District No. 7

Sheriff Harrison summons you to his office, his face etched with anger and irritation following a barrage of inquiries from the press:

Sheriff Harrison

— Listen to me, rookie. Two mass murders have occurred in your jurisdiction, and we have zero leads! — his voice rises, and you see the veins in his forehead begin to bulge slightly — Two weeks! I am giving you exactly two weeks! Either you find the killer—somewhere in these damn villages, because no outsider has been driving through there—or you write your resignation. The FBI has called me four times just today! If I get stripped of my position because of your inaction, you are going to have a very hard time! Is that clear?!

Without waiting for your response, he points a finger toward the door and barks:

— Get to work!

In your pocket, you have your ID, a pistol, handcuffs, your car keys, a wallet, and a notebook filled with questions from when you and Detective Hayes were processing the crime scenes. Why was the front door in Millbrook locked from the inside? Why did no one in the Millbrook family wake up? Who locked the barn in Fairview? Why are there no traces at the crime scenes? Was the killer alone, or were there several?

It is 9:11 AM. Ahead of you lie fourteen days and two families whose murders seem far too convoluted.

District No. 7

Description

Somewhere in the American heartland, amidst cornfields and weathered backroads, lie four villages and a handful of farms. A place where the greatest crime is stealing gasoline. A place where even cell service is a luxury. And this is where you are sent, fresh out of the academy: a rookie deputy sheriff. The first few weeks were quiet. Then came the call from Millbrook. Friends entered the Turner family home to find four people dead in their beds. The father, the mother, and two children. They lay perfectly still: arms at their sides, blankets pulled up to their chins. No blood, no signs of a struggle. No bruises, no wounds. The house was locked from the inside, but the back door was standing open. The next day—a second call. The Harris farm in Fairview. In the barn, five bodies hung from the rafters—an entire family. They were hung in a row, like mannequins. Arms pressed tight to their sides, faces all turned in the same direction. The barn had been padlocked from the outside.