Before leaving for California, Ethan had gotten rid of almost everything in his house — not knowing how long he would be away — and now he needed to stock up on food and all kinds of basic supplies.
After a frantic day of shopping, the two of them walked out of the supermarket pushing an overflowing cart.
While Jessica went over the long shopping list, the final prices left her stunned. A single trip to the store had cost them nearly two thousand dollars — partly because Ethan had tossed several expensive bottles of whiskey, gin, and tequila into the cart.
—Don't you think we're taking too much? —Jessica asked, glancing at him curiously while arranging the bags in the trunk.
—Too much? —Ethan replied with a grin—. I'd say it'll be enough for you and me for quite a while. Besides, money isn't an issue.
When they reached the car, they loaded all the bags into the trunk, and Ethan shut it with a firm thud.
Jessica glanced toward the nearby Starbucks. After more than half an hour wandering through aisles, she was exhausted and nodded.
—Yeah, I need sugar right now —she said with a smile, running a hand through her hair.
They stepped inside, and the smell of freshly ground coffee enveloped her instantly. Without hesitation, Jessica went straight to the counter.
—A caramel frappé with extra whipped cream… and that chocolate muffin, please —she ordered, while Ethan watched her in amusement from behind.
—I guess that "something sweet" wasn't a joke —he commented with a half-smile.
—Don't mess with a girl and her sugar —Jessica shot back, paying for their drinks.
Through the café window, Ethan's gaze drifted toward the outside terrace. He narrowed his eyes, recognizing someone among the customers.
He gave Jessica a light slap on the backside and murmured:
—Order me an iced coffee and wait for me inside.
—What's going on? —she asked, intrigued.
—There's someone I want to say hi to… just give me a few minutes —Ethan replied, without taking his eyes off the terrace.
Jessica nodded, though curiosity sparkled in her eyes.
—Aren't you going to introduce me?
—He's an FBI agent —Ethan said calmly—. You sure you want to meet him?
Jessica quickly shook her head and sat down on one of the couches inside the café.
Outside, several tables sat beneath green umbrellas. A man in a black suit and another in a worn brown jacket were talking as they sipped their coffee.
Ethan approached, pulled out a chair from a nearby table, and sat in front of them. Seeing a stranger sit down uninvited, the white man in the jacket looked at him warily, clearly puzzled.
The man had short hair, graying at the temples. He looked to be in his forties, and though his expression was calm, his gaze had something that could chill anyone's blood. Ethan recognized him instantly; some faces are impossible to forget.
Ethan smiled faintly and leaned forward.
—Special Agent Phillips… long time no see.
The man in the black suit looked up. Robert Phillips, FBI Special Agent, had been the one who uncovered Hood's weakness and managed to arrest him. He had almost died at the hands of Brantley's men, and if it hadn't been for Ethan, his story would've ended there. After the operation, Ethan had given him the credit for the arrest and even offered him a recommendation to join the Bureau. Back then, Ethan hadn't wanted to get involved more than necessary.
Phillips stood up. His face was as firm as ever, the lines around his mouth marked by age but also experience. He shook Ethan's hand firmly.
—Ethan, it's been a long time.
—Too long —Ethan replied with a faint smile—. What brings you to Banshee?
—Nothing unusual. None of my agents have gotten into trouble, if that's what you're worried about.
Ethan raised an eyebrow, curious.
—I got tired of Internal Affairs —Phillips admitted, leaning back in his chair—. After Brantley's death they promoted me. I'm now heading the Violent Crimes Unit. You know… a change of scenery.
Ethan watched him quietly for a few seconds. The man was still as methodical as he remembered, but there was something different in his tone… a quiet weariness, maybe a shadow that hadn't been there before.
—So? You're here because of the murdered girls?
Phillips let out a short sigh, as if there were no need to explain. He knew that in a town this small, secrets never lasted longer than a cup of coffee.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and nodded.
—The police department in a small town is like a sieve; nothing stays secret.
—But given who you used to be, I'm not surprised you already knew.
Ethan smiled and tapped the table.
—Didn't mean to interrupt, just wanted to say hello. I have no intention of interfering with your investigation.
—No problem —Phillips replied, waving his hand casually.
He watched as Ethan got to his feet.
Phillips leaned back, studying Ethan with a mix of respect and curiosity.
—Ethan, wait —he said finally, just as Ethan was about to leave—. I reviewed your file. Saw you resigned.
Ethan paused, turning his head slightly.
—Yeah, I took a break after everything that happened these last few months —he said calmly, still smiling.
Phillips clasped his hands together on the table.
—Wouldn't you be interested in working with me? My offer still stands. Someone like you is always valuable… to the Bureau.
For a moment, the hum of Starbucks faded into the background. Ethan looked at him in silence, weighing his words, as if the idea weren't entirely foreign.
—Thanks —he finally said with a nod—. I'll think about it. For now, I'm weighing my options… haven't decided what to do yet, but I'll consider your offer.
Phillips nodded, not pushing further.
—Do that.
Ethan gave him a brief smile before turning and walking toward the café's entrance. The reflection on the glass showed him his own face — that of a man who had survived too much to still be the same.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted coffee and vanilla. Jessica, sitting by the window, stirred her frappé absently while glancing around.
When she saw him approach, she raised an eyebrow, curious.
—Well? —she asked with a smile—
Ethan chuckled softly and took a seat across from her.
Outside, Agent Phillips remained under the green umbrella, watching them for a moment before returning to his coffee.
Noticing his old friend's fixed stare, the gray-haired man beside him picked up his cup.
—What's up, Hank? —Phillips asked, eyes still on Ethan as he walked away.
The gray-haired veteran, his face worn and his voice raspy, arched an eyebrow.
—"Work with you," not "for you"? —he repeated with a half-smile—. Never seen you recruit anyone like that. What's so special about this guy?
Phillips didn't answer right away. He stared into his cup for a moment, as if searching for the right words, then looked up.
—Ever heard of Raymond Brantley? —he asked quietly.
The older man gave a short, incredulous laugh.
—Of course. Even from Chicago, that bastard's name got around. But… —he frowned, intrigued— what's he got to do with this?
Phillips exhaled, resting his elbows on the table.
—That guy took Brantley and all his men down by himself; the kid drove his damn cane through his chest.
The older man stayed silent for a moment, letting it sink in. He knew Brantley's reputation: a killer with too many bodies and even more enemies. For a young man to have brought him down and lived to tell it said more than any report could.
Phillips took a sip of coffee, set the cup down, and said bluntly:
—I'd be dead if it weren't for Ethan. He saved my life.
The older man's curiosity deepened.
—Still don't see what's so special.
Phillips raised a finger and traced a circle in the air.
—In this town, Ethan Morgan has killed more than thirty people… all violent criminals.
The older man clicked his tongue, scratching his unshaven chin.
—So what? Sounds like good aim to me.
Phillips set his empty cup aside.
—How would you profile him?
Hank kept watching out the café window as Ethan walked away, the sunlight glinting off his dark jacket. He took a thoughtful sip of coffee.
—He looks like a college graduate —he said finally, a hint of irony in his tone—. Probably popular with women, but he doesn't look like a threat.
Phillips gave a short, nasal laugh.
—Yeah, that's exactly what Brantley thought before he got a cane through the chest.
Hank raised his brows, still watching the young man.
—So what's your profile on him?
—If I had to describe him in one word, it'd be relentless —Phillips said in a low, steady voice, his eyes fixed on Ethan—. He's smart, patient… and when he acts, he doesn't miss. He doesn't move like a civilian, though he tries hard to look like one. That relaxed smile, the calm walk, the way he blends into the crowd… anyone would think he's just a regular guy.
Hank leaned back in his chair, watching closely, as if piecing together an invisible puzzle.
Phillips crossed his arms and exhaled slowly.
—That's his talent —he said at last—. He can become whoever he needs to be. He adapts, fits in… and no one realizes what he's capable of until it's far too late.
Hank took another sip, eyes still following Ethan.
—Then tell me, Phillips… from the way you talk, it sounds like you're watching him.
Phillips gave a faint, enigmatic smile, saying nothing. He just kept his eyes on Ethan, as if the answer depended on the young man's next move.
Hank let out a low whistle.
—A guy like that's useful when he's on your side —but dangerous as hell if he's not.
Phillips stared into his empty cup, thoughtful.
—That's why I want him close —he said quietly—. There are plenty of skilled agents in the Bureau, but his mindset is exceptional. You know, I think you and he have a lot in common.
Hank looked at him, a little puzzled.
Phillips kept watching Ethan move naturally through the crowd, calm but alert. Then he turned to Hank, his voice low and deliberate.
—Hank… that guy's just like you —he said, nodding slightly toward Ethan—. He doesn't care about the details, only results. He's ruthless when he needs to be, sharp, adaptable… and loyal to those he considers allies.
Hank arched a brow, intrigued.
He leaned back, letting out a sigh, mentally sizing up the young man Phillips had just described.
—Interesting… —he murmured—. If that's true, you've got a real problem on your hands.
Phillips gave a faint smile, the kind of smile that said he'd already considered both outcomes.
—That's exactly what makes him worth watching. A man like that doesn't come around often.
Hank nodded, mentally taking note of every detail, though he had a strange feeling Phillips was telling him all this for a reason.
—From what you say, he sounds like a highly capable field operative, with serious combat experience.
—He is —Phillips confirmed—. And he's still far from showing his full potential.
—Robert, just say what you're thinking. I think I know where this is going.
Phillips spoke at length before finally revealing his point:
—We got you out this time and managed to dodge the Internal Affairs probe —Phillips said gravely, choosing his words carefully as he laced his fingers together—, but that doesn't mean things will go smoothly for you moving forward.
He paused, meeting Hank's eyes before continuing.
—Especially now that you're heading the Intelligence Unit. That not only puts you under the spotlight, it puts a target on your back —he added steadily, letting the weight of his words sink in—. Right now, you need backup. Someone capable, experienced… and, more importantly, someone you can trust.
Phillips leaned forward, lowering his voice.
—Someone who won't crack under pressure, who can keep his head when things get rough. Because believe me, Hank… things are just starting to get difficult.
Hank's expression turned serious as well.
—You want me to recruit him for Intelligence? You think he'd even want to go to Chicago? He didn't seem too eager when you tried to recruit him just now.
—I was just testing the waters. In fact, I took this case precisely to come here… and introduce you two. Didn't you find it odd I dragged you all the way out here?
Hank pursed his lips.
—I trust your judgment. But still, he turned you down before. What makes you so sure he'll go to Chicago?
Phillips loosened his tie and said with quiet confidence:
—I know him, just like I know you. First, let's finish this serial killer case… then I'll find a way to convince him.
Ethan and Jessica rested a moment in Starbucks before heading out.
Phillips and his friend were still calmly drinking coffee outside, not looking like they were on a case at all. Ethan headed toward the parking lot.
He had an inexplicable feeling, as if someone were staring at him. He turned sharply. Phillips lifted his coffee cup and smiled.
Ethan returned the smile and got into his car.
As he drove along Oak Street, he saw a small building with a "For Sale" sign and slowed down.
The building had three floors, a red-brick façade, and shops on the ground level.
Through the glass window, he could see the interior—about a hundred square meters—perfectly laid out.
Ethan turned the wheel at once and parked the Dodge Challenger by the curb.
Jessica looked at him, puzzled.
—Do you need something else?
—To make your dream come true.
Ethan took out his phone and called the real estate agency.
Jessica, with an idea forming in her mind, covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide with disbelief. Ethan glanced sideways at her, not quite understanding the sudden wave of emotion that had overtaken her.
That reaction reminded him of a conversation they'd had weeks earlier, during one of their road trips.
Flashback
It was dawn, and the roar of the engine was the only sound breaking the silence between them. The truck lights slid past in the distance.
Jessica, leaning against the window, watched the endless fields stretching on both sides of the highway. Her hair was messy from the wind, and her expression was calm, almost nostalgic.
—You know —she said suddenly, with a faint smile— when I was little, my grandmother owned a flower shop.
Ethan turned his head slightly, curious.
—A flower shop?
—Yeah —she laughed softly—. I used to spend my summers there, helping her wrap bouquets and make arrangements. Sometimes the scent of jasmine was so strong it made me dizzy, but I loved it.
She paused, staring out the window as if her memories had come alive.
—I always thought that someday I'd have a flower shop of my own. A small place, with a wooden door and bells that ring when someone walks in. —She smiled gently—. In the end, my life turned out so differently… it's kind of sad.
Ethan chuckled briefly.
—You, with a flower shop —he teased—. I can't tell if I should picture you watering the plants or arguing with a customer over a wrong bouquet.
—Ha, very funny —she replied, nudging his arm—. But yes, that's my dream. Maybe now I can finally make it happen.
End of Flashback.
Ethan hadn't forgotten that confession.
Now, seeing her standing before that small building on Oak Street, eyes gleaming with hope, he realized it wasn't just a passing thought. After all, he had promised Jessica a new life.
Without saying a word, he just watched her as she scanned the façade, as if she could already see flowers hanging from the windows, a hand-painted sign, and the soft chime of bells every time someone entered.
It was her dream, and he knew he would do everything possible to make it real.
A moment later, the call connected.
—This is Carrie Hopewell. How can I help you?
—Carrie? —Ethan asked, surprised.
—Yes, who's calling? —the voice replied from the other side. After a pause, she hesitated—: Ethan?
Five minutes later, Carrie arrived in a silver Corolla.
She looked a little more tired than before.
Ethan walked up to her, and they exchanged a brief hug. They had made peace after their last argument, and Job had even asked him to help her if she ever got into trouble.
—Hey, since when are you a real estate agent? —Ethan asked with a surprised smile.
—Started a few weeks ago —Carrie replied, wrapped in a red jacket, slinging her purse over her shoulder—. It pays better than waitressing.
—Makes sense —Ethan said with a nod, then gestured toward Jessica—. She's looking to settle down in Banshee. We were checking out a few properties and... I think this one's perfect for her.
Carrie looked at him curiously, raising an eyebrow, but said nothing.
—Let me unlock it first —she finally said, quickly pulling the keys from her bag and heading toward the glass door.
Noticing Jessica's narrowed eyes, Ethan put an arm around her and whispered:
—She really is just a friend. My friend's ex.
Following Carrie inside, the first-floor shop had a large front window that filled the space with golden light, filtered through the dust floating in the air like tiny particles frozen in time. Every step on the wooden floor made it creak softly, filling the air with a nostalgic echo.
They passed through a small inner door and climbed the stairs to the second floor. From there, the place felt even cozier. Ethan leaned against the balcony overlooking the street, watching Jessica walk around with a genuine smile, touching the walls, already picturing every corner filled with flowers.
Carrie approached quietly and, without a word, offered him a cigarette. Ethan accepted, and they both lit one, letting the smoke mix with the fresh breeze flowing through the open window.
She flicked the ash with a distracted gesture, letting it fall like a heavy thought being released. Then, in a quiet, restrained voice, she asked:
—Have you heard from him?
—No. —Ethan shook his head, still staring at the street. He knew exactly who she meant.
—Maybe… I mean, possibly Job is the only one who can reach him right now —she said after a pause, taking a slow drag—. If you really want to find him, Job would be your best shot.
—Doesn't matter —Carrie exhaled a puff of smoke—. Let him live his life.
—And you? —Ethan smiled— How have you been?
—Not too bad. Still Mrs. Hopewell. —She shrugged—. Life's still awful, but it's fine. Gordon doesn't hate me anymore, and sometimes we sleep together. I'll figure it out.
—I guess with Hood out of town, Gordon's more forgiving.
Surprisingly, Gordon had managed to endure everything that had happened. And although she technically hadn't cheated on him with Hood while they were together, he'd always been jealous of their connection. Secretly, Carrie seemed relieved to be accepted by him again. At least she still had hope.
—Hood's gone, and Rabbit too. It's time for you to move on and leave the past behind.
—Being a housewife, living a quiet life, doesn't have to be a bad thing.
Carrie nodded silently. After everything, she missed that life. Her current calm had been hard-won, so she valued it all the more.
She stubbed out her cigarette, then perked up.
—So, are you thinking of buying a place? This location's actually pretty valuable. You know—the police station, the school, and the grocery store are all nearby.
—Yeah —Ethan nodded, pointing inside—. Depends on whether she likes it.
At his words, Carrie glanced at Jessica with a touch of envy.
Jessica finished her inspection and ran happily toward him.
The first floor was a shop. The second, besides a spacious living room, had two fully furnished bedrooms decorated in a Mediterranean style.
The whole floor was bright and airy. The third floor had a large terrace and several flower beds in a glass greenhouse.
Everything matched Jessica's taste perfectly.
Ethan crushed his cigarette and smiled.
—So? What do you think?
Jessica nodded eagerly, her face lit with satisfaction. As long as she was happy, the money was well spent.
After a brief conversation, Carrie offered a base price of $250,000, with a $20,000 cash discount. Naturally, he chose to pay in cash.
In the following days, on Carrie's advice, Ethan would hire a professional inspector to thoroughly check the building. Once confirmed everything was fine, he'd find a lawyer to finalize the sale.
He planned to sign a fixed lease agreement with Jessica—the annual rent was just over three thousand dollars, practically a gift.
With this building, Jessica could finally fulfill her dream of opening a flower shop and having a place of her own.
After settling the matter, Ethan felt relieved. Bringing her to Pennsylvania had been his idea, and he had promised to take care of her.
Ethan parked in front of Siobhan's house. The porch lights were on, casting a golden glow that outlined her silhouette against the night. He rang the bell and waited, holding a bottle of amber-colored whiskey in his hands.
Seconds later, the door opened.
Siobhan appeared in a white tank top and short denim shorts. Her hair was loose, slightly messy, and her expression was caught between surprise and a timid smile.
—Ethan… —she said softly—. Come on, let's sit outside. It's nicer in the yard.
—Thanks —he replied with a faint smile.
Siobhan led him down the hallway to the small backyard, lit by a few hanging lights. The air smelled of damp earth and jasmine. Ethan sat in one of the porch chairs while Siobhan went into the kitchen.
He heard the fridge door open, the clinking of bottles, then she returned with two cold beers and a pair of shot glasses.
—Here —she said, handing him one.
Ethan took it with a grateful nod. Siobhan sat across from him, crossing one leg over the other, her gaze lowered. She played with the bottle in her hands, unable to look him in the eye.
For a while, the only sound was the rustling of the wind through the leaves. Ethan watched her silently; he could see the nervousness in her hands, the tension in her shoulders, as if the words she carried were too heavy to speak.
Finally, he spoke.
—Whatever it is you need to tell me, it'll be okay.
Siobhan looked up for a second before lowering her gaze again. She turned aside, grabbed the bottle, and poured two shots of whiskey. Without thinking too much, she downed them both in one go, wincing as the burn ran down her throat.
—I met someone —she said softly, her voice barely a whisper—. We're not officially dating… but he's nice.
The silence that followed was thick, almost tangible. Ethan held the bottle quietly, waiting for her to continue.
—And… —she struggled to go on— I like you too, Ethan. More than I ever thought I could like anyone. You know that. But when you left, I realized we had no future. I always knew you'd never stay in Banshee. I guess it just took me a while to accept it, and now… I'm confused, really confused. —She took a shaky breath—. I just wanted you to know. I don't want you to hate me for it.
Ethan looked at her for a long moment before answering, calm but with a hint of sadness in his eyes.
—I don't hate you, Siobhan —he said finally—. I couldn't. You're my best friend. I wouldn't have made it without you.
He wanted to say the right words, but none seemed fair. It wouldn't be right to ask Siobhan to wait for him. He didn't even know if he wanted to stay. Inside, there was a restless force, a constant need to move, to live, to see the world beyond Banshee.
The thought of settling down with her—having a house, a garden, maybe kids someday—wasn't unpleasant. In fact, there was something warm in that image, something that stirred a small ache in him. But it wasn't his time. Not yet. It would be selfish to pull her into a half-lived life, waiting for him.
Ethan wasn't naive or vain enough to think that every woman who crossed his path would wait. He hadn't expected it from Blake, or Nola, and certainly not from Siobhan. Each deserved to move on, just as he had to.
And, if he was honest with himself, he'd never imagine something like that with Jessica or Daria—not because he didn't care for them, but because he knew his path lay elsewhere.
—Live your life, Siobhan —he said at last, his voice low but steady—. Love yourself, make mistakes, get angry, laugh. Fall in love if you want to.
She looked up, surprised. Ethan went on, forcing a small smile:
—We'll always be friends. You can count on me for life, truly. And if that idiot —he paused, eyes hardening slightly— ever hurts you, I swear I'll bury him myself.
Siobhan couldn't help but smile, fragile at first, then genuine—the first real one since their talk began. In her eyes, there was relief; she saw Ethan's sincerity shining through.
—Really? —she whispered, her voice breaking slightly.
—Always —he replied—. It'd be unfair and selfish to ask you to wait. I just want you to be happy. And if you ever need someone to have your back, call me.
She took a deep breath, gathering courage. A small, foolish, vulnerable request slipped out:
—Would you… give me one more night? —she asked shyly—. Just one more night to say goodbye, to remember what we had… You probably think I'm an idiot.
Ethan looked at her for a long while, his lips softening into a resigned, tender smile.
—Yeah —he said finally— but if you cry during sex, I'm walking out. —he added.
She looked at him, somewhere between amused and offended.
—You're an idiot.
—Yes— he admitted, raising his beer in a toast. —but at least I'm your idiot for one more night.
Siobhan let out a hearty laugh, her first since he arrived. Their laughter filled the courtyard, dispelling the tension between them. For a moment, there were no goodbyes, just that feeling that always made them laugh again.
After half a bottle, Siobhan finally left her initial shyness behind. With a decisive movement, she leaned toward Ethan and kissed him intensely, a deep kiss, charged with everything she had held back for weeks.
He barely had time to react before she grabbed his shirt and led him into the living room. They stumbled gently over the edge of the sofa and fell onto it, still kissing hungrily, as if afraid that the moment would slip away.
Their hands searched each other urgently, stripping off garment after garment, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor as the silence of the house filled with the sound of their ragged breathing.
Ethan played with his fingers in her vagina while kissing her neck. She let out a few ragged sighs, her breasts rubbing against his chest, and he could feel his cock swelling beneath her, so he began to massage her up and down.
Ethan lifted her light body as she placed his cock in her vagina, slowly descending until he entered her deeply, she could feel him hitting her uterus.
"Ah... Ah... Ah..." Siobhan moaned, her voice trembling, as she began to move vigorously.
Ethan moved his hips to her rhythm, going so deep that he could feel her pussy squeezing his cock with every thrust. He could feel the heat of her insides, begging for more.
Soon sweat began to run down their bodies, mixing into an intoxicating scent, exciting him even more. He eagerly sought out Siobhan's breasts and began to suck on them, while his other hand squeezed her ass.
Siobhan rested her head on his shoulder, letting out a restrained sigh:
—Mmmmh... ahhh... mhhh...— Siobhan whispered, resting her head against Ethan's chest, feeling his warmth and steady heartbeat beneath her hand.
—Ah... Ahhh,— she exhaled, letting the tremor in her voice betray the mixture of relief and contained desire.
—Ethan...— Siobhan whispered, her voice trembling as she clung to him.
They both reached their limit, one after the other, melting into a kiss. They lay together on the sofa, covered only by a light blanket, breathing heavily, still entwined, certain that they had shared something that no one else could understand.
Ethan slowly slid his fingers over the blanket covering them, as if exploring her body. His movements were deliberate, moving upward from her legs, letting each touch convey care and desire.
Siobhan closed her eyes, breathing slowly, feeling Ethan's presence in every gesture.
—Mmmmh... ahhh... mhhh...— whispered Siobhan, resting her head against Ethan's chest, feeling his warmth and steady heartbeat beneath her hand.
—Ah... Ahh,— she exhaled, letting the tremor in her voice betray her mixture of relief and restrained desire.
—Ethan...— Siobhan whispered, her voice trembling as she clung to him.
They both reached their limit, coming one right after the other, melting into a kiss. They lay together on the couch, covered only by a light blanket, breathing heavily, still entwined, certain that they had shared something that no one else could understand.
Ethan slowly slid his fingers over the blanket covering them, as if exploring her body. His movements were slow, moving up from her legs, letting each touch convey care and desire.
Siobhan closed her eyes, breathing slowly, feeling Ethan's presence in every gesture.
—How long will you stay...— she whispered, barely audible.
—I don't know, for now I'll stay here for a while,— he replied in a low voice. —But I don't want you to disappear.—
The dim light in the room cast shadows on their faces, illuminating the curve of their cheeks.
—You can stay tonight,— she asked, interrupted by a sigh. —I just... want you to be here, now.—
—Your wishes are my commands,— Ethan said.
Two days later, Ethan drove his Dodge Challenger back to Banshee from the Kinaho reservation. He had gone to visit Nola, but she was away on business; they only handed him the financial reports, and he had to sign some legal documents related to casino tax revenues.
As he turned a corner along the boulevard, Ethan noticed police lights flashing down in the river valley. Banshee PD and reservation patrol cars were parked below, near a black Chevrolet truck stopped on the slope.
Seeing that many people gathered in one place meant something serious had happened.
The night before, when he stayed at Siobhan's house, she had still been anxious—there were still no leads on the serial killer.Maybe this was a new victim?
Driven by curiosity, Ethan stopped, stepped out of the car, and looked toward the river.
Brock and his men, along with Aimee King and the Kinaho police, were sealing off the scene with black tape.Phillips and the man Ethan had met outside Starbucks that day were there too.
Next to the dry riverbed, a human-like figure lay covered in yellow plastic.
At the sound of the car door slamming, Siobhan looked up, shook her head, and turned pale.
Ethan descended the slope toward the crime scene.
Brock's face was grim. Another similar case had occurred—it was now confirmed that they were dealing with a serial killer.If they didn't find the culprit soon, he would be the one under interrogation.
Bad news for everyone.
Most people present were in uniform; Ethan, in civilian clothes, stood out.
—Hey, Ethan —said Emmett, stepping forward to stop him—. You're a civilian now, you can't just walk into the perimeter.
He quickly pointed behind him, muttering something about the FBI.
Then, a firm voice interrupted:
—It's fine. Let him in.
Phillips was standing next to the black plastic bag, one hand on his hip. He greeted Ethan with a slight nod.
Because of the jurisdiction split, he had the higher authority now.
Emmett frowned, uneasy about the FBI's interference, but finally lifted the tape.
—Go ahead, maybe you can help somehow —he said reluctantly.
—That killer is downright inhuman —someone muttered.
Ethan nodded toward Aimee King and walked up to Phillips.
—Agent Phillips.
—Mr. Morgan.
Both men exchanged nods, and Phillips turned to the middle-aged man beside him.
—This is my friend, Hank Voight.
Ethan shook the gray-haired man's hand, feeling the strength in his grip. He didn't need an introduction—the calluses on those palms said it all. Those were the hands of a cop.
And not just any cop.
He knew him all too well. Sergeant Hank Voight, Intelligence Unit, CPD. Ethan had seen him countless times—reports, news stories, even in that TV series that mirrored his world alongside Chicago Med and Chicago Fire.
From the first day he saw him at that café, he knew exactly who he was. He'd simply chosen to keep it to himself. It wasn't the time to reveal anything… not yet.
—Ethan Morgan, nice to meet you.
Hank looked at him with mild confusion. Those hands didn't belong to a trained shooter. He didn't look like the type Phillips had described.
Unaware of Hank's thoughts, Ethan looked over to Bunker, who stood by the black tarp.
—What did you find?
—The forensic team says, based on body temperature and livor mortis —Bunker said, tapping the notebook in his hand—, their preliminary estimate is that the victim was killed about nine or ten hours ago. The M.O. matches the previous two cases.
Ethan frowned.
—Sorry, forgot you hadn't seen the file yet —Bunker added, kneeling to lift the tarp.
Phillips exchanged a quick glance with Hank, who folded his arms. In the past, a look from his old friend would've been enough; now, it was more about curiosity.
Ethan noticed the swastika tattoos on Deputy Bunker's face and neck—but what struck him more was how all the other officers showed him respect.
When Bunker pulled the tarp back, everyone gathered around.
The moment Ethan saw the body, he understood why everyone looked so tense—and why Emmett had called the killer a bastard.
Aimee King handed him a pair of gloves. Ethan put them on and knelt beside the corpse.
Hank watched him with growing curiosity. What kind of man commanded such obedience from someone like her?
Ethan examined the body carefully. The victim was a blonde woman in her twenties. Her skin was pale—unnaturally pale—as if every drop of blood had been drained. In life, she must have been beautiful.
He ran his hand down her chest, following the long wound that extended to her abdomen. The opening revealed the organs inside, and a foul odor filled the air.
Brock rubbed his forehead, frowning deeply.
—Just like before… her heart's been removed.
Ethan looked into the chest cavity. Indeed, a large section was missing.
He inspected the incision. The coroner had already made a preliminary evaluation; as long as he didn't move the body too much, it wouldn't affect the autopsy.
His composure impressed Hank—it gave him a clear picture of the man's mental control.
A Kinaho officer couldn't stand the sight any longer—he ran toward a tree and started vomiting.
Ethan glanced up. Siobhan was pale but holding it together.
Even Bunker, hardened by years on the job, looked close to losing it. Seeing crime scene photos was one thing—seeing the real thing was another.
—Bunker —Ethan said coldly—, if you dare throw up, don't ever talk to me again.
The remark hit like a slap. Ethan and Hood had recruited himmonths ago; losing control here, in front of them, would be humiliation. His reputation wasn't rumor—it was earned.
Most of those present remembered that day when the Red Bone Gang attacked the Banshee station. Bunker had seen it all—the massacre, the chaos, the fury… and Ethan. It was unforgettable. He moved like a force of nature—ruthless, unstoppable. The memory was burned into his mind.
That's why he clenched his fists now, determined not to falter.
Aimee King's face flushed with anger as she shot a glare at the officer who'd vomited. Feeling the sheriff's death stare, the Kinaho man covered his mouth and swallowed hard, trying to regain composure.
For a moment, the riverbank fell into tense silence, dominated by the presence of a single civilian.
When Brock finally stopped swallowing nervously, Ethan smiled faintly and resumed examining the body.
After a while, he stood and removed the gloves.
—Ethan, did you find anything? —Brock asked, stepping closer, uneasy.
Ethan bent again, studying the body with unsettling calm. His gloves creaked as he brushed a lock of hair from the victim's face.
—Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing —he said quietly—. It wasn't impulsive.
Brock frowned, trying to follow.
—What do you mean?
Ethan pointed at the chest wounds with his flashlight.
—Look at these cuts. They're too clean. But if you touch here… —he gently traced the edge— you can feel slight unevenness.
—And that means what? —Brock asked nervously.
—That he didn't make a single cut —Ethan replied—. He worked slowly, precisely. Used a razor-sharp blade, repeating the line over and over until it was perfect.
He straightened, exhaling slowly.
—To do that, he had to be completely calm… maybe even enjoying it.
—Enjoying it? —Siobhan repeated, stunned.
Ethan nodded, staring at the body with the detached look of someone who's seen too much.
—Yes. He didn't do it on impulse. He treated it like art.
Siobhan looked at the muddy riverbed—the body half-buried in leaves and sludge.
—Then I don't get it —she murmured—. If he saw it as art… why dump her like this?
Ethan crossed his arms.
—Because the body wasn't part of the collection. —He paused, voice darker— What he wanted was her heart.
Then he added:
—By the way, let me remind you of something —he said sharply—. Until we find this guy, you'd better be armed at all times on duty. Stay alert.
His gaze hardened.
Ethan looked down at the body again, weighing every detail before speaking.
—We're dealing with someone who has zero respect for life —he said evenly—. This victim was killed while still conscious; her death wasn't quick or impersonal. It was deliberate.
Brock swallowed hard, listening closely.
—What does that tell us about the killer? —Phillips asked, testing him.
—That he doesn't care who the victim is —Ethan answered—. He doesn't follow a profile or target identities. This guy acts by his own twisted logic. He's methodical, calculated, and extremely dangerous.
—Why so sure? —Voight pressed.
Ethan turned to him and smiled faintly.
—Because of the eyes —Ethan said, pointing at the victim's fixed stare—. Look how wide open they are. They show pure panic—her last seconds were nothing but raw terror. No confusion, no acceptance. Just fear.
Sheriff King leaned closer, trying to see what he meant, but didn't notice anything special. The two men beside her, however, exchanged impressed looks; years of experience told them he was right—he'd gone beyond expectations.
After satisfying his curiosity, Ethan stepped out of the perimeter. Watching the team work, he felt the impulse to join in—but after a moment's hesitation, he climbed the slope and headed back to his Challenger.
—What do you think? —Phillips asked, raising a brow.
Hank replied quietly:
—You got his file?
They both smiled faintly. From Ethan's behavior, it was clear he still had a cop's instinct—and that was good news for them.
The others, after hearing his analysis, couldn't help but tense up.
Brock turned to Phillips.
—Special Agent, any leads? This is a small town; we can't afford a fourth case.
—Understood —Phillips nodded—. We've cross-checked the FBI database in the past few days and found similar traces. We need to confirm the witness's location.
—Siobhan —Emmett called, turning around—, take Special Agent Phillips to the witness. See if there's anything new.
Siobhan walked over, nodded, and led them out.
—Don't get your hopes up about this witness —she warned.
—Why's that? —Phillips asked.
—He's a four- or five-year-old boy. He was terrified —she replied.
Phillips paused. He hated working with kids; it was almost impossible to get anything useful.
—May I ask you something, sir? —Siobhan said.
—Go ahead —Phillips replied.
—Do you know Ethan?
—Yes, I do —he answered evasively, changing the subject—. Where are we headed?
—Not far. Just follow me.
Siobhan got into her patrol car and drove down the road. In less than ten minutes, they reached a wooded area.
In the clearing stood two or three containers and a campfire surrounded by several Native Americans warming themselves. A reservation police officer sat nearby.
As another patrol car approached, some stood up warily, others stayed calm.
—This is reservation land. I have no jurisdiction here, so you're on your own —Siobhan said, closing the car door.
Phillips shrugged, breathing in the damp air.
With the help of the reservation police, they interviewed the witness inside one of the containers. Just as Siobhan had said, they got nothing.
The boy sat silently, drawing on the table.
Phillips, seeing he couldn't get through, ended the interview. But when he looked at the drawing, something flashed in his eyes. He turned and stepped out.
Siobhan, noticing his reaction, glanced at the paper too, then followed him outside.
—Deputy Kelly, thank you for your assistance —Phillips said, shaking her hand—. We'll head back and check the leads.
—Anytime —she said, still holding the drawing as she watched the black SUV drive away.
After leaving the crime scene, Ethan drove straight to the small building he had just bought.
The place had changed a lot. Jars and cans lined the front window; inside, rows of flowers and a workbench filled the space.
Ethan parked, pushed the glass door open, and stepped inside. The copper bell rang, catching the attention of the two women inside.
—Perfect timing, come help in the back —Daria said, waving— there are some boxes I want to move.
She and Jessica were trying to move a heavy couch in the front room. Ethan dropped the coffee he'd bought on the way and joined in. With his help, it was done in minutes.
In the last few days, Jessica and Daria had become inseparable. In no time, they could talk about anything—from daily trivialities to secrets shared only between close friends. Seeing their enthusiasm and chemistry, Ethan had suggested they become partners and open a flower shop together.
They both loved the idea. Daria was tired of waiting tables; a change of pace was exactly what she needed. Jessica needed someone she could trust to help out, and Daria knew almost everyone in town—it was a perfect match.