Chapter 3: Collision

The house smelled of anxiety and too many bodies in too small a space. Cora cataloged the scene automatically: family photos arranged chronologically along the stairwell, fresh flowers on the entryway table, a woman's cardigan draped over the banister. A home maintained by someone who cared about details.

Lambert met her in the living room, his bulky frame blocking her view of whoever he was speaking with. When he stepped aside, Cora felt her breath catch.

The man standing by the fireplace was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair cut short at the sides and longer on top. He wore the standard detective uniform of slacks and button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms marked with old scars. But it was his eyes that held her—deep brown, watching her with an intensity that felt invasive, as if he could see past her carefully constructed walls.

"Dr. Evans," Lambert said, oblivious to the sudden tension in the room. "This is Mason Reid, the PI I mentioned."

Reid extended his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Cora took it. His palm was warm, calloused. Familiar in a way that made no sense.

"We've met before," he said quietly.

Cora withdrew her hand. "I don't think so."

"Oakridge University, Advanced Criminology seminar. Professor Wilson's class." His voice was deep, with a roughness that suggested he didn't use it often. "You gave a guest lecture on behavioral analysis in serial abductions."

The lie was smooth, practiced. Cora knew instantly it was fabricated—she'd never taught at Oakridge—but she couldn't pinpoint why he would invent such a specific false connection.

"I speak at many universities, Mr. Reid. I don't remember every face in the audience."

His mouth curved in what might have been a smile on anyone else. On him, it looked like resignation. "Of course. My mistake."

Lambert cleared his throat. "Reid's been consulting on similar cases up and down the coast. Director thinks his insights might help us connect the dots."

"And what insights would those be?" Cora asked, addressing Reid directly.

Instead of answering, he handed her a folder. "My case notes. There are patterns the department hasn't identified yet."

Cora flipped through the pages, irritation giving way to reluctant interest. His observations were detailed, methodical. Several connections she hadn't considered herself. "These four victims—you've linked them how?"

"All had appointments with mental health professionals within forty-eight hours of disappearing," Reid said. "Different doctors, different practices, but all seeking help for the same thing: recurring nightmares they couldn't explain."

Cora's head snapped up. That detail hadn't been in any of the official reports.

"How did you get this information?" Lambert asked, frowning.

"I spoke to the families. Asked different questions." Reid's eyes never left Cora's face. "Sometimes what matters isn't what people tell you—it's what they don't realize they're telling you."

The statement carried a weight that seemed directed specifically at her. Cora forced herself to look away, back to the file in her hands. "You think our kidnapper is selecting victims based on their mental health struggles?"

"I think whoever is doing this is looking for people who are already haunted," Reid said quietly. "People carrying wounds that haven't healed."

Something cold settled in Cora's stomach. She closed the folder, handing it back to him with more force than necessary. "Interesting theory. But I work with evidence, not speculation."

"Then you'll want to see the victim's bedroom," Lambert interrupted. "There's something there you should both look at."

As they followed Lambert up the stairs, Cora felt Reid's presence behind her like a physical touch. Every instinct told her to keep her distance from this man. To refuse the collaboration and continue working alone.

But as they entered Caroline Webb's bedroom and she saw the feather placed precisely in the center of the pillow—identical to the ones found with each victim's body—Cora knew she didn't have that luxury anymore.

"The husband found it this morning," Lambert said. "Says it wasn't there when he went to bed. Says Caroline was afraid of birds—wouldn't have kept feathers around."

Reid moved to the bedside table, examining the items there without touching them. "Sleeping pills," he noted. "Prescription for Caroline Webb. Filled two weeks ago." He looked at Lambert. "How full is the bottle?"

Lambert checked. "More than half empty."

"She was taking them regularly," Cora murmured, her mind racing ahead. "Possibly to combat the nightmares."

"Or someone was giving them to her," Reid suggested. "Making sure she wouldn't wake up when they came for her."

Their eyes met across the bed, a moment of perfect understanding that unsettled Cora deeply. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing parts of herself she kept hidden reflected back.

"I need to speak with the husband," she said, breaking the connection. "Alone."

"He's downstairs with a uniform," Lambert said. "I'll bring him up."

When Lambert left, the room felt suddenly smaller. Reid stayed where he was, giving her space, but his presence filled the room nonetheless.

"You don't remember me at all, do you?" he asked softly.

The question sparked anger. "That line might work with some women, Mr. Reid, but I assure you—"

"It's not a line." He cut her off, his expression hardening. "And I'm not hitting on you, Dr. Evans. I'm simply stating a fact."

"We've never met."

"We have." He took a step toward her, then stopped himself. "But that's not important right now. What matters is catching whoever is doing this before they take someone else."

Before Cora could respond, Lambert returned with Caroline Webb's husband, a pale man with red-rimmed eyes who looked like he might collapse at any moment. Reid stepped back, giving her the lead without being asked.

It was the first thing he'd done that didn't irritate her.