The podium felt heavier than it should have.
Brian stood behind it in full view of cameras from three states. Flashbulbs flickered across his face as reporters adjusted lenses and leaned forward for position.
Behind him, mounted on a large display board, were photographs.
Sarah Johnson.
Emily Carter.
And a third young woman recently reported missing two days prior, Hannah Whitmore, last seen leaving a grocery store outside Branson.
The pattern was undeniable now.
Brown hair.
Similar build.
Early twenties.
Jack wasn't hiding.
He was hunting.
The Chief stepped aside, nodding for Brian to begin.
Brian adjusted the microphone slightly.
The crowd quieted.
"My name is Detective Brian Dawson," he began evenly, voice steady despite the weight pressing behind his ribs. "Today we are asking for the public's immediate assistance."
Behind him, the images remained fixed.
"These young women deserve to come home safely. Sarah Johnson had recovered. Emily Carter was not."
A ripple moved through the reporters.
"And we now have reason to believe Hannah Whitmore may be in imminent danger."
Murmurs filled the air.
Brian continued.
"The individual responsible is former Detective Jack Davis."
A second screen illuminated with Jack's photo.
Clean-cut academy portrait.
Followed by a more recent image captured from surveillance footage.
"He is armed. He is trained. And he is dangerous."
Brian paused briefly.
"If you see him, do not approach. Contact the department immediately. A hotline has been established and is listed below."
A number appeared on the screen behind him.
"Time is critical."
His voice tightened just slightly on that word.
"We believe Jack Davis is operating within the Branson region. He is familiar with rural terrain, logging roads, lake access points, and abandoned properties."
He let that sink in.
"Every minute matters."
Behind the professionalism, something churned.
He had worked beside Jack for two years.
Shared shifts.
Shared cases.
Shared coffee at three in the morning.
He had trusted him.
And now—
He stood here publicly naming him as a predator.
"Jack," Brian said deliberately, eyes lifting toward the cameras, "if you are watching this — and we believe you are — this ends now."
The reporters leaned forward.
"You do not control the narrative. You do not control these lives. Release Hannah. Turn yourself in."
Silence fell heavily.
"You were once part of this department," Brian continued, voice tightening despite control. "You know how this works. The perimeter is closing."
The Chief shifted slightly behind him.
"This will not end the way you want it to."
Brian stepped back slightly from the microphone.
"Help us bring these young women home."
He stepped away.
Questions erupted instantly.
"Detective, do you believe there are more victims?"
"Is there evidence he's targeting specific features?"
"Was this preventable?"
The Chief took over, fielding operational responses.
Brian stepped off the stage area, heart pounding harder than he allowed anyone to see.
He moved into a private hallway behind the media staging area.
The noise faded.
His shoulders dropped slightly.
He pressed his hands against the cool concrete wall.
Two girls are possibly alive.
One confirmed dead.
And the man responsible was someone he once trusted with backup.
How had he missed it?
He replayed old moments in his mind.
Jack's temper during certain interrogations.
His impatience with female witnesses.
The complaints from Carbondale.
He had seen pieces.
But pieces hadn't formed the whole picture.
Until now.
The Lieutenant approached quietly.
"You held it together."
Brian nodded once.
"I keep thinking about the academy photo."
"What about it?"
"He looked normal."
The Lieutenant exhaled.
"Monsters don't introduce themselves that way."
Brian closed his eyes briefly.
Two years.
Two years working side by side.
Did he ever see the real man?
Or had Jack simply perfected performance?
In a roadside motel room thirty miles outside Branson, Jack watched the press conference on a muted television.
He leaned forward as Brian addressed him directly.
"You do not control the narrative."
Jack's jaw tightened.
The audacity.
The hypocrisy.
He had controlled it once.
He had shaped investigations.
Closed cases.
Directed outcomes.
Now he was a face on a board.
A warning.
He reached for the remote and turned the volume up.
"…release Hannah. Turn yourself in."
Jack smiled faintly.
"You still think this is about surrender," he muttered.
The screen shifted to the hotline number.
Jack studied it.
He appreciated symbolism.
Control wasn't about physical proximity anymore.
It was about psychological pressure.
And Brian had just escalated publicly.
Which meant—
He would need to escalate privately.
In Carbondale, Molly and Sarah watched the press conference from their dorm room.
Claire and Robyn sat beside them.
When Brian's face filled the screen, Molly's breath caught involuntarily.
He looked older.
Tired.
But unwavering.
"He looks overwhelmed," Claire whispered.
"He is," Molly said softly.
Sarah watched quietly as her photo appeared on the screen again.
Seeing herself as part of a pattern unsettled her.
"I don't want to be connected to this anymore," she whispered.
"You're not," Molly said firmly.
"You survived."
But survival didn't erase association.
The screen shifted to Hannah Whitmore's smiling image.
Sarah swallowed hard.
"She looks like me."
Molly squeezed her hand.
"Yes."
The weight of that reality settled over them.
This wasn't random.
This wasn't over.
Back in Branson, tips flooded the hotline.
Sightings reported.
False leads logged.
Anonymous calls claiming knowledge.
Most useless.
Some worth chasing.
The department moved quickly.
Checkpoints expanded.
Unmarked units deployed deeper into rural corridors.
Brian returned to his office and closed the door.
He sat heavily in his chair.
The press conference had been necessary.
But it felt like lighting a match in dry brush.
Public awareness brought help.
It also brought unpredictability.
He stared at the photographs again.
Sarah.
Emily.
Hannah.
How many more before this ended?
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He answered cautiously.
"Detective Dawson."
Silence.
Then—
Breathing.
Soft.
Controlled.
Brian's spine straightened.
"Jack."
A faint chuckle.
"You're getting dramatic."
Brian didn't react outwardly.
"Where is she?"
"You assume she's alive."
"Jack."
A pause.
"You shouldn't have made it public."
"You left me no choice."
"I left you options."
Brian's jaw tightened.
"You crossed a line."
"So did you."
The line went dead.
Brian stared at the phone.
He had wanted Jack to surface.
Be careful what you ask for.
Because now—
It was personal.
And public.
And accelerating.