Page 98 of He Sees You
I've researched him since Juliette told us about the trafficking.
Fifty-three years old, divorced twice, three kids who don't speak to him.
Twenty-eight years with the state police, commendations and complaints equalling out the other.
The kind of cop who gets results but leaves bodies in his wake—metaphorical and literal.
The truck is already warm, heated remotely.
Cain thinks of everything.
We drive in silence through the pre-dawn darkness, passing only one other vehicle—a delivery truck heading to town.
The driver doesn't even glance our way.
We're invisible, anonymous, just another couple in the dark.
The mountains loom around us, black shapes against a black sky.
I grew up here, but never really saw them until now.
They hide so much—bodies, secrets, crimes that span decades.
My father taught me these roads, showed me the trails, warned me about the dangers in the woods.
He never mentioned he was one of them.
"Tell me about Morrison's routine again," I say, though I already know it by heart.
"He parks at exactly 5:45. Stretches for three minutes by his car. Starts running at 5:48. Maintains a nine-minute mile pace for the first three miles, then slows to ten-minute miles for the back four. Reaches the isolated stretch by Miller's Pond between 6:15 and 6:18."
"You've been watching him."
"Yes. He's uploaded every run to Strava. Public profile. He wants people to see how dedicated he is, how strong. Vanity makes him vulnerable."
"Like Jake."
"All predators are vain. They think they're apex, untouchable. They never consider they might be someone else's prey."
Miller's Pond is a seven-mile loop popular with serious runners.
The trail is well-maintained but isolated, especially the two-mile stretch along the pond's north shore.
No cell service, no houses, no help.
In summer, it's beautiful—wildflowers and mountain views.
In winter, it's desolate, the kind of place where screams freeze before they reach anywhere.
Morrison posts about it constantly on social media, bragging about maintaining his routine despite the investigation. "Dedication separates professionals from amateurs," his last post read.
Dedication will separate him from his life in approximately forty minutes.
We park at the trailhead lot, empty except for Morrison's rental car—a black Suburban that screams federal authority.
He wants people to know who he is, what power he represents.
After today, it'll just be an abandoned vehicle waiting for an owner who'll never return.
