Prologue

December 1965...

The first letter arrived the day before Thanksgiving.

It was typewritten, folded with precision, and sealed inside a simple white envelope. The address, also typed, was not accompanied by the name of the sender or from where it came. The message inside was brief, impersonal, but unmistakably threatening. It promised that someone was watching. That someone knew where she lived, what time she left for work, and how often she walked alone at night. It ended with a warning: Be careful.

The second letter arrived two days later, the day after Thanksgiving. Almost identical, but in the mailbox of a second woman.

Neither of the two took them very seriously, dismissing them as a bad joke. A prank meant to scare them, perhaps a cruel trick from a jealous co-worker or a jilted lover. They were immediately thrown in the trash and forgotten.

Two days later, two more women received similarly menacing letters in their mailboxes.

For the first time, one of the recipients had the sense to go to the police. She turned the letter over to an officer who said it was probably just a practical joker trying to get a rise out of her, but suggested all the same, she make sure to lock her door at night. The officer’s dismissive attitude did little to ease any fear.

But as the days passed and letters continued arriving, more women turned to the Parker City Police Department. After a dozen letters were turned over to the PCPD, Lieutenant Wallace Kerns, the chief’s deputy, finally opened an investigation. And once the police took serious notice and became involved, it was only a matter of time before the newspapers picked up the story. When they did, it was all anyone could talk about. The Blue Ridge Herald ran its first article under the headline: Anonymous Stalker Targets Local Women—Who Will Be Next? The Chronicle Dispatch, never one to be outdone, took a more dramatic approach: Is Parker City’s Police Force Failing to Protect Women?

The stories fanned the flames of paranoia, and soon, reports of a dark figure lurking in neighborhoods at night flooded the police station. No two sightings were identical, however. Some claimed the figure was tall and broad-shouldered, others said he was slim and moved like a shadow. But they all agreed on one thing: he was watching. And he was waiting.

The letters were no longer just an eerie nuisance; they had become something else entirely. A warning of what was to come. Though there was not a single person who knew what that was. Except the person sending the letters, leaving the city in a near panic.

Real crime was a rarity in Parker City. It had its share of bar fights, a few domestic disturbances, the occasional armed robbery, but this, this was something else entirely.

Chapter One

Elizabeth Blakely didn’t think much about the letters at first. Like everyone else in Parker, she was aware of what was going on, reading the news every morning over breakfast. The headlines were difficult to ignore. And as more letters began showing up, as a single woman, she found herself just as unnerved as all the others in town. So far, the police had made no connection between any of the recipients, which meant anyone could be next.

But it was a thought Elizabeth tried to put out of her mind as much as possible. During the day, the hum of the office filling the air—telephones ringing, papers shuffling, murmured conversations behind closed doors—allowed her to forget about what was going on outside and the anxiety spreading across the city. Unfortunately, her days at the office brought with them a different type of unease.

Elizabeth knew that all of the men she worked with couldn’t keep their eyes off her. Whenever she was in the breakroom making herself a cup of coffee or standing over the Xerox machine running off the latest department reports, she could feel their eyes roaming up and down her body. It was something she’d grown used to because it’d been the case ever since she was a teenager. But it wasn’t her fault that she’d been blessed—or cursed, depending on who you asked—with an incredible physique.

Tall and slender, with the right curves in exactly the right places, coupled with the face of an angel and piercing crystal blue eyes, she drove the men wild. While she couldn’t deny she enjoyed the attention, she realized deep down it was more a sense of lust than anything else that had the heavy-breathing, testosterone-jacked-up men circling. On the rare occasion a man would actually take the time to get to know her, he’d discover Elizabeth was one of the sweetest people one could ever meet. She’d give you the shirt off her back if you asked, which is what most of the lecherous men were hoping for.

But she was also smart and full of life. She loved reading and dreamed of traveling to far off destinations, learning about the culture and peoples around the world. Even though it was a time when women were beginning to stand up and demand to be seen as more than simply pretty faces meant to cook and pop out babies, she was desperate to find a kind, intelligent man to settle down with. The kind of man who would hold her in his arms and make her feel safe yet never smothered, and who would honestly listen to her and never treat her as an object.

What Elizabeth wanted was the perfect life.

“A pie-in-the-sky dream!” her best friend Joyce would yell at her, trying to get her to see some sense. “You can’t have it all, sweetie. No fuckin’ way. No fuckin’ how.”

Granted, this was usually after Joyce would come home blitzed following a night of partying, riding high on a wave of feminine self-determination, and still aglow following a meaningless one-night stand. But liquor made Joyce strong…and mouthy. After a few drinks, she wasn’t afraid to tell you what she really thought. Not that she didn’t do that when she was sober. The only difference was she didn’t use as much profane language when she wasn’t half in the bag.

At the end of the day though, Elizabeth just wanted to be happy. She’d grown up seeing her parents madly in love with one another. Her father always doting on her mother and his two little girls. Her father was a “businessman”—which was all her mother ever said he was—who seemed to do well for himself judging by the fact she and her sister grew up wanting for nothing.

They lived in a big house with a pool, went on a family vacation every year, and always had money for new clothes to start school. For good or bad, her parents also encouraged their girls to follow their dreams. When Elizabeth said she was interested in business and wanted to go to college and earn a degree that would land her a good job, her parents didn’t try to dissuade her. Her father did sit her down and explain how she might find the going difficult at times, but he said he was more than willing to support her.

Her mother never said it to her, but Elizabeth knew she was worried that pursuing a career would hamper any chance she had of finding a husband and having a family. Career women weren’t something her mother grew up with, so she couldn’t understand any woman’s desire to work in an office all day and not find the joy in making a home for her family. She’d raised two wonderful girls and loved every minute of it. She felt being a good wife and mother was enough of a job. There was no need for any other type of satisfaction. Most importantly though, Elizabeth’s mother desperately wanted grandchildren. And with Elizabeth having just turned thirty and still not being married and seeing no prospects on the horizon, all hope now fell on Patricia.

Elizabeth’s younger sister seemed to have found exactly what their parents had. Kenneth, her husband of less than two days, was almost too good to be true. A handsome and loving former high school football star turned banker. Patty was in her glory and transformed into a glowing bride as she walked down the long aisle of Saint Joseph’s Episcopal Church with all their family and friends gathered for the occasion.

While all eyes had been on Patty, Elizabeth could still hear the whispers of those wondering why it was the younger sister getting married first. But for the most part, she was able to put the remarks out of her mind and celebrate the love her little sister had found.

As she sat at her desk in the Accounting and Business Office of Upton’s Department Store the Monday following the wedding, she did admit there was something about seeing Patty in the long, flowing, white chiffon dress that was nagging at her. It wasn’t jealousy. That wasn’t it. But there was a surprising yearning in the pit of her stomach that she’d never experienced before.

Elizabeth always knew she wanted to be married and have a family, but she’d never felt envious after attending someone’s wedding. But she was getting older. A fact her mother had taken to pointing out to her more and more recently in the subtlest of fashions.

She shook the thought away and returned her focus to the stack of papers in front of her. Numbers didn’t lie, and they didn’t demand introspection.

Brushing a lock of chestnut hair from in front of her eyes, she turned back to her typewriter and the report that was only half complete. She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts she hadn’t noticed the young man in a dark gray mohair suit quietly approach her desk. But suddenly he was standing there hovering over her with a smile on his face that would put a shark to shame.

“Where was that pretty head of yours, sweetheart?”

The voice made her skin crawl.

“Dick! You scared me,” she said, instinctively placing a hand on her chest.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, honey,” Richard Calhoun offered, not even trying to conceal his eyes lingering on her perfectly shaped breasts beneath the green cardigan she was wearing. The way he looked at her, like she was something to be devoured, set her teeth on edge.

“A little daydreaming on the job? No harm in that, kitten.”

“No, just thinking about my sister’s wedding,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Hey, that’s right,” he said, snapping his fingers and perching himself intrusively on the edge of her desk. “Penny got married this weekend, right?”

“Patty,” Elizabeth gently corrected, desperately trying not to roll her eyes. “Yes. She did. This past Saturday.”

“Patty, right. Sorry. Hey, I bet you were a real fox in your bridesmaid dress.” The smirk on his face made her fingers curl into a fist beneath the desk. Leaning in just enough that all she could smell was the overpowering scent of his after shave, he said, “We should grab a bite after work. You can tell me all about it.”

She felt the familiar tightness in her chest. The uncomfortable balance of politeness and self-preservation. Saying no outright would only make him more persistent.

“Not tonight, Dick. I’m still pretty tired from the weekend. And I might have to work late to finish these reports.”

His smile remained, but the light in his eyes dimmed. Just slightly. There was a shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable.

Calhoun was the guy in the office that none of the girls wanted to be left alone with. He was always on the hunt, just ready to pounce. With his Brylcreemed hair and the cloud of Aqua Velva after shave that continuously lingered around him, Dick Calhoun fancied himself a true ladies’ man. And he’d had luck with a number of the salesgirls in the store, but the few women who worked in the executive offices on the third floor found the young associate business manager to be an obnoxious skirt chaser. Not that any of them could say anything about his behavior to any of their bosses because he was also Old Man Upton’s nephew.

“Maybe another time,” she added quickly, hoping to smooth over the rejection.

“One of these days, you’re going to take me up on my offer,” he said, his voice lower now, his gaze fixed on hers. “And when you do, you’ll realize how lucky you are.”

Elizabeth forced a tight-lipped smile, her pulse quickening. Calhoun held her gaze for a moment longer before sliding off the desk and sauntering back toward his office. But just before he disappeared behind the door, she swore she saw him lick his lips.

A shiver ran down her spine.

“Everything alright, Miss Blakely?” she heard a deep voice ask from behind her.

That was the second time someone managed to sneak up on her without her noticing. At least in this instance it was someone she didn’t mind seeing standing next to her desk. Alfred Marsh was the opposite of Dick Calhoun. Where Calhoun was all slicked-back bravado and leering stares, Marsh was effortlessly charming with a quiet confidence, wrapped in a shy demeanor. He wasn’t just handsome—he was dreamy, the kind of guy who, without even trying, made a girl’s heart skip a beat.

Tall and handsome, with a strong jawline and a pair of deep-set hazel eyes that always seemed to be thinking a step ahead, he had the kind of looks that made women whisper behind their hands and giggle like schoolgirls. And he didn’t even know it. That made him all the more attractive.

Unlike the other men in the office who made it their mission to gawk at her whenever she walked by, Alfred Marsh actually looked at her—like she was a person, not just a set of curves poured into a pencil skirt. It was unnerving in a way Elizabeth hadn’t expected. A man like him could make a girl forget herself.

Joyce, ever the blunt one, had taken one look at him and whistled. “Now that’s a fox,” she’d declared, loud enough for half the department store to hear. “And if you don’t make a move, sweetheart, I will.”

Elizabeth had rolled her eyes at the time, but now, with him standing there, hands tucked casually in the pockets of his well-tailored suit, she had to admit Joyce wasn’t wrong.

“Is everything alright, Elizabeth?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, too quickly. His hazel eyes flicked toward Calhoun’s door, and though his expression remained calm, there was a sharpness behind it. He knew. Of course, he knew.

“Good,” he said, but there was something else in his tone. A quiet understanding.

She felt herself exhale, only now realizing she had been holding her breath.

Alfred hesitated, then nodded toward the papers on her desk. “I came by to grab the updated sales figures. I thought I’d save you the trip.”

She blinked, then laughed, relieved for the subject change. “Your office is right there,” she pointed out. “Wouldn’t have been much of a trek.”

He grinned, that easy smile that could knock a girl sideways if she wasn’t careful. “I owe you one.”

She grinned. “I’ll add it to the running tally, but it’s kind of my job.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm, and for the first time that day, the tightness in her chest eased. He turned to leave, then hesitated. “By the way, heard about your sister’s wedding. How was it?”

Elizabeth raised a brow. “Word travels fast.”

He shrugged. “I might have overheard something.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “It was nice. You know how weddings are. Too many flowers, too much crying, and way too much cake.”

“Sounds about right.” He considered her for a moment, then gave her a small nod. “Well, I have some calls to make. Thanks again for these.”

Removing the files, he uncovered a copy of the day’s Dispatch with its headline staring directly at him, declaring the city was gripped with fear by the mysterious letter writer. A concerned look crossed his face and he looked as though he was about to say something but caught himself. Giving Elizabeth a little nod of the head, he walked to his office, leaving behind only the faintest trace of cologne—subtle, clean, nothing like the overpowering scent Calhoun left in his wake.

Elizabeth let out a breath. She glanced toward the office door where Calhoun had disappeared and then back to the stack of papers in front of her.

By five-thirty, most of the office had emptied, except for a few stragglers finishing up their work. One of whom was Dick Calhoun. Elizabeth had no idea what he’d been up to in his office behind closed doors all afternoon, but when he emerged ready to leave for the day, he appeared agitated.

Passing by Elizabeth’s desk on his way out, he looked down at her and said, “Be careful out there.”

Elizabeth’s heart stopped, quickly casting her eyes down to the newspaper lying on her desk. Wasn’t that the way all the mysterious letters ended? Be careful.

No, Elizabeth told herself. She was just being paranoid. All he meant was to be careful getting home because it had started snowing a little earlier which would make getting around more difficult. That had to be it. She shouldn’t let her mind play tricks on her.

When she’d finished her work, she gathered her things and slipped on her coat, shivering slightly as she stepped out into the brisk December air. A light layer of snow lay on the ground as the city streets were lit by the golden glow of shop windows, adorned with festive garlands and twinkling lights. Christmas was just around the corner, but the usual excitement that came with the holiday season was dampened by the underlying tension that gripped the city. There were many who hoped the festive season would help people forget about the recent headlines. But so far, as everyone continued with their annual traditions of decorating and preparing for the holidays, the women of Parker City still found themselves looking over their shoulders, wondering if someone was watching them from the shadows.

Even with the sidewalks filled with people on their way home from work or heading to a restaurant for dinner, Elizabeth felt uneasy. She couldn’t stop thinking about Dick Calhoun’s last words to her as he walked out the door. And the way his dark eyes looked at her from under the brim of his hat. It set her nerves on end. And now, even as she told herself she was being ridiculous, she felt as though someone was watching her.

Picking up her pace, her heels clicking against the pavement, as she turned the corner onto her street, she felt her pulse quicken ever so slightly. She was letting her imagination get the best of her. She forced herself to relax, seeing her apartment building just down the block, its brick façade glowing in the streetlamps. She and Joyce shared the apartment on the first floor of the converted townhouse only a few blocks from Upton’s Department Store. They’d turned the place into a comfortable and inviting home where they’d often have girlfriends over for dinner and game nights.

Fishing her keys from her purse and unlocking the building’s main door, then the door to her apartment, Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief to be home. Turning on the light in the tiny entry hallway, she noticed that Joyce’s coat was missing from the closet, meaning she wasn’t home yet. Not having spoken with her yet today, she also didn’t know what her plans were for the night or if she’d even be coming home. So, Elizabeth figured she was on her own. Not an uncommon occurrence.

Turning on the lights of the small Christmas tree the roommates had set up in the corner of the living room, she took a moment to enjoy the decorations, rearranging a few of the ornaments that still didn’t look like they were in the perfect place. Standing back to see if the changes helped to balance the tree better, she smiled at her work.

Heading into the bedroom, she dropped her purse on the bed and kicked off her shoes, rubbing her aching feet before walking into the kitchen at the rear of the apartment. It was small, just big enough for two people to move around comfortably, but not without brushing against a chair or grazing the counter’s edge. The walls were a pale yellow, faded from cooking and the occasional cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. A Formica table with chrome legs stood in the center of the kitchen, its surface clear except for a set of salt and pepper shakers and a stack of mail. Apparently, Joyce had come and gone already, collecting the day’s post and depositing it on the table for Elizabeth to see.

The linoleum floor, patterned in a checkered design of dull green and cream, let out a soft creak as Elizabeth walked to the compact refrigerator humming in the corner, pondering what to make for dinner. Eyeing the ceramic cookie jar in the shape of a rooster sitting on top of the refrigerator, Elizabeth begrudgingly admitted a plate of cookies would not be a good dinner. Letting a sigh of disappointment escape her lips, she opened the refrigerator and began examining its contents. But as she had her head in the refrigerator, deciding what she wanted to eat while watching To Tell the Truth that night, behind her, outside in the building’s backyard, a shadow quietly passed by the kitchen window.

***

Excerpt from CAT & MOUSE by Justin M. Kiska. Copyright 2026 by Justin M. Kiska. Reproduced with permission from Justin M. Kiska. All rights reserved.

May 1979

In 1979, I was living in a two-bedroom apartment in my hometown of Skokie, IL with my best friend Gary. I was 22 years old, a few months removed from my sophomore year at Illinois State University--and I say `removed’ literally, since the Dean of Students had strongly pointed out that school wasn’t the best choice for me. Gary and I both had “floater jobs” which basically covered our monthly rent, weed, beer, and food, in that order. The landlord would likely say the rent and weed could be in a reverse order. Basically, I seemed to be following a destiny first noted in my 8th-grade yearbook from Oakview Junior High, where I was dubbed “town clown.” My mom was horrified. Me? I took it as a badge of honor, one that kept wearing through high school and my short stint in college.

It was a typical September Sunday. Gary and I were laying around, recovering from hangovers and planning our next adventure. Around four o’clock, the phone rang. It was my Dad.

“Hey, Jeff, are you busy?”

“Well, a little. Hanging out.”

“I really need to speak with you. Can you come over?”

I was at that age when I didn’t really have anything against my parents. I’d see them for birthdays and holidays and when I wanted to conduct a secret withdrawal from the packed meat freezer they kept in their basement, but I didn’t see the need to spend any time with them. “Is it important?”

His answer was firm. “It’s important enough that I’m asking you to come over—now.”

That was good enough for me. I quickly jumped into the shower to wash off the after-aroma of the previous night’s parties. As the hot water rushed down, my mind began spinning with scenarios. What did he want to talk about? Abruptly it dawned on me that maybe he was going to tell me he was dying. My mind always moved at a mile a minute, and all of a sudden it came to a screeching halt.

Why else would he need to talk to me? My dad was an ordinary man--52-years old, husband, father of four, CEO of an Envelope Company, recovering alcoholic, and my hero. He really was my rock, and more than made up for my distracted mother. How would I survive without him? We always shared this unspoken bond of my inheriting his OCD gene. And while he never appreciated that I was that town clown and high school fuck-up, he admired my work ethic. When I did put my mind to something, I took it to completion, whether it was shoveling neighbor’s sidewalks in those Chicago winters or moving their lawns in the summer. Even as an eight-year-old. And if I had suddenly kicked the bucket at age 20, that would have been the story of my life—a human oxymoron who had a great work ethic yet couldn’t keep a job.

He hugged me when I came through the door and told my mom to let us be. We went upstairs to my parents’ bedroom, which was decorated with a complete Brady Bunch-era motif: matching avocado and orange bedspread and curtains, beige shag carpeting, large imitation Picasso paintings on the walls. We sat together on the bench seat at the bottom of the bed, connected at the hip. He started to put his arm around my shoulder, and almost instantly I began to cry. “Dad, please don’t die on me!” I began to sob.

Startled, he jumped to his feet, then put his hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me! That’s not what this is about. I’m not dying! But now that you mention it, you are killing me.” I started to say something, but he quickly interrupted, “Seriously, I need you to listen to me.”

He started speaking to me, but it was more of a sermon. The tone in his voice was unlike anything I had heard from him before. I had never heard him in such an authoritative voice. I could already tell that I had either upset or disappointed him, but just did not know how or why. I quickly learned. “You are wasting your life,” he said. “You have always had an outstanding work ethic, he told me, along with an incredible quick wit, which I was just throwing away by being a smart ass, just looking for the laugh. “If you were ever able to use that wit in a more “think on your feet” manner instead of just being a comedian, you could have great value to some company one day.” He looked at me directly in the eye. “I didn’t send you to college to be a fuck-up. You have a gift, and I cannot allow you to waste it. You need to get your collective shit together.”

I was stunned, and very upset. Not so much about what he said, but because I knew it was dead-on.

My mind jumped back to a moment two summers before, when I was working in his company warehouse. The combination of my 17-year-old male hormones and the highly Latina warehouse staff were just too much for me to overcome, and I devoted far more time to chasing skirts than my responsibilities. He sat me down then, too, but instead of giving me a sermon, he fired me. I know that conversation was painful for both him to say and me to hear as well. It wasn’t so much that I embarrassed him as the boss’s son getting canned, but what hurt me most was that I had let him down. Here I was, letting him down again. What most upset me was knowing that he was not proud of me.

I drove back to the apartment. The aroma of cannabis greeted my arrival. Gary passed me the loaded a pipe as I entered, saying something to the extent of “you look like you need one.” But what I needed is what I had just received. My dad was my hero, and I had been confronted with the fact that I was failing him. And really, I had also been confronted with the fact that I was failing myself. “No thanks,” I said to Gary, echoing the words my dad had just said to me, “I really need to start getting my shit together.”

The very next day, I started searching the Help Wanted section in the Chicago Tribune. Some company called Tek Aids two towns over was looking for a warehouse worker. I had never heard of them, but I knew I wanted that job. I’m not sure why, but the ad called out to me. Maybe I just wanted a job quickly so I could get back into my dad’s good favor. For the interview, I put my best foot forward, wearing the blue blazer my mother bought me for high school graduation and borrowing a paisley tie I had bought Dad for Father’s Day.

They were a family business about five years old that had set themselves up as a computer peripherals distributor. They sold printers, monitors, and bins full of internal parts. Jud, the founder and CEO, gave me a tour of the 15,000sf facility. I could tell he had great pride in his operation, and I was impressed that he knew every employee on a first-name basis.

The warehouse was sloppy and seemed a little disorganized. I knew I could fix that. What surprised me is that they also had a tech area in the warehouse, run by a guy wearing thick lenses a lab coast – he looked like mad scientist. They were building student tech systems for community colleges, based upon Ohio Scientific’s Challenger 1P single-processor computer systems. “A warehouse and tech?” I said to Jud, without reply.

I did find it interesting that he was already introducing me, and after the tour, we went into his wife Lorrayne’s office and they both told be the job responsibilities. I was trying not to jump the gun, but it sure seemed like I was already hired. And I was really hoping they would, and I knew I was looking into a crystal ball and seeing my future. Perhaps I was willing it to happen by confidently adding “I look forward to hearing from you sometime tomorrow.” She gave me a strange look, perhaps due to my presumptuousness. “The blazer and tie won’t be necessary when you come back,” she said. At that point, I knew the job would be mine. I was already reorganizing the sloppy warehouse in my head.

I started two days later. Two years later, I was promoted to Vice President of Sales. Twenty years and three days after my Dad’s sermon, I founded my own IT server-building company, morphing into the video surveillance recording market in 2009. By the time of my retirement on my 66th birthday on July 21, 2023, I had built a company that is the world’s largest supplier of purpose-built surveillance video recording appliances, with over a quarter-million devices recording the video surveillance from over four million cameras in 91 countries around the globe. And all at the most secure sites or coolest companies in the world.

Here's the story of how that happened.

***

Excerpt from It Worked For Me by Jeff Burgess. Copyright 2026 by Jeff Burgess. Reproduced with permission from Jeff Burgess. All rights reserved.

~Jakob~

Wednesday. 2:30 p.m.

Jakob Rizk didn’t notice the concrete sidewalks of downtown Indy. He didn’t see the people. His body was on automatic pilot, his mind back in the office of the Marion County prosecutor. They’d worked a few cases together back when he, Jakob, was a senior attorney in the criminal department.

Which was last week.

Then Jakob had stepped into the role of interim attorney general after Harrison Stanley died unexpectedly. The death and appointment were as much a surprise to him as the rest of the state. From assistant county prosecutor to the state’s top attorney in three years. The change left no time to plan, to think, to grieve. Noon Monday, the governor publicly announced the interim appointment. An hour later, Jakob sat behind the shiny desk in the office with Harry’s name on the door, scouring through emails and hand-annotated notes to pick up where Harry had left off on Friday.

A shoulder bounced off his arm.

“My apologies,” he said automatically. Lifting his head, he saw a swarm of young teens in identical blue T-shirts. He bobbed and weaved, feeling like he was swimming upstream.

The metaphor applied to more than the sidewalk. He reached an intersection, pressed the “walk” button, and waited.

Three hours ago, his mobile rang. Glad to see a familiar name come up, Jakob had answered without hesitating. But he wasn’t calling as a friend, he was calling as a county prosecutor. He had a problem and needed Jakob’s advice. Could he come over to talk?

So, Jakob went.

“Walk. Walk. Walk.”

Jakob obeyed, staying between the white lines out of habit rather than intent.

The problem was a dead woman named Lucy Torok. Her body had been found in her truck, parked under the interstate bridge where she worked as a construction inspector. The Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department had a suspect but evidence was so thin the odds of securing a conviction were single digits. On the surface, the case was murder. But beneath the waters lurked a political bear trap. Should he hold out for more evidence or move forward to appease the well-connected family? And that was where his friend needed advice.

What would Harry do if he’d gotten the call …

“I like your shoes.” A rough, worn voice pulled Jakob from his thoughts. He glanced at the Italian leather on his feet. “Thank you,” he said to the man sitting against the nearest building. Likely homeless, the clothes were oversized for the man and too heavy for the hot June afternoon. But his shoes, those were pristine. A point of pride. “I like yours. It’s a challenge to keep white clean.”

“It is, but worth it,” the man said. “Yessiree. I like those shoes. But truth, I liked your other ones better.”

Jakob’s mind raced to decode the comment. Had the man seen him before and noticed his shoes? He had a collection that would be embarrassing if anyone but his wife saw it. More likely the man suffered from a mental illness. Addiction. Delusional disorder. What else could make a man imagine shoes? Didn’t matter. He needed to get back to Harry’s office.

“I like those, too,” he said, playing along. “But you have to mix it up sometimes. Have a good one.” Jakob hurried along to discourage conversation. One more street and he entered the building through the revolving door. Crisp cool air greeted his face and hands. He was tempted to pull off his suit jacket, but knowing he’d been sweating, he left it in place.

“You’re back again,” Anthony Raymond called out. The security guard was one of Jakob’s favorite people, always having a smile to share. “What a surprise.”

“That’s me,” Jakob said dryly as he put his phone in the bowl, backpack on the table. “Just full of surprises.” He walked through the metal detector, then waited on the other side for Anthony to clear his bag.

“I guess your plans fell through.”

“You mean my meeting? No, I had it. It didn’t take long.”

Anthony’s face betrayed his bewilderment.

“Meetings do occasionally end early.” Jakob chuckled. “It’s rare, but every once in a while, we get a few minutes back in our day.”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, I’m sure they do.” Anthony pushed the backpack toward Jakob but didn’t let go. “I just have to ask. Why did you change clothes again?”

Did Anthony get him mixed up with someone else? He felt a little hurt. He saw Anthony as a—well, they weren’t friends, but acquaintances. Apparently Anthony saw him as just another suit.

“The governor expects us to dress when we’re in the building. We need to paint the right picture, you know. Have a good afternoon, Anthony.”

“You, too,” Anthony called after him.

Jakob headed to the elevator, grateful the doors opened nearly instantly. They closed and he was alone with his ego, dented after the reminder he wasn’t special at all. He shared the short ride up with his reflection. A familiar stranger. Neither different nor the same, who was he now?

The doors opened and he put on a façade that included his confident smile.

He walked through the glass entryway that had been the gateway to his work for the last three years. The receptionist, Ivy O’Neil, wasn’t at her post. A rarity. He headed left, to the office of the attorney general. He nodded to a staffer, who blinked without nodding back.

Jakob was beginning to think there really was something different about this upcoming generation of attorneys and it wasn’t their overwhelming social skills.

The desk and area outside the AG’s office was the territory of Executive Assistant Lisa Hastings. The most senior person in the office, who was also conspicuously missing.

“Where is everyone?” Jakob had a moment of panic. Had he forgotten a meeting? An event?

Voices came from behind the door to Harry’s office. A dull thump. Something heavy hit the floor. What the hell was going on in there?

Jakob sucked air in, then narrowed his eyes at the closed door. Someone was looting Harry’s office. Confidential information was everywhere, valuable to both sides of the aisle, to corporations, to plaintiffs and defendants.

Not on his watch!

Jakob shouldered the door open, leaping inside. “Stop what you’re doing!”

The desk fell from two pairs of hands, the muted slap of wood against carpet. Four faces turned to him. Three wore slack-jawed expressions. The fourth grinned like a pirate looting treasure.

“Seth?” Jakob stepped inside, blinking to see if his twin brother was really there or a figment of his overloaded mind. “You’re in Miami.”

“Jakob.” Seth looked around the large corner office. “I almost like the digs.”

“Jakob?” Lisa Hastings took a step away from the man who looked strikingly like her boss. Her head was on a swivel.

Jakob. Seth. Jakob. Seth.

Amusement washed over Jakob and brought a smile to his face for the first time in days. “I apologize, Lisa. I should have warned you that if I showed up shouting ridiculous orders, you were to call an ambulance and have them bring restraints.”

Seth chortled.

“You’re twins,” she said, now shaking her head. “Identical.”

“I’m better-looking,” Seth said as Jakob said, “I’m smarter.”

Jakob scowled as he covered the distance to his brother in three strides. “You show up, unannounced, and you rearrange my office?”

Seth’s smile grew until it reached both ears. “You nailed it in one, Counselor.”

“God, I missed your stupid head.” Jakob grabbed his twin, pulling him in for a hard hug.

“Well, don’t think I missed your ugly face,” Seth said but hugged him just as hard.

Ivy picked up the law book from the floor. “We can put it all back,” she said, looking to the law clerk who always seemed to be lending the young woman a helping hand.

“Absolutely. Just take a minute.” Jakob lifted one end of the desk.

“Leave it where it is,” Seth ordered.

Jakob gave his brother the look that had gotten him accused of witness intimidation. “This is my office. I say where Harry’s desk goes. Put it—”

“—where it is.” Seth dragged him until they were face-to-face. “Haven’t you learned anything about security? Your desk does not go in front of the door. It gives a shooter a direct line of sight.”

“Ohmygod.” Ivy dropped the book in her hands. The dull thud was louder on this side of the door.

Jakob held out his palms as if to calm a frightened child. “It’s okay. Leave it for now. We’ll decide where to put Harry’s desk later.”

“We all have work to do.” Lisa herded Ivy and the clerk out of the office. “And you two … behave.” She closed the door behind her.

Seth pulled his arm back and dropped onto the long leather couch now positioned to face the door. “I bet nothing gets by her.”

“That’s it?” Jakob threw up his hands. “Are you just going to pretend like you didn’t appear out of thin air? What are you doing here, Seth?”

“I came to see you. It’s not every day I become related to the attorney general of a whole state. These are moments to be savored.” He stretched, inhaling deeply. “Feels good. I like it. How about you?”

Jakob gave his brother his perfected “don’t mess with me” stare.

Seth gave up the pretense with an eyeroll. “Put away your weapon. I give up, Counselor. I’m here for Harry’s funeral.”

“Thank you, Seth, but we talked about this,” he said, walking to his desk. “I told you not to come.”

Seth snorted. “Since when has that worked? I’m here and you’re stuck with me until I book a return flight. Now, how’s it feel to be the attorney general for Indiana?”

“I’m the interim AG, and it’s fine.” Jakob slid his hip onto the corner of his desk. “When did you get in? How was your flight?” The conversation drifted into the usual commentary on air travel and Indianapolis traffic. When it came to accommodations, there was no discussion. “You’re staying with us. We have plenty of room. Let me call Courtney and tell her you’re here.”

“I have a better idea.” Seth’s grin became mischievous. “We’ll trade clothes.”

“It’s not going to work. We’ve been trying to pull off a switch since Courtney and I dated at Indiana University. We’re 0 for, like, twenty. She won’t fall for it. She never does.”

“She doesn’t know I’m here,” Seth argued. “I’m darker, but as long as your olive ass isn’t next to me, she won’t notice the difference.”

Jakob shook his head. “She’s smarter than both of us.”

“I’m not denying it, but she can’t always win.” He studied his twin, head to toe. “Why did you cut your hair so short? I hate our hair short. We look like a lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer. Why is yours so long? We look derelict. You working vice or something?”

“Something.” Seth ran a hand through the thick, wavy black hair their father passed on to them. Their build and features came from their father’s Mediterranean ancestry, with one notable exception—their eyes. They both had their mother’s Scottish misty gray eyes.

Seth hadn’t answered the question, but Jakob let it go. For now. “I’ll bet you a dollar Courtney knows it’s you in under a minute.”

“A minute? Done.”

His cell phone rang. His friend the prosecutor was calling back. Good news didn’t happen that quickly in Jakob’s experience. He looked to his brother.

Seth popped to his feet. “Come find me when you’re done. I’ll be wherever Lisa says you’re buying me lunch.”

***

Excerpt from Murder on Site by TG Wolff. Copyright 2026 by TG Wolff. Reproduced with permission from TG Wolff. All rights reserved.

Bronx River Parkway
Friday, 3:55 p.m.

It wasn’t rush hour—not quite yet. So the drive was an hour plus away. That now left a short distance to go.

Ryan remained quiet and tense, staring out the passenger window as he had throughout the trip to Westchester County.

“Where are we going in New Rochelle?” Marc finally asked, glancing at his GPS, aware that he didn’t recognize the address Ryan had given him.

“To my cousin, Shane Walsh’s, house,” Ryan replied.

Marc nodded as they reached their exit and he eased his car around a loop and off the parkway. “Tell me only what I need to know. I’m not going to pry.”

“You’re not prying. I’m just really freaking out.” Ryan cleared his throat and relayed the entire situation to Marc.

Marc took it all in. “You’ve mentioned that you had a cousin with the Bureau. But that’s about all you’ve said, other than the fact that he has a wife and a young daughter.”

Ryan shrugged. “Shane’s a private guy, so I don’t talk about him much. He’s a Special Agent, Violent Crimes division, at the New York field office. He’s been there since he joined the FBI about eight years ago.”

“Does Hutch know him?”

“I never asked. But I doubt it. Hutch is in charge of all the Violent Crimes divisions. That’s too high up to know every agent who works under him.” Ryan pointed, shifting to the edge of his seat, and reiterating what the GPS was already showing them. “Make your next right. Two blocks down and make a left. Go through a few lights. You’ll see a cul-de-sac on your right. Marigold Terrace. Shane’s house is number 15.”

Marc understood that Ryan’s redundant supply of information was a manifestation of his anxiety. He just nodded again, then pressed his foot a little harder on the gas pedal to speed them up without accelerating too much. Suburban cops lived for speed traps.

Four minutes later, Marc turned onto Marigold Terrace and eased slowly around the curvy road.

“Three down on your left,” Ryan instructed. “White clapboard house, blue shutters.” His tension intensified as Marc reached Shane’s home. “That’s Caitlin’s car parked in the driveway. And Shane’s parked in his usual spot on the street. If they’re both home…but they don’t want Kennedy there… Shit.”

Ryan flung open the passenger door before Marc had brought the car to a complete stop. He was halfway to the front door, digging in his pocket for the key Shane had given him long ago, when Marc reached his side.

“Ryan, wait.” Marc grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

“Why?”

Marc tugged out the two pairs of latex gloves and shoved one pair into Ryan’s hand. “Put these on.”

Ryan gritted his teeth, while he and Marc worked their hands into the gloves. “Can’t leave any new fingerprints,” he muttered. “In case this is a crime scene.” He sounded ill.

“Is the door unlocked?” Marc asked, quickly assessing the garage door, which was up. He might have suggested accessing the house through there, but Ryan was already in motion. And time was precious.

Ryan jiggled the doorknob. “No.”

“Okay, use the key. I’ve got my Glock. Let’s go.”

Ryan’s hands were shaking as he turned the key and pushed open the door.

He and Marc stepped inside. The foyer was empty and quiet. In fact, the whole house was silent in a way that suggested no one was home.

“Shane?” Ryan called. A pause. “Caitlin?” No response. No sound of footsteps. Nothing.

Marc eased his way in front of Ryan, then crept ahead, sweeping the area with his gun.

Ryan followed behind him, aware that, not only was Marc armed, he was former FBI. He was trained at this. Ryan was not.

They’d barely gone fifteen feet, when Marc caught something in his peripheral vision, and swerved to his right. “Shit,” he muttered.

Ryan peered around him and gasped. Just outside the bathroom was a crumpled body, unmoving and lying in a pool of blood. Beside it, were two shell casings and a cell phone that had been crushed. On the other side of the cell phone was a jagged line of blood.

The inconsistency of the blood pattern struck Marc at once. Reflexively, he whipped out his cell phone and took a few quick photos.

Ryan was in a whole different headspace. Pushing past Marc, he strode over, squatting as he reached the body. “Shane,” he managed.

“Oh my God. Shane.”

Marc was beside Ryan in a heartbeat, restraining him from doing anything that would contaminate the scene. He leaned over Shane’s body, checking for a pulse, a breath—any sign of life.

There were none.

Marc gripped Ryan’s arm, standing and pulling him to his feet. Ryan’s entire body was stiff with shock, but Marc knew that consolation would have to wait.

“Ryan, we’ve got to get out of the house,” he said, visually sweeping as much of the ground floor as he could. “The killer might still be inside. He might have Caitlin.” A hard swallow, as Marc considered the possibility that she might also be dead. That additional jagged line of blood didn’t bode well. “I’ll call 911 as soon as we’re on the front lawn.”

Ryan didn’t budge. He was staring, wild-eyed, down at Shane’s lifeless form. It was only when Marc tugged insistently at his forearm that he regained some semblance of awareness. “No, Marc.” He gave a firm shake of his head. “I have to stay with him.”

“He’s gone,” Marc stated simply, placing a supportive hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “But Caitlin might not be. Let’s get the EMTs and the cops here. We might be saving her life.”

Slowly, Ryan turned, allowing Marc to lead him outside the house and to the front lawn, where he sank down on the grass, still unable to process this horrific occurrence.

Marc kept his Glock at the ready—just in case it was needed. “I’ll watch the windows and the doorways to block any attempt at escape,” he told Ryan. When there was no response, Marc glanced down, giving Ryan a worried look. The poor guy was staring off into space and wasn’t even hearing him.

Stationing himself close to his friend’s side, Marc took out his iPhone and called 911.

“What is your emergency?” was the immediate response.

Marc supplied his name, the address of the crime scene, and then, in staccato phrases, the necessary information.

He disconnected the call, knowing that it would be two minutes, at the most, before the ambulance showed up. He used the time wisely, pressing the button to Hutch’s private cell phone line.

One ring. Then, “Marc?”

“We’re in New Rochelle,” Marc said. “Ryan’s cousin, Shane Walsh, has been killed at his home. He worked for the Bureau, New York field office, Violent Crimes. I called 911, so the locals must already have been dispatched.”

Not even a heartbeat of a pause. “Text me the address.”

“Already done.”

“Then I’m on my way.”

***

Excerpt from Life Or Death by Andrea Kane. Copyright 2026 by Andrea Kane. Reproduced with permission from Andrea Kane. All rights reserved.