Close to him, p.1
CLOSE TO HIM, page 1
CLOSE TO HIM
(A Kari Blackhorse Suspense Thriller—Book Five)
B L A K E P I E R C E
Blake Pierce
USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake's most recent latest releases are the Alison Payne, Isla Rivers Kari Blackhorse, and Kate Valentine series.
Please visit blakepierceauthor.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2025 by Blake Pierce. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SERIES BY BLAKE PIERCE
KATE VALENTINE
KARI BLACKHORSE
ISLA RIVERS
ALISON PAYNE
JENNA GRAVES
THE GOVERNESS
RACHEL BLACKWOOD
SHEILA STONE
FINN WRIGHT
MORGAN CROSS
JULIETTE HART
FAITH BOLD
FIONA RED
DAISY FORTUNE
AMBER YOUNG
CAMI LARK
NICKY LYONS
CORA SHIELDS
MAY MOORE
PAIGE KING
VALERIE LAW
RACHEL GIFT
AVA GOLD
A YEAR IN EUROPE
ELLA DARK
LAURA FROST
EUROPEAN VOYAGE
ADELE SHARP
THE AU PAIR
ZOE PRIME
JESSIE HUNT
CHLOE FINE
KATE WISE
THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE
RILEY PAIGE
MACKENZIE WHITE
AVERY BLACK
KERI LOCKE
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
The ruins of Riverside Indian Boarding School stood like broken teeth against the darkening November sky. Tommy Begay adjusted his backpack and checked his phone—5:47 PM. He'd have maybe an hour of good light before he'd need to rely on his flashlight. Should be enough time to document the punishment room that his grandfather had described in shaking whispers before he died.
At thirty-two, Tommy had made it his life's work to preserve the stories that others wanted forgotten. His YouTube channel, "Reclaiming Our Past," had over fifty thousand subscribers, following his investigations into a Native American history that the textbooks glossed over. But this project felt different. More personal. His grandfather had attended Riverside from 1963 to 1968, had his language beaten out of him, his hair cut, and his name changed to "Thomas Baker" for five years of his childhood.
For Tommy, this was more than just history.
Tommy stepped through what had once been the main entrance, now just a gaping hole in crumbling adobe walls. His hiking boots crunched on broken glass and decades of accumulated debris. The Bureau of Indian Affairs had abandoned the building in 1982, leaving it to rot like a guilty conscience in the desert. Graffiti covered most surfaces—some angry, some mournful, some just kids being kids. But underneath the spray paint, the bones of the institution remained.
He'd been here twice before in daylight, mapping the layout, comparing it to the testimonies he'd collected. But evening felt more appropriate somehow. Most of the punishments had happened after dark, when the other children were in their beds, pretending not to hear the screams.
The main hallway stretched before him, classroom doors hanging open like mouths frozen mid-scream. Tommy pulled out his camera, a professional-grade DSLR that had cost him three months of savings. His viewers deserved quality documentation, not shaky phone footage.
"This is the main corridor," he said, narrating for the video he'd edit later. "According to survivors, children who spoke Navajo were made to march up and down this hallway for hours, carrying heavy books, until they collapsed. The motto painted above—you can barely see it now—read 'Kill the Indian, Save the Man.'"
He moved deeper into the building, following the hand-drawn map his grandfather had left him. Past the cafeteria, where children had been forced to eat unfamiliar food that made them sick. Past the dormitories where homesick kids cried themselves to sleep. The air grew colder as he descended a short flight of stairs to the basement level.
The punishment room was exactly where his grandfather had said it would be.
Tommy stood in the doorway, camera ready but not yet raised. The room was small, maybe eight by ten feet. No windows. A single wooden chair was bolted to the floor in the center. Metal rings in the walls where restraints had been attached. His grandfather had spent three days in this room speaking Navajo to comfort a younger student. Three days without food, with minimal water, sitting in that chair.
"Shizhé'é," Tommy whispered. "I'm here. I'm recording it. People will know."
He began photographing methodically and thoroughly. Wide shots first, then details. The scratches on the walls were fingernails that had clawed. The dark stains on the concrete floor. The—
Footsteps?
Tommy froze, listening. Nothing.
"Hello?" he called out, his voice bouncing off the walls. "Someone there?"
Tommy waited, holding his breath. After thirty seconds of silence, he shook his head. Probably just the building settling. Old structures made noise. He'd edited enough ghost-hunting videos to know that mundane explanations were usually correct.
He turned back to his work, focusing the camera on the chair. In the viewfinder, he could almost see the children who had sat there. Kids like his grandfather were punished for the crime of being Indian. He snapped photo after photo, building a record that—
"You should not have come here."
Tommy spun around. A figure stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the dim light from the corridor. Male, from the voice. Impossible to guess his age, but the stance held an unnerving stillness, a predatory patience. He was carrying something in his hands—rope? Tommy's mind catalogued details even as his heart rate spiked.
"I'm a researcher," Tommy said, keeping his voice calm. Documenting the building for historical preservation. I can show you my—"
"Preservation." The man laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. He stepped into the room, though his features remained lost in shadow. It was the absolute conviction in his eyes that made Tommy take an involuntary step back—not the certainty of a staff member, but the cold, unwavering certainty of a zealot.
"This room has rules," the man continued, his voice strangely flat, as if reciting from a script. "They were broken here. Debts were made."
"Look, I don't want any trouble," Tommy said, edging toward the door. "I'll leave right now if—"
"Leave?" The man tilted his head. "But the lesson has just begun. About consequences. About the accounts that must be settled. About the danger of digging up things that are not yet ready to be found."
Tommy made a break for the door. The man moved with a surprising, almost hitching agility, sidestepping to block the exit. Up close, Tommy could smell him—dry desert dust and something sharper, herbal, like a medicinal plant.
"Sit," the man commanded, pointing at the chair.
"I'm not—"
"SIT!"
The authority in that voice triggered something primal in Tommy, some ancestral memory of power and subjugation. For a split second, Tommy almost obeyed. Then his grandfather's voice echoed in his mind: They only have the power you give them.
He charged forward, trying to bull his way past. The man sidestepped again, and something hard crashed into the back of Tommy's skull. He dropped to his knees, his vision swimming. His camera fell, the lens cracking against the concrete.
"Such defiance," the man said, his voice devoid of emotion. "It's an imbalance. It must be corrected."
Strong hands grabbed Tommy's arms, dragging him toward the
The rope appeared, snaking around his wrists.
"No," Tommy gasped. "You can't—this isn't—"
"This is exactly what it must be," the man said, securing Tommy to the chair just as children had been secured decades ago. "A place of education. Of correction. You came here looking for the past? Let me show you how we balance the books."
Tommy tested the bonds. Tight. His phone was in his pocket, but his hands were bound behind the chair. His camera lay broken on the floor. No one knew he was here—he'd wanted to explore alone, to commune with his grandfather's spirit without interference.
"People will look for me," he said.
"Eventually," the man agreed. He moved out of Tommy's direct line of sight. "But we have time for a proper lesson first. About respect. About staying silent. About the price of old debts."
He reached into a bag Tommy hadn't noticed before, pulling out items that made Tommy's blood freeze. A leather strap. It looked like an old school paddle. And something else—papers? Photos?
"You want to preserve history?" the man asked. "Let me show you the real history. The necessary cruelties. The students who needed extra correction. The ones who disappeared not because they ran away, but because some debts can only be paid in silence."
Tommy's mouth went dry. His research had uncovered gaps in the records, students who simply vanished from the rolls. He'd assumed they were runaways, successful escapes from institutional horror. But the way this man said it…
"You killed them," Tommy whispered.
"Killed?" The man sounded offended. "We are educators. We are balancing the accounts. There are no casualties in correction. Only accounts settled."
The slap came so fast Tommy didn't see it, just felt the explosion of pain across his cheek.
"Respect," the man hissed. "First lesson. You will show respect, or you will learn why children feared this room."
Outside, full darkness had fallen. The ruins of Riverside Indian Boarding School stood silent, keeping its secrets as it had for decades. And in the basement punishment room, the past and present collapsed into each other, old horrors finding new, meticulous expression.
Tommy Begay had come looking for history.
Now he had become part of it
CHAPTER ONE
The psychiatric facility's visiting room smelled like industrial disinfectant mixed with something floral. The latter scent was probably meant to be calming, but it just made Kari Blackhorse's stomach turn.
She sat at a metal table bolted to the floor, watching the door through which they'd bring Sarah Hampton. Third time in the past two months. Third time hoping for answers about her mother.
Third time setting herself up for disappointment, she suspected.
November in Flagstaff meant the heating system was running full blast, making the small room feel stuffy despite the barred window cracked open for ventilation. Kari pulled at the collar of her button-down shirt, the same light blue she'd worn as a detective for years now. Some habits provided comfort in uncomfortable situations.
The door buzzed open. Sarah Hampton shuffled in, flanked by two orderlies who guided her to the chair across from Kari. The former archaeologist looked smaller than she had two months ago, as if the psychiatric medications had deflated something essential in her. Her gray-streaked hair hung limp around a face that had lost its fierce intelligence, replaced by a vague confusion that might have been genuine or might have been the best legal defense her attorney could craft.
"Hello, Sarah," Kari said once the orderlies had withdrawn to their positions by the door. "How are you feeling today?"
Hampton blinked slowly, focusing on Kari's face with visible effort. "Detective. You're the mixed-blood. The one who stopped the ceremony."
"That's right." Kari kept her voice neutral despite the familiar sting of being reduced to her heritage. "I wanted to ask you a few more questions, if that's okay."
"Questions." Hampton smiled, the expression vacant. "Everyone has questions. The doctors. The lawyers. The spirits who won't stop whispering." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "They're angry, you know. The ceremony wasn't completed. Four corners, four deaths, but I became the fourth instead of you. It's all wrong now."
Kari had heard variations of this rambling before. Hampton's insanity plea had been accepted, based on extensive psychiatric evaluation that had confirmed her complete break from reality. Whether that break had occurred in the cave-in three years ago or during her killing spree was a matter of debate among the experts, but the result was the same.
Sarah Hampton would spend the rest of her life in this facility rather than in prison.
"Sarah, I want to ask about my mother. Anna Chee."
Hampton's head tilted, birdlike. "Anna Chee…" She trailed off.
Kari decided to prompt Hampton. "She died in January. Near Canyon de Chelly. Her body was found at Spider Rock." Kari kept her voice steady despite the weight of those words. Eleven months now since the call that changed everything. Eleven months of questions that had led nowhere.
"Spider Grandmother," Hampton murmured. "She weaves the fate of all things. Your mother sought the old stories, didn't she? The ones about boundaries and the things that cross them."
Kari's pulse quickened. This was more coherent than Hampton had been in previous visits. "How do you know what my mother was researching?"
Hampton's eyes sharpened for a moment, a glimpse of the brilliant woman she'd been. "We all knew Anna Chee. All of us who walked between the academic world and the spiritual one. She asked dangerous questions." The clarity faded as quickly as it had come. "Or maybe I dreamed that. I dream of so many things now. Past and present all tangled like grandmother's wool."
"Did you ever meet her? Talk to her?"
"Meet?" Hampton laughed, the sound brittle. "I met everyone and no one. The conferences, the symposiums, the gatherings where we pretended indigenous knowledge could be catalogued like butterfly specimens. Was she there? Was I there? The spirits mock my certainty now."
Kari pulled out a photo of her mother, taken two years ago at an academic conference. Anna stood with a group of researchers, her eyebrows knit together in an expression of concentration. "This is her. Do you recognize her?"
Hampton studied the photo with the intensity she'd once reserved for ancient artifacts. Her fingers traced the air above Anna's face, careful not to touch the actual photograph.
"The questionnaire," she said finally. "She wanted to know about the old murders. Not mine—older ones. The patterns that repeat. She said the land remembered violence, that it left marks only some could read."
"When did she say this? Where?"
But Hampton was already retreating into her delusions. "The ceremony must be completed. Four corners, four deaths. You should have been the fourth. The mixed blood to seal both worlds. Now it's all unbalanced. The spirits are confused. They don't understand why I'm here instead of finishing the work."
"Sarah, please. My mother—"
"Your mother is with Spider Grandmother now!" Hampton's voice rose, causing the orderlies to shift. "She asked her questions and found her answers. Some knowledge has a price. Some boundaries shouldn't be crossed. But you know that, don't you, Detective? You carry her medicine bundle. You feel the weight of questions she left behind."
Kari's hand moved involuntarily to her chest, where the medicine pouch rested beneath her shirt. She'd never mentioned it to Hampton.
"How do you know about the medicine bundle?"
Hampton smiled, sad and knowing. "The spirits tell me things. Even here, in this white room with its white walls and white pills, they whisper. They say you're following her path. Asking her questions. Be careful, mixed-blood. The same forces that noticed her will notice you."
"What forces? Sarah, if you know something about my mother's death—"
"Time's up," one of the orderlies announced, moving forward.
"Wait," Kari said urgently. "Sarah, what forces?"
But Hampton was already standing, docile as the orderlies took her arms. At the door, she turned back.
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