The line goes dead.
I stand in the parking lot with the cold air biting through my jacket and the partial plate glowing on my phone screen, with every alarm in my body sounding at once.
Not the digital kind. The other kind. The kind I stopped trusting three years ago because the last time they fired, I was wrong about everything.
But Saylor came to me shaking, and now a truck is following her home.
My instincts might be compromised. But my vision works fine.
I get on the bike and ride.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Saylor
The first message arrives in the morning while I'm brushing my teeth.
The weekend was long.
Friday night ended with Rookie's voice on the phone telling me to lock my doors, and when I got home, his Harley was idling at the curb.
He waited until the lights in my apartment came on.
He texted me once:Inside?
I texted back: Yeah, I’minside.
He didn't leave for another ten minutes. I watched from the window until his taillight disappeared down the street.
He hasn't asked about the phone call again. But he's been different. More watchful. Showing up at Backroads before my shift starts instead of after. Texting me at night to make sure I'm home.
He knows I lied to him about nothing being wrong. He's giving me space to tell the truth on my own, and the patience is killing me worse than the questions would.
I click on the message.
A DM on Instagram from an account I don't follow. No profile picture. No posts. Created this month.
Hi Saylor! I'm doing research on the Halstead case for a project and I think you might be related to Dennis Halstead. Would love to chat if you're open to it! No pressure.
The exclamation points make my skin crawl.
I delete the message, block the account, and rinse my mouth.
My toothbrush goes back in the holder. My hands go flat on the bathroom counter.
Breathe. It's one message.
People dig into old cases all the time.
True crime is a hobby now, a pastime, a thing people do on their laptops while they eat dinner.
My father's crime isn't special to them. It's content.
By Thursday, three more accounts have found me.
Different names. Different platforms. One on Instagram, one through my university email, one in the comments of a photo I posted months ago of a sunset over the Monongahela River.
The comment says:Is this Morgantown? Beautiful area. Wasn't there a famous case there?