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Another display showed a diagram of old mining tunnels, lines of red ink tracing paths under the town like veins. The title in hand-lettered red read: The Gas Theory.

I didn’t read the paragraph underneath. I didn’t need more nightmare fuel than I already had.

Still, a draft slipped through the room, cold and strange. It slid along my skin like an unwelcome hand. Goosebumps rose along my arms. The faintest trace of metallic tang brushed the back of my throat, and I wasn’t sure if I was being influenced by the display or actually tasting it.

It was probably the museum smell of old metal, bad paint, and atmosphere.

It was probably my concussion…making everything more dramatic.

It was probably not homicidal tendency–making gas in the air.

Probably.

I backed away from the mining diagram and turned toward the exit.

On the way out, my eye caught on a taped-off section of the Victim Wall. There were no photos or clippings, just a blank expanse framed by a yellow strip of tape and a small handwritten sign.

Reserved.

My stomach flipped, a slow, unhelpful somersault that landed somewhere under my ribs.

“Reserved for…what?” I whispered. “The next killer to stroll through town?”

I glanced around quickly, heat creeping up the back of my neck, half expecting someone to be staring at me for saying it out loud. A couple stood near one of the glass cases, murmuring to each other in low voices. A group of tourists hovered by another display, reading plaques with polite interest. My gaze drifted—and caught on a familiar shape off to the side.

It was the older man from the bar…Harvey, I think was his name. He stood near one of the exhibits and his eyes lifted, catching mine. His jaw clicked softly before he gave me a small smile, a tooth missing at the side. I returned it quickly before turning back to the display in front of me and pretending I hadn’t been muttering about killers out loud.

I shook my head as I continued to stare at the blank space. There was something unsettling about a void waiting to be filled, as if the town had already accepted more tragedy was inevitable…and left room. Bad things had a way of circling me like vultures. Sometimes they landed close, sometimes they landed right on top of me, and sometimes they landed where I should have been.

I knew better than to follow that thought too far.

I told myself the “reserved” display was just part of the museum’s brand. They wanted to maximize their creep factor so they could move more merch and lean into the legends. That was all.

But walking out, I kept my eyes forward, refusing to glance back at the empty space that seemed to be waiting for a name—as either the next killer or their victim.

CHAPTER 14

STERLING

The needle had started twitching before my coffee finished brewing.

I stared at the little seismic monitor in the corner of my office, its scratched plastic casing half hidden behind a stack of feed invoices and a jar full of stripped bolts. Most people would’ve taken it for junk. Hell, half the time I told myself that’s all it was.

The thin red needle said otherwise.

It jumped, not enough to be obvious, just a small, nervous shiver skittering back and forth over the zero line.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

That monitor had been my granddad’s before it was mine, bought secondhand from some retired geologist who’d muttered about fault lines and strange readings under his breath when he’d come to town. Granddad used it to check for tremors back when the mines were still open.

I used it for something else.

My phone buzzed on the desk, Ryder’s name glowing across the screen. I picked up on the first ring. “Yeah.”

“There’s movement on the ridge,” he said tightly. “Trail cam picked up a drifter about an hour ago. Same guy from the other day. Jett’s headed out, and I’m going to meet him there.”

My gaze flicked from the phone back to the monitor. The needle danced again, a fraction sharper this time.