The Lamplight Killer (Grant Dawson Mysteries Book 2)

When the Lights Fail, the Killing Begins

On the remote back roads of rural Wyoming, failing streetlamps are more than a maintenance issue—they’re a warning. Each time a light goes out, a body is found beneath it. No witnesses. No tracks. Just a chilling smiley face carved into the snow.

Former investigator Grant Dawson is no stranger to patterns, but this case defies logic. The killer isn’t targeting people—he’s targeting darkness itself. By sabotaging the town’s streetlights and striking only in total blackout, he creates perfect hunting grounds where no one can see, and no one can escape.

Drawn back into the field by Sheriff Marla Briggs, Grant follows a trail that leads to a county maintenance worker who knows the grid too well—and a terrified witness who may be hiding something critical. As outages spread and the attacks escalate, it becomes clear: this isn’t random. Someone is studying the system, anticipating repairs, and choosing exactly when—and where—the next light will die.

In a town where illumination is the only defense, Grant must race against a failing grid to stop a killer who understands one brutal truth: anyone can be next, as long as the lamp above them flickers first.

Step into a tense, atmospheric thriller where darkness isn’t just the setting—it’s the weapon.

Excerpt from the book

The lamp on County Road 6 had been flickering for three nights before anyone bothered to report it. Out here, on the edge of a town most maps forgot, a failing streetlight wasn’t unusual. The wind knocked them around. The cold killed the wiring. The county took its time fixing anything that didn’t involve a school or a church.

But tonight, the lamp wasn’t flickering.

Tonight, it was dead.

And beneath it lay a body.

Grant Dawson pulled his truck onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. The air was sharp enough to sting his lungs as he stepped out, the cold Wyoming night settling around him like a weight. Snow drifted across the road in thin, restless sheets, catching the faint glow of the remaining lamps.

He zipped his coat higher and walked toward the cluster of deputies gathered near the ditch.

Sheriff Marla Briggs spotted him first. “Dawson. Didn’t think you’d make it this fast.”

Grant shrugged. “Roads were clear enough.”

Marla nodded toward the body. “We’ve got a mess.”

Grant approached slowly.

The victim was a young woman, early twenties, dark hair fanned across the snow like spilled ink. Her coat was unzipped, her gloves missing, her face pale in the cold. But it wasn’t the body that made Grant stop.

It was the smiley face.

Drawn in the snow beside her head.

Two dots.

A curved line.

Simple.

Childlike.

Wrong.

Grant crouched. “Same signature?”

Marla exhaled. “Third one this winter.”

Grant studied the scene. The snow around the body was disturbed—not by a struggle, but by someone kneeling. Someone careful. Someone who took their time.

He looked up at the dead lamp.

“Outage reported?” he asked.

Marla shook her head. “No one called it in. But the county logs show it started flickering three nights ago.”

Grant nodded. “He waited for it to fail.”

Marla crossed her arms against the cold. “You think he’s watching the outages?”

“I think he’s using them.”

Grant stood and scanned the road. The nearest working lamp was fifty yards away, its light barely reaching the ditch. The darkness here was thick, complete, perfect for someone who didn’t want to be seen.

He turned back to the body. “Cause of death?”

“Throat,” Marla said quietly. “Clean cut. Same as the others.”

Grant crouched again, careful not to disturb the snow. The cut was precise not jagged, not rushed. A single, practiced motion.

“He’s consistent,” Grant murmured.

Marla nodded. “Too consistent.”

Grant looked at the smiley face again. “He wants us to know it’s him.”

Marla sighed. “Then why pick a place no one drives after dark?”

Grant stood. “Because he doesn’t need an audience. He needs privacy.”

Marla frowned. “Privacy for what?”

Grant looked at the lamp.

“For the moment he draws the smile.”

Deputies moved around them, marking footprints, photographing tire tracks, logging the position of the body. Grant stepped back, letting them work. He wasn’t law enforcement—not anymore—but Marla trusted him enough to call when things got strange.