Page 4 of Fatal Fame
Never heard of this case, but that truck looks familiar...
High Peaks? My cousin lives near there. Says everyone knows the family but no one talks about what happened.
Police cover-up for sure. You can tell by how fast they sealed the files.
RIP Rebecca and Jacob. Justice delayed is justice denied.
Pierce watched the thread explode with activity, theories flying like sparks from a bonfire. Some responses were thoughtful analysis, others wild speculation, but all of it generated engagement. More importantly, it would reach people in and around High Peaks, people who remembered that night ten years ago.
One response caught his attention, posted by a user named ADKLawGirl:
I remember this case. There were always rumors about Rebecca seeing someone she shouldn't have been. Local law enforcement angle might be worth exploring, but be careful. This town protects its own.
Pierce smiled. The handle suggested someone with legal knowledge, possibly local. He clicked on the profile—not much public information, but the post history showed someone who clearly knew the area and had been following regional cases for years.
Three thousand miles away,Mia Sutherland sat cross-legged on her bed in High Peaks, laptop warm against her thighs, heart racing as she read Pierce Landry's post. She'd been following Cold Trail since their first season, had listened to every episode multiple times, analyzed their methods, dreamed of someday working for the FBI and handling cases like the ones Pierce investigated.
But this was different. This was her town. An old case.
She'd spent the afternoon at theAdirondack Daily Enterprise, digitizing old newspaper archives—the same place her mother Lena had worked as a reporter before her death. Natalie Ashford had arranged for Mia to learn more about what her mother did investigating cases, helping her decide between following in her mother's footsteps or pursuing her FBI dreams. The Hale coverage had been surprisingly thin for a double murder, a few newspaper reports, one photo of a black truck, witness statements that said nothing, and a conclusion that felt rushed. Even at eighteen, with no formal training, Mia could see the gaps.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her friend Sarah:You see that podcast guy posted about the Hale murders? Everyone's freaking out.
Mia stared at Pierce's post, at the photo of the black truck that looked hauntingly familiar. She thought about her grandfather Hugh, how he sometimes got confused these days, mixed up details from old cases. She thought about her father Noah, working late again on some BCI investigation, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders like all the Sutherland men seemed to do.
And she thought about Rebecca and Jacob Hale, two people who deserved better than a thin file and a town's selective amnesia.
Before she could second-guess herself, Mia typed her response:
ADKLawGirl here. I stand by what I said about being careful. This case has more layers than the official story suggests. There are people in town who remember details that never made it into reports. If you're serious about investigating this, you need to understand that you're not just challenging a case—you're challenging a community's need to move on. Some doors, once opened, can't be closed again.
She hesitated for a moment, cursor hovering over the submit button. Her father would kill her if he knew she was engaging with true crime podcasters online, especially about a local case. But Rebecca and Jacob Hale deserved someone to care, someone to ask the questions that had never been asked.
Mia hit submit.
Pierce readADKLawGirl's response with growing excitement. This was exactly what he'd hoped for—a local with knowledge, willing to engage but appropriately cautious. The kind of source that could crack a case wide open.
His phone rang, interrupting his planning. Unknown number, New York area code.
"Pierce Landry."
"Mr. Landry, my name is Evelyn Cross. I'm a retired forensic criminologist, and I understand you're looking into the Hale murders."
Pierce grabbed a pen, instantly alert. Forensic expert calling him directly? This was better than he'd dared hope. "Yes, that's right. How did you?—"
"Word travels fast in small towns, especially when someone starts asking questions about old wounds." The woman's voice was calm, professional, but Pierce caught an undercurrent of something else. Concern? Fear? "I worked the Hale case peripherally when I was still active. Consulted on the crime scene analysis."
"And?"
"And I’m interested in helping you.” A pause. "Would you be interested in meeting? I have some thoughts about what really happened that night."
Pierce stepped outside onto the building's rooftop patio, the sounds of LA traffic fading to a dull roar. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that reminded him why people moved to California to chase dreams. "I'm very interested. When can we meet?"
"I'm in Saranac Lake. Retired here, many years ago. Couldn't stay away from the case that got away, I suppose." Evelyn's laugh held no humor. "But, Mr. Landry, before you book the flight that I know you're thinking about booking, you need to understand something."
"What's that?"
"The Hale murders weren't random. They weren't a home invasion gone wrong." Her voice dropped. "They weren't solved because certain people didn't want them solved. If you pull at this thread, it won't just unravel a case. It'll unravel lives. Careers. Maybe more."
