CHAPTER 10
Chapter Title: Welcome to Crisfield
Kathy
The scent of brine and old cigarettes hit me the moment I crossed into Crisfield city limits. It wasn’t nostalgia—it was stagnation. A place allergic to change. White picket fences sagged under the weight of time. Rusted crab shacks still proudly displayed signs that read Voted #1 in ’98. American flags clung to porch railings like prayer beads, as if patriotism could keep the rot out a little longer.
I drove with the windows down, letting the hot summer air slap me in the face. The GPS kept glitching, rerouting every few blocks like it was trying to warn me off. Not that I needed directions. There was only one police station in this forgotten fishing town, and if you blinked, you missed it.
I parked across the street from the Crisfield Police Department—a squat, cinderblock building crammed between a payday loan office and a laundromat. A seagull squawked overhead, landing on a crooked flagpole that creaked in the wind.
I didn’t wait to assess. Didn’t pause to steady myself. I just moved—fast, focused, like I always did when someone tried to take something from me. From her.
Inside, the blast of air conditioning hit like a punch. The scent of burnt coffee and worn-out bureaucracy wafted in the air. A desk sergeant looked up from his box of donuts, blinking through bifocals like he’d just seen a ghost.
“You lost, miss?”
I didn’t answer. I pulled my badge from my blazer and slapped it down like a playing card that beat everything else on the table.
“Special Agent Katherine Hastings. I’m here about your missing persons case. Where’s Chief Morgan?”
His posture snapped straight. “Uh—Chief’s in his office. Last door down that hall.”
“Thanks.” I was already walking before he finished.
The hallway was narrow, the carpet thin and institutional. I didn’t knock. I opened the door to find a lean man in his early fifties, buzzed gray hair, sun-wrinkled skin. He wore a department-issued polo like it was body armor and looked at me like I was a headache he hadn’t scheduled.
“Agent Hastings. We weren’t informed the Bureau was sending someone.”
“I wanted to personally tell you,” I said flatly, shutting the door behind me. “The Bureau pulled jurisdiction, but to me this is personal."
He tilted his head. “I’m sorry?”
“Your missing person. Kimberly Hastings. She’s my sister.”
The words landed like a body dropped on pavement.
Chief Morgan stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck like he could rearrange the last twenty-four hours by force. “No one mentioned a family connection.”
“They wouldn’t have. Bureau just connected the dots.” I stepped closer. “Now walk me through it. Everything. From the second she walked into that club to the moment she disappeared. And don’t leave anything out. Because if I find out something was buried to protect someone in this town, I will burn your department to the ground with a FOIA request and a smile.”
Morgan stared at me, then exhaled. “Christ.”
I sat down, unblinking. “Let’s get something straight. I’m not here to step on toes. I’m here to kick doors off their hinges. If someone took my sister, I will find them. If someone knows something and they’re staying quiet, I’ll find them too. And if anyone in your department tries to stonewall me, I’ll have an internal audit team in this building by sunrise. Are we clear?”
He nodded. One word. “Crystal.”
“Good. Now talk.”
Morgan sat down, opened a manila folder, and began reading.
“She left the club—Delish—around 11:55 p.m. Friday. Friends said she was drunk but lucid. Said she called an Uber. Black SUV pulls up. She gets in. Five minutes later, the real Uber arrives.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yes.”
“Witnesses?”
“Two. Emma—her fiancé’s cousin—and a girl named Allison. Neither checked the plates. They just assumed it was her ride.”
“Security footage?”
His mouth twisted. “Corrupted. Cameras from the club and the surrounding block glitched out for a twenty-minute window. Not just Delish. Whole three-block radius went dark.”
My jaw tightened. “That’s not a glitch. That’s tactical.”
“We thought so too. Her phone pinged once about two hours later—out near an abandoned seafood warehouse just off Route 413. Then radio silence.”
“No sign of the vehicle?”
“Still missing. Without a plate or make, we’ve got nothing concrete.”
I sat back, letting the pieces fall into place. “Where’s the fiancé?”
“Family estate. Out on the water. Senator Henry Williamson’s home.”
I went still. The Senator Henry Williamson. Conservative powerhouse. Big oil lobbyist. Untouchable in D.C. Kimberly was engaged to his son?
I pursed my lips. Just perfect.
“Has he been cooperative?”
Morgan hesitated. “He’s… polite. But he’s rehearsed. Slick. Won’t allow a property search without a warrant.”
“Then get one.”
“We’re trying. Judge Braddock’s stalling. Williamson money goes deep in this town.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “Of course it does.”
Morgan rubbed his jaw. “Your sister owns a bakery here. Sweet and Savory. She kept to herself. Locals knew she was engaged to the Senator’s son, but beyond that? They thought she was just another socialite slumming it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Did anyone report her missing before the fiancé?”
He hesitated again.
“What?”
“Anonymous tip. Came in the night she disappeared. Man said something felt off. That she got into the wrong car. Call came from a burner. We traced it—dead number. Gone.”
That caught my attention.
“Someone close enough to notice she was in trouble. But not close enough—or brave enough—to stop it.”
Morgan nodded grimly. “We’re trying to triangulate the signal tower it bounced off, but it’s a cold trail.”
“Where was she coming from before Delish?” I asked, my voice low, probing.
Morgan thumbed through the manila folder, his eyes flicking over dog-eared pages. “Her place on Delmarva. Uber receipt puts her at her home address—picked up there, dropped off at Delish fifteen minutes later."
I stood, pushing the chair back with a sharp scrape. “I want copies of everything. Reports. Call logs. Uber receipts. Glitched footage. If it’s touched this case, I want it.”
"Here." He tossed the folder toward me. "You can have the reports from our initial investigation. I have copies."
I grabbed the folder, but noticed his lips part and pause. He was hesitating again. "Chief Morgan?"
“There’s something else.”
“What?” Just spit it out.
“I’m treating this as part of a potential serial abduction case.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Serial?”
“Five women. All mid-to-late twenties. All vanished under different circumstances in the past sixteen months. No bodies. No ransom. Just… gone.”
“Different M.O.s?”
“Yeah. That’s what makes it messy. No obvious link—until now.”
“Good. You chase that angle. Meanwhile, I’ll conduct my own investigation. If you uncover anything useful, call me.” I slid my business card across his table, its crisp edge catching the dim light, a quiet promise of answers yet to come.
He gave a slow nod.
As I moved toward the door, I paused. “If this were your daughter—how far would you go?”
Morgan looked me dead in the eye. “As far as it takes.”
“Then stay out of my way.”
I slipped out, easing the door shut but leaving a slight gap to glimpse what he’d do next. He snatched his phone, dialed, and barked, “It’s Morgan. Patch me through to her. It’s urgent. Tell her we’ve got a problem.”
I’d only been in Crisfield for two hours, and already I had their panties in a twist.
I strained to eavesdrop on his conversation, but footsteps approached. I hurried away.
Outside, the morning sun blazed over Crisfield, casting sharp shadows across the cracked sidewalks. The town shimmered in a haze of gold, the air heavy with salt and the drone of cicadas. But to me, everything burned red—danger, blood, fury, resolve.
I slid into the driver’s seat, tossing the file Morgan gave me onto the passenger side. Flipping it open, I stared down at a glossy photo.
Kimberly.
She looked nothing like the girl I remembered. Bleached blonde hair, curled and camera-ready. Impossibly white teeth. Subtle but strategic plastic surgery. She looked like someone else’s daughter. Living someone else’s life.
In another photo, she was laughing in a white dress. Probably engagement photos. My stomach twisted. I’d missed it all.
I clenched the edge of the folder and pulled out my phone.
“Chen,” a voice said when the line picked up.
“I need a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“Dig into the Williamson family. Deep. Quiet. I want everything. Secrets. Tax evasion. Affairs. Offshore accounts. If a cousin sneezed in Ibiza in 2014, I want it documented.”
A pause.
“You got it.”
I hung up and stared at my reflection in the windshield. My hands were steady. My heart wasn’t.
But I wasn’t here to cry.
I was here to find my sister.
And whoever took her?
They were about to learn exactly what it meant to light a match inside the wrong woman.
But first, I'll go get some breakfast.