Someone in the back called out, “So what do you want us to do?”
Naomi squared her shoulders. “Start with pressure. Demand Sheriff Goodwin treat this like the crisis it is. Demand coordinated search parties. Make noise in the press. Raise money for rewards.”
A few people mumbled assent. But most just stared at Naomi like she’d grown a second head.
Daniel Bigcrane flipped through the folder, his expression hardening into the same disinterested mask Ghost had seen on dozens of officials over the years. "Special Agent Lefthand, while we appreciate your concern, these reports are mostly speculation. Without concrete evidence?—”
"I'm not the only one who's noticed these patterns," Naomi said. She turned, found him in the shadows, and threw him straight under the goddamn bus.
"Owen Booker from Valor Ridge has been documenting the same connections independently."
People swiveled around to look. Some curious, some suspicious, a couple outright hostile.
His gut clenched, and for a split second, he considered slipping out the side door. He stayed silent, arms folded, eyes flat.
"Mr. Booker?" Daniel Bigcrane called, peering into the dimness at the back of the room. "Would you care to address the council?"
Son of a?—
His gaze locked on her, and she met him stare-for-stare. This wasn't the plan. He'd come to observe, nothing more.
Ghost exhaled slowly, fighting the instinct to disappear. He'd been trained to blend in, to observe, to remain detached. Stepping into the spotlight went against everything that kept him safe.
Fine. She wanted his help? She’s get it, but on his terms.
He pushed off the wall and moved through the crowd, feeling the weight of every eye in the room. The silence grew heavier with each step he took. By the time he reached the front, the tension was thick enough to choke on.
"I don't have speculation," he said, his voice rough from disuse. "I have facts."
He pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket. The pages were worn at the edges from constant handling, filled with his precise, economical handwriting. He'd never intended to share these notes with anyone.
"The first victim, Richelle Twoteeth, was last seen leaving the Lucky Feather Casino at eleven forty-seven p.m. on March eighteenth of last year," Ghost said, his voice steady despite the uncomfortable pressure of so many eyes on him. "Security cameras show her walking to her car in the east lot. She never made it."
He flipped a page in his notebook, the paper crackling in the silence.
"Two weeks before that, Richelle filed a harassment complaint with casino security. A man had followed her to her car three nights in a row. The security guard who took the report described him as 'average height, white, baseball cap.' No further action was taken."
He didn't look up as he continued, focusing on the facts of each missing woman rather than the audience. Facts were safe. Facts didn't judge or question his past.
"In each case, the sheriff's department dismissed the concerns. In each case, the women disappeared within a few weeks of reporting being followed. And in three of the four cases, their cars were found abandoned within a five-mile radius of each other."
He flipped his notebook closed and slid it back into his pocket. The room had gone so silent he could hear the ancient heating system clicking in the walls.
“If you’re still calling that a coincidence, you’re not paying attention.”
Janice Henderson blinked like he’d slapped her. “But the sheriff said there were no signs of foul play.”
“Sheriff’s wrong. Or lying. Take your pick.”
Charlie Whiteclaw frowned. “You make it sound like someone’s… hunting them.”
Ghost looked him dead in the eye. “That’s exactly what it is.”
The room went stone silent. Even Naomi seemed caught off guard by how cold his words were.
He let the words hang. Let everyone feel it.
Then he folded his arms again and faded back into the shadows, wishing like hell he was anywhere but here.
