His younger sister, Erica, had married Brad Perry three years ago against Max’s advice. Something about Perry had always felt off—the way his smile never quite reached his eyes, how he’d grip Erica’s arm just a little too tight when he thought nobody was watching. But Erica had been 23 and in love, and Max had been shipping out. He’d voiced his concerns once, got shut down, and let it go. His mistake.

The satellite phone rang at 23:00 local time, unusual enough to spike his adrenaline. Sergeant Powell handed it over with a curious expression. “Some sheriff from your hometown, Childs. Says it’s urgent.”

Max took the phone outside, away from curious ears. “This is Staff Sergeant Childs.”

“Max, it’s Curtis Hubbard.” The sheriff’s voice was gravelly, worn down by 30 years of small-town law enforcement. “I’m calling with bad news, son. Your sister’s in County General. Brad put her there.”