Chapter 19
Nora's POV
The road took a sharp turn, and Ethan had to swerve around a pothole the size of a manhole cover. Muddy water sprayed up, spattering the side of the car. I grabbed the door handle instinctively, old muscle memory from countless times my car had nearly bottomed out on this stretch.
"How often do you drive this route?" Julian's voice cut through my thoughts.
I turned to find him watching me, not the window. Those silver-gray eyes missed nothing.
"Twice a month," I said. "Sometimes more, depending on how many emergency calls we get."
Something flickered across his face—respect, maybe, or something darker. He turned back to the window, but his fingers drummed once against his thigh, a gesture I was beginning to recognize as controlled anger.
Another twenty minutes passed in tense silence.
Julian broke the silence again. "You're familiar with Cold Creek."
It wasn't a question.
I straightened in my seat, reaching for the file folder I'd prepared. "Yes, sir."
"Brief me."
I pulled out my notes—pages and pages of documentation that had been rejected, buried, or outright ignored by every level of bureaucracy above me.
"Cold Creek has a population of approximately 3,200. Sixty percent are over sixty years old, plus a significant number of displaced Lycans who've lost their ability to shift. Most young people leave for Silverton or further out as soon as they're able. The town's primary income sources are Social Security and small-scale farming."
Julian's eyes were on me now, that intense focus that made me feel like every word mattered.
I continued. "Ten years ago, many mining companies operated coal extraction facilities here. When they closed the mines, they never completed environmental remediation. Since 2024, we've documented a cluster of health issues among residents—chronic skin conditions, respiratory problems."
My throat felt tight, but I pushed through.
"Last year I commissioned a third-party water quality test. Arsenic levels in the groundwater were two hundred percent above EPA safety standards. I submitted five separate reports recommending immediate intervention. All of them were marked 'pending further verification' and then buried. The county health department claimed they didn't have budget for a temporary medical station."
The car was completely silent except for the hum of the engine and the crunch of gravel under the tires.
Julian's jaw tightened.
"Where's the test report now?" His voice was dangerously quiet.
"I have a copy in my files," I said. "The original is in the county office, but they denied my access request."
He turned to Ethan in the front seat. "Note that. First thing we do at the county office—pull every archived file related to Cold Creek."
"Understood, sir," Ethan replied, already typing on his tablet.
I hesitated, then pulled out another folder from my bag—thinner, more worn at the edges. "There's something else you should know."
Julian's attention snapped back to me.
"Over the past six months, we've documented seven missing person cases in Cold Creek." I flipped the folder open, showing him the case summaries I'd compiled on my own time. "Local police investigated but came up with nothing."
"That's why I chose Cold Creek," Julian said. Something in those eyes made my breath catch. "Missing persons cases with this pattern—it's a signature we've been tracking. Federal intelligence suspects an organized operation targeting vulnerable populations."
I felt my pulse quicken. "You think they're connected?"
"Most likely." His voice was cold, controlled fury barely leashed.
He handed the folder back to me, but his gaze held mine for a moment longer. "Don't mention the missing persons cases to anyone for now."
I nodded.
---
The town limits sign appeared through the rain-streaked windshield. Welcome to Cold Creek.
The main street looked like a ghost town. Half the buildings were boarded up, windows either covered with plywood or simply gaping black holes. Most of the shops were open for business, just cold and empty.
We turned onto Maple Street, and there it was: Cold Creek Town Hall. A single-story brick building, squat and institutional.
And then I saw the setup.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I muttered under my breath.
A news van was parked conspicuously near the entrance. Three reporters stood ready with cameras and microphones, their positions already optimized for the best shots. A small crowd of "ordinary citizens" had gathered, holding hand-painted signs:
THANK YOU FEDERAL GOVERNMENT!
COLD CREEK NEEDS YOUR HELP!
Some of the signs were clearly made by children—crayon drawings of houses and stick figures, the word "THANK YOU" spelled in uneven letters. The kids holding them looked confused and cold, obviously dragged here by parents who'd been "encouraged" to show up.
And in the center of it all stood Mayor Howard Sullivan, dressed in business casual—polo shirt, khakis, and a windbreaker with the town seal on it—chatting warmly with townspeople. He looked every inch the concerned, accessible public servant.
This isn't a formal reception, I realized. This is supposed to look spontaneous.
My stomach turned. I'd seen this performance before. Two years ago, Howard had pulled the same stunt for a state senator's visit—"grassroots support" that conveniently appeared whenever cameras were rolling and disappeared the moment they left.
The real residents of Cold Creek—the ones drinking poisoned water, the ones who couldn't afford doctors, the ones I visited every month—weren't here. They never were.
Julian stared out the window, his expression carved from ice.
"I specifically requested no media," he said, his voice flat.
Ethan shifted uncomfortably in the front seat. "We did notify the mayor's office, sir. They must have—"
"Decided a federal inspector's visit was a good PR opportunity?" Julian's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Noted."
He pushed open the door before Ethan could get out to assist. I scrambled to grab my briefcase and follow.
The moment Julian stepped out of the car, the cameras started rolling. Howard's face lit up with practiced enthusiasm as he strode forward, hand extended.
"Mr. Sterling! Welcome to Cold Creek!" His voice carried across the parking lot, clearly meant for the microphones. "Our community is so grateful for your visit!"
Julian shook his hand—a brief, controlled grip. Professional. Not warm.
Howard turned slightly toward the cameras, his smile broadening. "As the elected representative of this town, I want to say—our people have been waiting for federal support for a long time."
Elected representative. The phrase tasted bitter. Howard had run unopposed in the last three elections because nobody else wanted the job of managing a dying town.
Julian's expression didn't change, but I saw the subtle shift in his posture—the way he angled his body to cut Howard out of the camera frame.
"Thank you, Mayor Sullivan." His voice was calm, measured, and absolutely frigid. "I'm here to assess the situation and ensure that federal resources are being used appropriately. This is a fact-finding visit, not a publicity event."
The crowd went silent. Even the reporters looked uncertain.
Julian turned to face the cameras directly. "I appreciate your interest, but we won't be taking questions today. My office will issue a statement after the assessment is complete."
Then he walked past Howard without another word, heading straight for the town hall entrance.
The mayor stood frozen, his smile locked in place, as Julian effectively ended his performance with three sentences.
I followed quickly, my heart pounding. Behind us, I could hear the reporters scrambling, the crowd murmuring. Howard's voice rose, trying to salvage the moment—"Well, as I was saying, we're just so glad to have federal oversight—"
But nobody was listening anymore.