The snow fell relentlessly, blanketing the Waverly Junction landscape in a pristine layer of white. The harsh glare of the patrol car's headlights cut through the darkness as it pulled up alongside the abandoned trailer, its tires crunching on the icy road. The desolate highway seemed to stretch on endlessly, devoid of any signs of life. Inside the patrol car, Officer Ritter glanced out at the ghostly scene, his breath forming a fog on the cold glass of the window. He turned to his partner, Officer Ramirez, who sat beside him, their expressions reflecting a mix of anticipation and apprehension. “Looks like we're the only ones out here tonight,” Ritter said. “Yeah, doesn't seem like anyone's been around for a while.” They exchanged a glance, acknowledging the eerie atmosphere that hung heavy in the air. Cautiously, they exited the patrol car and approached the abandoned trailer. The wind howled ominously, the snow swirling around them as they made their way to its entrance. Ramirez’s voice was barely audible over the sound of the howling winds. “Think anything's inside?” “Hard to say. But we won't know until we take a look.” The blue and yellow trailer was battered and worn. It loomed ominously in the Thanksgiving moonlight, an open padlock hanging on the hinge of its door. With flashlights in hand, Officers Ritter and Ramirez approached the truck, their other hands hovering over their guns as they prepared for what they might find. As they pulled open the creaky door, the hinges protested loudly against the icy cold. With grim determination, they looked inside. What they found was an unimaginably horrific scene. Despite the low temperature, the air was thick with the smell of death, a sickening mixture of blood and other bodily fluids that made both men gag. The floor of the trailer was littered with discarded clothing and personal belongings, scattered as if in a frenzy. But it was the sight of the bodies that stopped Officer Ritter in his tracks. There were ten that he could count, their forms contorted in gross poses of agony wrapped around each other. Their skin was blue and mottled, their eyes, wide with terror, frozen in their final moments of life. Bile rose in Officer Ramirez’s throat as he took in the grisly scene before him. He jumped from the trailer in time to throw up his family’s fantastic holiday meal. They radioed for backup and awaited the arrival of detectives and the medical examiner. Whatever had happened in this trailer—they’d have nightmares the rest of their lives. *** Molly Everhart headed home after a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner with family and friends, driving carefully as she navigated the snowy roads. Anticipation bubbled inside her. Tomorrow morning, she’d finally get some “me time” at the dance festival at the Waverly Junction convention center and hotel. The thought of spending a weekend immersed in dance, surrounded by fellow enthusiasts, filled her with excitement and energy. In her bedroom, Molly quickly packed her dance shoes, outfits for each day of the festival, and her favorite songs to set the mood during the drive. She checked her phone one last time, making sure she had all the necessary details for the event. Next, she called her office to remind them she had the long three-day weekend off. As she settled into bed, her mind hummed with anticipation. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the incredible dancers and new friendships that awaited her at the festival. She was especially excited for the opportunity to attend a class taught by instructors from the Haven Dance Academy in Spring Hill. She hoped to win a chance to attend a class taught by Ethan Haven himself. He was a prestigious champion, having danced around the world. With dreams of smooth moves and rhythmic beats dancing in her head, she drifted off to sleep, eager for the adventure that lay ahead. *** Molly’s hand fell groggily across her bedside table, and she picked up her ringing phone. She was immediately pulled out of her deep sleep. The voice on the other end belonged to the night-shift coordinator for the ME's office, and his insistence was palpable. “Hey, Molly,” he said, his tone serious. “I know you've got the three-day weekend off, but we've got a major incident.” Molly rubbed her eyes, trying to shake off the fog of sleep. “What's going on? Snow accident?” She was suddenly alert. “Not an accident. It's bad,” the coordinator replied grimly. “There's been a terrible discovery on the old Waverly Junction highway connector. An abandoned trailer. Ten women dead.” Her heart sank at the news. She knew she couldn't ignore a call like this, not with so much at stake. Despite her plans for the Waverly Junction Dance Festival, her job came first. “I'll be there as soon as I can.” She was already mentally rearranging her weekend plans. “Keep me updated on the situation.” Molly quickly got dressed, her mind racing with thoughts of the investigation ahead. The Waverly Junction Dance Festival would have to keep. Right now, her priority was to uncover the truth behind this tragedy and bring closure to the families affected. As she drove slowly toward the scene, she made the necessary calls to ensure the mass casualty trailer was en route. She knew the importance of having all resources available, especially in such a tragic situation. She contacted the office to gather information on the law enforcement personnel in charge. Knowing who was leading the investigation would be crucial for coordination and communication. As she navigated the roads, her mind filled with questions. What were ten women doing in a trailer? *** Ethan Hayes sat at his desk in the Pierre FBI office, a fortress of steel and glass. His fingers, callused from years of service, ran through his thick beard as his tired eyes scanned the latest intelligence brief on human trafficking. It was a dark blanket woven from lives filled with exploitation and suffering. Today's report was no different. Large numbers of individuals were being pressed into forced labor or sex trafficking, their lives torn apart by the cruel persons who saw them as commodities rather than people. But amidst the grim statistics, one page in particular caught Ethan's eye. One percent of American women being trafficked did not meet the usual criteria. These women were not sold into brothels or sweatshops. No, they were kidnapped and forced into marriages, their lives stolen away by unseen hands. The thought churned Ethan's stomach, a sickening realization. What disturbed him even more was the scarcity of data. They'd been able to rescue very few of these women, and those who were saved were often unable to provide many details on their ordeal. Some were found shortly before death. Ethan glanced at the missing persons list, a grim ledger. Two hundred and seventy-one faces haunting the computerized pages. And of those, forty percent were people of color, their disappearances often overshadowed by the indifference of a society that failed to see their plight. Forty percent of kidnapped women died. California and Texas stood as the heartlands of this epidemic. The Dakotas had the smallest participation in the evil, with an average of thirty-five between each state. But any missing woman was one too many. His head began to nod, exhausted from spreading himself between three jobs. He pushed himself to his feet and began to make his way home. Outside, the city was quiet at the late hour, the lull between the end of Thanksgiving dinner and the lunacy of Black Friday. It didn’t hurt that it was freezing, and snow was falling and blowing fiercely. At daybreak, two of his jobs would combine. He’d have enough sleep to be coherent. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered, expecting it to be his sister, Joanne. “Sorry, Jojo. I got caught up.” “This is the Chief of the Waverly Junction Police.” Ethan dropped his chin to his chest. He knew by the time of night, this was not a casual call. “Is this Assistant Special Agent in Charge Ethan Hayes? That darn switchboard has bounced me around to high heaven.” “Yes, Chief, this is Agent Hayes.” He continued heading to his Tahoe. “What can I do for you?” “We have a tragedy on our hands. We’ve got ten women frozen to death in a tractor trailer. It matches your alert.” Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose with his leather-gloved hand. So much for sleep. “I’ll come take a look.” After unlocking his truck, Ethan slid into the driver’s seat, the cold leather creaking beneath him. He reached into his pocket, fingers wrapping around a small pad of paper and a pen. “Give me an address.” Ethan scribbled down the location as it was dictated to him. “Alright, Chief,” he continued, his mind doing its best to make its way through the necessary steps. “Call the ME you use.” There was a brief pause as Ethan wondered whether the medical examiner came from Waverly Junction or the county. It was a detail he'd have to confirm later. “Also, call your crime scene investigators. I'll be there in the next two hours. I’m in Pierre.” After ending the call with the chief, Ethan dialed his office. He requested his personnel to assemble at the scene. He started the engine and pulled out into the storm. *** Arriving at the scene, Molly Everhart saw the chaos that awaited her. Emergency vehicles lined the road, their lights flashing red and blue against the early morning sky. Law enforcement officers hurried about, securing the area and directing the traffic that was now heading toward the mall for Black Friday sales. Molly took a deep breath, steeling herself for the grim task ahead. She would need to gather evidence, examine the bodies, and work closely with law enforcement to piece together what had happened. She pulled up to the ME's portable command center, the wind whipping fiercely around her. Tightening her all-weather jacket and pulling her hood over her head, she braced herself against the cold. As she climbed the three steps to the door, her head assistant, Cullen Hermann, met her with a solemn expression. “The scene is the worst I've seen.” His chest hitched. “I've already identified four areas of police vomit, which I've tagged.” Molly’s brow rose, and she nodded grimly. If Cullen was shaken, the situation must truly be dire. “Who's running the scene?” “Chief Stevens from Waverly PD,” Cullen replied. “It's bad, Molly.” Molly's heart sank at the mention of Chief Stevens. Though the truck was abandoned in Waverly Junction, Waverly County had taken over. She had worked with him before, and she knew if he was at a scene on Thanksgiving night, the situation was exceptionally gruesome. Cullen handed her an isolation suit and a camera, and Molly quickly suited up before making her way toward the trailer. As she approached, Chief Stevens greeted her with a weary smile. “Is it Molly, or did I mistake you for a polar bear?” he joked weakly. “Just me, Chief.” Molly returned his greeting with a tight smile. Upon her first look at the trailer, she noted it had flat tires. She followed Cullen as he swung open one of the rear doors, and what she saw made her gasp in horror. Ten women were frozen grotesquely in death, their bodies contorted and wrapped around each other, their desperate attempt to stay warm in their final moments frozen in time. Blood streaked down the doors where they had tried to claw their way out. Molly had to step back and gather her wits for a moment before continuing to process the scene. She'd seen frozen bodies before, but ten... Her breath stalled a moment, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, willing herself to remain composed. She thought back to other gruesome scenes she’d handled. There was the time during her internship she worked the aftermath of a gang shootout, the bodies riddled with bullets and sprawled across a dilapidated warehouse, blood pooling on the cold concrete floor. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the musty smell of decay had clung to her clothes for days. Then there was the car crash on Route 9, where a family of four had been ejected from their vehicle. The twisted metal and shattered glass had painted a horrific picture. She remembered the small hand of the youngest child, still clutching a torn piece of blanket, and the parents’ faces frozen in terror. Another memory surfaced of a domestic dispute turned deadly. She had walked into a house filled with overturned furniture, shattered picture frames, and the victims, a couple, lying lifeless on the living room floor, their bodies bearing the marks of a brutal struggle. Each scene had tested her resolve, pushing her to her limits, but she had always managed to compartmentalize, to push through the horror and focus on her duty. Now, faced with the sight of ten frozen bodies, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void, she had to draw on every ounce of her strength to do the same. With a deep breath, she steadied herself and stepped forward, ready to tackle the grim job before her. She started by instructing Cullen to photograph the scene from every angle as she began to do the same. “Do you have any idea how we're going to get them out of here?” Cullen asked, his voice trembling slightly. Molly took another deep breath, steeling herself. “Call the fire department,” she instructed. “We'll tarp the trailer and print the side walls and roof. Then we'll print every victim, get their body temps, do a gross exterior exam, and lift them as a whole onto the back of the engine truck. We need to get them to the morgue before sunrise to avoid onlookers. We'll have to defrost them to separate them.” As she approached the frozen grouping of bodies, Molly began the grueling task of confirming there were indeed ten victims. As she tagged each head, she reached deeper into the center and suddenly froze. “We have a live one,” she announced, her voice trembling with disbelief. “Get me heaters. We're going to have to do a rapid defrost to get to her. Get me an ETA on the fire department.” *** FBI Assistant Special Agent in Charge Ethan Hayes drove to the scene with extra care. The normal ride took two hours, but in these blizzard conditions, it was slow going. The news he’d received was grim. The trailer the FBI was tracking had been found on the side of a highway in Waverly Junction, its human cargo frozen to death. As he picked up his phone, a sense of dread settled over him. He hated having to make these calls, especially when they disrupted other aspects of his life. The first call was to the director of the Waverly Junction Dance Festival, notifying them that Haven Dance Academy would have to postpone his class until Sunday. He estimated it would take at least forty-eight hours to clear the mess. He then dialed his aunt's number, his fingers tapping anxiously against the phone as he waited for her to pick up. After the first ring, Aunt Marie's familiar face filled the screen, warm and comforting. “Hello?” she answered his video call, her tone tinged with concern. “Ethan, is everything alright?” “Hey, Aunt Marie,” Ethan’s throat was tight with emotion, “something important came up with work. I’m not going to make the festival today and probably not Saturday either. I know Jojo will be disappointed. Can you wake her for me?” His sister, eighteen years younger, was born after a difficult delivery. As she grew, she was diagnosed with level 1 autism. She had deficits in social communication and difficulty initiating social interactions. Back and forth conversation with others often failed, and it was challenging for her to make friends. Her inflexible behavior caused significant interference with functioning. She had a hard time switching between activities. But thanks to his parents’ hard work and the support of tutors, she did well, and with an assistant, she was able to teach the toddler and pre-k dance classes. “Hold on. It’s a blizzard out there. Be careful.” “I will, Aunt Marie. Thank you.” As Ethan waited on the phone, he felt a surge of gratitude for his aunt, for the unwavering support she provided in their darkest hours. He watched as she moved through the family home in Spring Hill, his heart aching with memories of happier times—laughter and music filling the air, family dinners around the kitchen table, lazy Sunday afternoons in the backyard, and late-night conversations with his parents by the fireplace. “Hey, Jojo,” Ethan said softly. “It's me, Ethan.” Joanne looked up, her eyes bright with recognition as she smiled at him. Despite her challenges, she was a beacon of light in his life. “I’m sorry,” he broke the news to her, “I have to work. Aunt Marie will take you to the festival.” Despite his regrets and guilt at letting her down, Ethan found peace in her sweet face filled with forgiveness. Ethan and Joanne had grown up together in their parents' dance studio. They shared a deep love for dance and a strong sense of responsibility for the studio's legacy. Before their parents tragically passed away, Ethan, fresh out of college and law school, made the decision to join the FBI. Though Aunt Marie took good care of her, Joanne struggled without their parents. Understanding his sister's distress, Ethan gave up his apartment and returned home to run the studio while balancing his responsibilities as an FBI agent. Now, with two full-time jobs, Ethan found himself constantly juggling responsibilities, his days stretched thin between investigations and dance classes. Most of the time, switching a class or making sure Joanne was cared for wasn't a major issue, but this particular event in Waverly Junction was significant. Furthering his frustration, the human trafficking ring investigation had led right to their doorstep. Ethan was in charge of the FBI resident agency in Pierre. Though it was a considerable distance away from Waverly Junction, it was still close enough that he wasn’t just worried about the logistics of attending the event. His two worlds colliding also concerned him. Ethan Hayes the FBI agent operated in a realm of danger and secrecy, while Ethan Haven the dance professional was a public figure. The thought of these two personas intersecting sent a shiver down his spine. If his involvement in the human trafficking investigation became known in their close-knit community, it could put his family in jeopardy. Their parents' dance studio was more than just a place of business; it was a sanctuary for dancers of all ages, and any association with criminal activity could tarnish its reputation irreparably. Ethan's thoughts shifted back to the job. His frustration boiled over as he entered the scene, only to find the fire department already at work, blowing heat into the trailer. He muttered curses under his breath, incredulous. The medical examiner couldn’t possibly have assessed the complex scene yet. As Ethan stormed toward the figure clad in a white isolation suit labeled “ME,” his anger blinded him to the slippery surface beneath his feet. With another curse, he slipped on frozen vomit and crashed into the suited figure. He realized a moment too late that it was a petite woman—one he had just sent flying. Ethan scrambled to his feet, his cheeks burning with embarrassment as he reached out to help the woman up. “I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there. Are you alright?” The woman brushed off his hand and pushed herself up, her glare unwavering as she assessed him with suspicion. “I’m tough to miss dressed as a large penguin,” she growled. “Who are you? What do you think you're doing barging into my crime scene like this?” Ethan opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, Battalion Chief Turk Crenshaw, his name emblazoned on his turnout coat, stepped between them, his authoritative voice cutting through the tension. “Molly, we’re running her to County. We’ll help you secure the remaining bodies.” “Thanks, Turk.” Ethan was suddenly drawn to the ME’s full pink lips. Turk crossed his formidable arms and stared at the man who knocked her to the ground. Then he turned back to the ME. “You okay, Molly?” “Fine.” She blew out a breath that frosted in the raging storm. Ethan extended his gloved hand. “I’m Assistant Special Agent in Charge Ethan Hayes from the FBI.” The woman called Molly turned her attention to the battalion chief. Her demeanor softened slightly, though her eyes still held a hint of defiance. Chief Crenshaw glanced at Ethan, amusement on his face. “Well, accidents happen. Looks like you're both alright, so let's focus on the task at hand. We've got a victim to take care of.” With that, he watched his crew continue their work, gently guiding the stretcher bearing the woman toward the waiting ambulance. Ethan watched them go. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” “I’m fine. Molly Everhart, ME.” She finally accepted his hand. “I’m coming with her,” Ethan yelled after the stretcher. As he turned to follow the patient, he silently vowed to be more careful in the future, lest his anger cloud his judgment once again. Ethan was determined to speak to the first live victim they had found. On the ride with the patient, he would assign two other agents to work the scene with the medical examiner. I need to get to the bottom of this fast. This trafficking ring is more organized and pervasive than we thought. And if there are more victims out there, we need to find them before it's too late, he texted to two members of his team. The regional offices had been tracing missing women for a year, and now it was here in Waverly Junction. He hoped the victim could provide valuable information that would help break the case wide open. But as he approached the ambulance, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the pit of his stomach. Stay focused, Ethan. You've got a job to do, and lives are depending on you. With that thought, he squared his shoulders and climbed into the back.