the night as a teenager until her grandmother would force her to turn it off. It wasn’t until later in life, after her grandmother passed away and when Tara went to therapy, that she realized her fascination was deep rooted. Her therapist had said it stemmed from a need to control what she couldn’t as a child, and while Tara couldn’t disagree, she knew there was more to her desire. To Tara, it was about justice and doing her part to keep the world slightly more in balance.

Tara rushed into the FBI headquarters building and into the elevator, not wanting to be late. With each frantic step forward, she felt her palms sweat with anticipation.

The whole way to the office, Tara contemplated what Reindhart’s words meant, and her final conclusion was that he indeed must have a case for her.

As she approached the meeting room, she looked through the pleated glass windows and saw that some agents were already there. She opened the big glass door and quickly took a seat. Soon after, a few more agents scuffled in.

Once everyone arrived, all eyes turned toward Reindhart, who sat at the head of the large conference table reading a case file, his glasses sitting on the tip of his nose. It was their morning meeting, and over the past week, Tara had learned that it was when they updated each other on their cases.

But each time Tara took a seat at that table, she couldn’t help but feel like an outsider. She had already met all the agents, but their conversations never quite extended beyond it. They were all eagerly focused, completely absorbed in their work, and Tara understood. She respected their focus—their discipline—and she knew that to get to know them, she would have to work with them.

But today was different, and she could tell everyone around her felt it too as they quieted down much quicker than usual and stared at Reindhart like a flock of baby birds, waiting eagerly to be fed.

He finally looked up and cleared his throat.

“Three days ago a young couple went missing in Hanover, New Hampshire. They were hikers, hiking the Appalachian Trail. No bodies found, except for some blood believed to be the couple’s.”

The room erupted into a hushed chatter before Reindhart cleared his throat once again and the room faded into silence.

“This morning another hiker was found on someone’s porch north of Hanover. She was shot with an arrow.”