STORM’S SYMBOL

AMELIA STORM SERIES: BOOK THIRTEEN

MARY STONE

AMY WILSON

Copyright © 2024 by Mary Stone Publishing

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Created with Vellum

To the childhood memories lost in the fire that took my parents’ home...I miss you, and I wish I had cherished you more.

DESCRIPTION

This killer is setting the world on fire. One house at a time.

Special Agent Amelia Storm thought she’d seen the darkest corners of humanity after facing a killer who exploited social media to broadcast his twisted “message.” But her latest case in the FBI Violent Crimes Unit plunges her into a new nightmare—one that catapults her from the frying pan into the fire.

Literally.

In the dead of night, an affluent Chicago neighborhood becomes a hellscape as an arsonist claims an entire family, leaving nothing but charred remains and unanswered questions. This is no isolated incident. The fire-starter has struck three times before, turning homes into death traps—all within a year’s time.

Four infernos, fifteen victims, nine dead, and six barely clinging to life. But the most chilling detail? The exits were meticulously sealed, forcing the victims to meet a fiery end or fall to their death. Amelia’s gut tells her this isn’t just the work of an arsonist.

He’s a serial killer. And he uses fire as his weapon.

At each scene, a sinister, occult-like symbol taunts investigators, a twisted signature of a killer who craves recognition. With every new fire, Amelia races to uncover the deadly pattern binding the victims, knowing this monster’s hunger for destruction is growing—and he won’t stop until his dark message is seared into the world.

From the wickedly dark minds of Mary Stone and Amy Wilson comes Storm’s Symbol, book thirteen of the Amelia Storm FBI Series. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And sometimes, the twisted mind of a killer.

1

Smoke curled around Tara Morrison, a sinuous serpent of ember and ash. On the beach, a bonfire roared, its flames licking the star-filled sky. Moonlight danced and shimmered on the obsidian waves crashing onto the shore, but the beauty and peace was lost in the acrid haze.

She turned, seeking escape, but the smoke followed. It clung to her skin, seeping into her sinuses and burning her lungs. She stumbled to the far side of the fire, her eyes stinging, throat raw.

Through the haze, faceless figures perched on driftwood logs, unmoving, unbreathing. Their silence screamed louder than the crackling flames.

Why weren't they choking? Why didn’t they run?

The smoke thickened, morphing into a living thing. It writhed and whispered, carrying half-heard voices on its tendrils. She tried to call out, but her words turned to ash in her mouth.

Beneath her feet, the beach warped and stretched, unbalancing her. The fire grew impossibly large, swallowing the sky. She began to fall…fall…fall…

Tara gasped awake, tangled in sweat-damp sheets. Blinking to clear the film from her eyes, she sank into her plush mattress and inhaled to calm herself. The dream faded like morning mist, but one sensation lingered. What should have been the scent of pineapple coming from the little air freshener next to her bed had been replaced by the acrid stench of burning wood, impossibly real in her darkened bedroom.

What the hell?

If the smoke had followed her into the real world, then the source wasn’t an imaginary bonfire from her dreams. In her nineteen years of life, Tara had only ever been to a beach bonfire once, and it had been on the shores of Lake Michigan.

She sniffed the air only to be greeted with more smoke. Had her brother and his friends decided on a late-night gathering around the firepit in the backyard?

No, that didn’t make sense. All the windows were closed, and the air conditioner was on.

A growing sense of unease replaced her annoyance. Throwing back the blankets, Tara leaped to her feet and snatched her cell from the nightstand.

Even if it’s nothing, it’s better to know for sure.

Tara ticked through the possibilities for the smoky smell. At three in the morning, there was no way anyone in her house was cooking. There was a fireplace in the living room, but it was powered by natural gas, not wood, so it wouldn’t smell like smoke even if someone had turned it on. Could her younger brother, Darrell, be doing something that created smoke?

There were a million what-ifs, but none of them were helping. The home had smoke alarms, but they weren’t going off.

Why? They’re battery-operated.

As she started toward the bedroom door, her heart sank.

The smoke alarm wasn’t buzzing because Tara had gotten the bright idea to make homemade fried chicken a few days ago. Long story short, the oil she’d used had begun to smoke, and it had triggered the smoke detectors in the entryway, living room, and hallway.

Rather than opening the windows to air out the burned grease smell on a ninety-degree day, Tara and her mom had popped the batteries out of the annoying devices. Though they’d made a mental note to reassemble them, she wasn’t sure either of them had done so.

Shit.

Tara swallowed against the tightness in her throat and took the final few steps to the door. God, she hoped there wasn’t a fire.

Do we even have a fire extinguisher? Crap.

Her heart hammered against her chest. She had no idea. If there was one, she had no clue where it might be. She’d never actually seen one—and she didn’t know the first thing about how to use it.

By now, the smoke was just short of stifling, filling the space above her head and sinking fast. The stinging odor took hold in her sinuses. If she didn’t get out of her room soon, she’d risk losing consciousness.

But what about her parents? What about Darrell? Were they still in the house? Were they even awake? She wondered if she’d slept through her family calling out to her.

The unanswered questions sent a renewed jolt of panic through Tara. But she couldn’t have…or they’d still be screaming her name.

Fire safety had been drilled into her head when she was in elementary school, but she’d never expected to have to use the knowledge. All these years later, could she recall any of the details?

Stay low. I’m sure I’ve heard that advice somewhere.

Come on, Tara. Get your shit together and do something.

“Okay. Okay.” Though she wanted to take a deep breath, she knew the smoke would only singe her nose and lungs, making the situation worse. She crouched down as deeply as she could without sitting on her heels. After all, she needed to be able to run if necessary.

“If you touch the door handle and it’s hot, that means there’s fire on the other side. Yeah, yeah, that makes sense. But if it’s cool, then it’s safe to open…”

With her cell in one hand, she reached for the door handle with her other, bracing herself for the sear of superheated metal.

To her surprise, the handle was cool to the touch.

“Okay. That’s good. Maybe. Probably. Yeah, okay.”

Steadying her nerves and finding resolve she didn’t know she had, Tara yanked open her door. It took her a fraction of a second to realize what a terrible mistake she’d made.

Like an unwelcome visitor, a huge wave of smoke rolled into Tara’s room.

Eyes stinging, Tara coughed at the sudden onslaught and ducked at the last second. There was more smoke than she had ever witnessed, but where the hell was the fire? The hallway wasn’t ablaze, and there was no glow, no embers, just a maddening distant roar. She slammed the door shut and backed into the middle of her room until she bumped up against her bed. A bed she couldn’t even see now.

Shit. Now what?

Had she called 911 yet? Her mind was so jumbled from the sheer panic flooding her system, she had a difficult time recalling what she’d done since she woke up.

Or perhaps the smoke inhalation was beginning to take a toll.

“No. Call 911!” Squeezing her eyes shut, Tara blinked back tears as she unlocked her phone and tapped in those three crucial digits.

“911. What is the address of your emergency?” The man on the other end of the line was as calm as Tara was hysterical.

Address. Tell them your address.

Without preamble, Tara rattled off her home address. “Um, I-I’m…I…there’s a fire in my house.”

That’s an understatement.

“What is the phone number you’re calling from?”

Again, Tara recited the requested information, which was followed by a request for her name and its spelling.

“Tara Morrison. T-A-R-A and M-O-R-R-I-S-O-N.”

The operator recited back, “Taran Morrison.”

“No! Not Taran. Tara. No N. Oh my god. My house is on fire. Please just send help.”

“Do you know where the fire is?”

“I-I don’t know. Everywhere, I think. It-it’s smoky, and I can hear it crackling from my bedroom door. I’m in my room on the second floor, and I don’t know what to do.” Some of the panic bled into Tara’s tone, and she hated that it bothered her. Her entire house was on fire, and a stupid part of her brain was still concerned about what the 911 operator thought of her.

“Okay, the fire department is on the way. Are there other people in the house with you?”

Mom. Dad. Darrell. Shit!

“Y-yes, my parents and my younger brother. I-I don’t think my parents are awake. They both take sleep aids because they have trouble sleeping. And the smoke alarm didn’t go off…oh no, no, no.”

Deep down, Tara seriously doubted her parents were awake. On the rare occasion when she’d tried to wake one of them in the past, it had been nearly impossible. If they had woken, they’d have come straight for Tara and Darrell. Tara was the closest to her parents’ room, and Darrell was closest to the stairs.

A distant voice seemed to be telling her what to do.

“…Keep…ur bedr…door closed and…low to the ground.”

Her parents would risk everything for her, so how could she not do the same? She couldn’t just…what? Curl up in a fetal position and accept her fate? No, she’d never be able to live with herself.

The dispatcher on the other end of the line spoke, but Tara couldn’t make out a single word. Down the hall, a smoke detector started blaring.

“…Is your bedroom…dow open? You need…it op…”

“I can’t hear you! My parents and my brother are in the house. I have to go find them!”

The dispatcher’s words were gobbledygook in her mind. Only the calm tone was coming through.

“…If…fire ladder, attach it to the… If you don’t, you’re…out feetfirst and drop down. Lower yourself…as you can…letting go of the sill…”

Over the roaring fire raging somewhere nearby, Tara could’ve sworn she heard her brother screaming. And then it stopped.

Was Darrell okay?

Heart in her throat, Tara opened the door again. The smoke would rise, so maybe if she hunched lower to the ground like she had earlier and covered her face with her shirt, she could avoid the worst of it.

With all the panic flooding through her veins, Tara was surprised she could think clearly enough to formulate even the basic plan. It was as if two voices were inside her head—one that was screaming and crying, the other that was calmly handing out directions but from a huge distance.

Find Mom and Dad. Wake them up and get to Darrell down the hall, then get the hell out. We can all go feetfirst, lowering down or whatever if we have to.

Immediately, her thoughts shot to her fear of heights—a snapped spine and lifelong paralysis she was sure would be her destiny if she jumped.

Better to be in a wheelchair than a coffin, dumbass. Get to Mom and Dad!

Slumping until she was crawling, Tara set off down the hall as quickly as she could toward her parents’ bedroom. It was at the far end of the hallway away from the stairs. Still clutching her phone in the hand she used to hold her shirt over her nose and mouth, she began her rescue mission.

For the first few feet, it seemed like her idea to remain lower to the ground might actually work. The breaths she pulled in through her shirt weren’t as agonizing as the smoky air she’d inhaled right after opening her bedroom door for the second time.

A surge of optimism spurred her forward until she reached the doorway of her parents’ room. As Tara reached for the door handle, she prayed to anyone listening that the metal lever would be cool. That there wasn’t a fiery hell storm raging on the other side.

“…Hello? Tara, can you hear me? It’s…don’t open doors to other… You don’t want to feed the fire. Tara? Hello…?”

She swatted at what sounded like her subconscious speaking to her again and braced herself for the searing pain of a burn and tapped the handle.

Nothing happened. The metal was cool.

Her head throbbed in time with her pulse. The full force of the smoke inhalation was starting to take its toll, her shirt was no longer filtering out the smoke. A wave of dizziness made her stumble.

Squeezing her eyes closed against the stinging smoke, she turned the handle and shoved open the door.

A wave of smoke blew past her face. She ducked and crawled. Everything was so dark. Her hope flared at the sight of her parents sleeping peacefully in their bed before it was replaced by the reality of what she’d done.

The room swirled with acrid smoke, the dark cloud morphing into a monstrosity that sought to swallow them whole.

As much as Tara wanted to fight through it, she could only hold her breath for so long. Her lungs ached, and her throat burned like it, too, had been set ablaze.

Come on. Just make it inside. Wake them up, and we can get Darrell and jump out the window. Dad will know what to do.

Forcing herself forward, Tara tried to take in a shallow breath, but all she got was more black air. Tears streaked down her face, and not all of them were from the smoke.

Hold your breath. Just a little farther. Come on.

Her stomach began to churn, and she thought for sure she’d be sick. Something in her head started to pound to the rhythm of a war drum. Over the roar of the fire—the glow of which had yet to reveal itself—the thud-thud of her pulse was the only sound. As she clawed her way forward, her lungs screamed in protest. Tara didn’t want to breathe, but she had to breathe.

When her pulse hammered her head again, lightning crackled at the edge of her vision. Her terror soared as the heat intensified. The pain in her sides had gone from an ache to what she’d expect from being stabbed with a dull blade.

She couldn’t hold her breath. Not anymore.

Rather than inhaling the life-giving oxygen her body needed, she might as well have sucked in wet cement. Faint starbursts at the corners of her eyes exploded like fireworks on the Fourth of July, and her churning stomach sent bile racing up the back of her throat.

The hammering in her head was a cacophony of heartbeats. She couldn’t recall what she was there to do, but she reached out and felt the lightweight comforter dangling off the side of her parents’ bed.

Mom…Dad…wake up…

A distant voice called out, but the words were tinny and small. Like an ant shouting up at a giant.

“…Tara…firefighters…one minute out. Tell me your location in the home…direct them to you.”

Perhaps the speaker was the rational Tara. She couldn’t be sure. She didn’t care. She just wanted all the noise to stop.

Sleep. She was so tired, and her throat was scratchy and dry. Maybe a nap will help my headache.

Another aching thud pounded inside her skull, and then another and another, until Tara finally found silence.

2

As Special Agent Amelia Storm stepped into the conference room, she squinted at the vibrant sunlight spilling through the wall-spanning window to her right. The fifth floor of Chicago’s FBI building—home to the Violent Crimes Unit—was an optimal location to bask in early afternoon sunshine, and Amelia was beginning to wonder if she should wear sunglasses indoors.

Though Amelia had worked at the Chicago field office for more than a year, her role on the VC team was much newer.

Before Violent Crimes, she’d been a part of the Organized Crime division, where she and her fellow agents had pursued the various criminal enterprises of Chicago and northern Illinois. However, after a year of dealing with deep-rooted corruption and even being targeted by the mob, Amelia had reached her limit.

To her, chasing after mafiosos and their bought-and-paid-for lackeys was like playing Whac-A-Mole. Anytime she took down one kingpin, at least two more were waiting to take their place.

Not that Violent Crimes was a piece of cake. Serial killers were an entirely different breed. And the havoc they wreaked on innocent people was no less devastating than that of the mob.

Shielding her eyes, Amelia strode over to the blinds and tugged on the cord.

“Thanks. I was starting to think I should’ve brought my sunglasses.”

With a grin, Amelia glanced over to the doorway as the speaker, Special Agent Sherry Cowen, stepped into the room. “You and me both.”

As Sherry set her laptop on the table, the door swung inward to reveal another familiar face. Dean Steelman’s sapphire eyes shifted from Sherry to Amelia and back as he sipped from the paper coffee cup in his hand.

“Sherry, Amelia. How’re you doing?” A hint of Dean’s native Southern accent tinged his words, though the drawl wasn’t as pronounced as some of the other Southerners.

Sherry lifted her shoulder. “Doing all right, I suppose. As well as I can be after reading through these case files.”

At the mention of their newest assignment, an air of seriousness settled over the room.

Frowning, Dean pulled out a chair next to Sherry’s. “Yeah, can’t say I blame you. Four different arsons are a bit daunting.” He turned to Amelia, one eyebrow raised. “How often did you guys deal with arson in Organized Crime?”

Amelia pulled out a chair across from Sherry. “Here in Chicago? Personally, I haven’t dealt with any. From my experience here and the year and a half I spent in Boston, revenge is the most common motive for arson, but we see a variety of other motives, too, like vandalism, insurance fraud, and crime concealment.”

Before Dean could react to Amelia’s statement, the door swung open again. Layton Redker stepped into the room, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling as he offered everyone a welcoming smile. Like always, Layton’s stylish yet modest faux hawk gave him an air of youthfulness, despite the silver strands amid the dark brown near his temples. The man was close to fifty, but he didn’t look much past his mid-thirties.

On Layton’s heels was a second man with whom Amelia was less familiar. He stood only an inch or so shorter than Layton’s tall frame, but his muscular, broad-shouldered build made him look bigger.

Supervisory Special Agent Barry Burton had overseen the Violent Crimes Unit of the Chicago field office for close to seven years. Before then, he’d spent nearly two decades as a field agent in the same department.

Word around the office was that, put simply, SSA Burton knew his shit. His case closure rates during his twenty-year tenure in the field were among the best, and even though the opportunity for a promotion had been presented to him more than once, he’d always opted to stay in his wheelhouse.

Amelia had a healthy respect for the decision. In a way, it reminded her of her former SSA’s decision to step back into the role of field agent. These days, former Organized Crime SSA Spencer Corsaw was usually teamed up with Amelia’s boyfriend, Special Agent Zane Palmer.

Though Amelia sometimes missed working cases with Zane, she was grateful to have him in her life in a more permanent capacity.

Her move to Violent Crimes had been the best choice for both her mental health and for their relationship. It gave her peace of mind to know he was always nearby, but the constant stress of being targeted by the mob had abated.

I bet Zane would be thrilled to work an arson case.

Instead of being away on a money laundering case like he was now, she pictured his reaction to a case involving a serial murderer using arson as his weapon, giving Amelia a mental laugh. Exasperated, he’d throw up his hands and assert that serial killers didn’t make any damn sense. Then he’d speculate how at least the mob always had clear-cut motives—money and power.

And he was right. Amelia had learned a great deal about serial killers and their various mental health dysfunctions over the past months, but she was self-aware enough to realize her knowledge wasn’t complete. Part of the appeal of the new role was the opportunity to learn new things.

Which brought her to the case before them.

Forcing herself not to think about her boyfriend being hours away, Amelia turned her attention to SSA Burton as he took a seat at one end of the oval table.

The SSA’s reddish-brown hair was mostly devoid of gray, but he made no effort to hide his receding hairline. His neatly trimmed beard, on the other hand, was streaked with silver, giving him a distinguished air.

Burton’s gaze swept over the four agents. “Sorry for the short notice, everyone. This case was just given to me, and I notified you as soon as I could review it. I realize I just sent it over, so it’s fine if you haven’t had a chance to go through much of it yet.”

Amelia woke the screen of her tablet and found the spot in the case file where she’d left off reading. “Only a few pages, but I’m very interested in learning why this is an FBI case.”

Nodding, he planted his palms on the table with a grimace. “We had another arson attack last night. I thought a short briefing was the fastest way to review the case so you can organize and get to the scene. This appears to be the work of someone who’s already struck three previous times. I’ll hit some of the highlights so you know what you’re walking into. Our arson specialists and the Crime Scene Unit are already there to back up Chicago PD.”

Amelia had been pulled aside by Sherry as soon as she’d returned from her lunch break, and they’d only had about fifteen minutes to begin reviewing the case before the briefing. She scanned the document as she listened.

“All right, we’ll start with the bigger picture.” SSA Burton snatched a small remote from the center of the table before glancing at Layton. “Can you hit the lights?”

Layton flipped a switch. Thanks to the blinds Amelia had drawn earlier, the room dimmed into enough darkness for the overhead projector.

After tapping a few keys on his laptop, SSA Burton pressed a button on the remote to bring a map of Chicago to the whiteboard on the other side of the room. He tapped another key, and the map zoomed in to the northwest portion of the city. “As of today, we have four different arson scenes and a total of fifteen victims. Nine fatalities and six survivors.”

A low whistle came from Layton. He appeared as disgusted as Amelia felt.

The SSA looked at each agent in turn. “But as you can see here,” he gestured to the map, “all four of these fires were set in the same general area. So far, we have two fires in Falcon Point and two in Highfield, all northwest of the city proper. Falcon Point is part of the greater Chicago area, sure, but it’s…affluent, I suppose is the word.”

Amelia bit the inside of her cheek to keep the frown from her face. After growing up in one of Chicago’s more impoverished communities, she still harbored a disdain for the disconnect between the wealthy and the lower class. Odds were, if the spree of arsons had occurred in her home neighborhood of Englewood, the larger media outlets wouldn’t give a shit. But the second the same crimes sprang up in a wealthy neighborhood, all hell broke loose.

As if he could read her mind, SSA Burton held up a hand and sighed. “Look, I don’t like the sound of it any more than you guys do. I’m just letting you know what to expect. News coverage of this thing is going to spread like…well, I was going to say wildfire, but that seems inappropriate, given the circumstances.” He waved his hand dismissively. “You get the picture.”

Dean’s chair squeaked as he leaned back. “Folks unaccustomed to crime in their neighborhood are suddenly worried about some of Chicago’s ‘crime epidemic’ landing on their doorstep, yeah?”

The SSA rubbed his temple. “More or less. But regardless, there are people dying here. We work this just like we would any other case. Only difference is there’ll be more of a media spotlight on everything we do.”

Well, that’s always helpful.

Amelia kept the sarcastic comment to herself and peered at the map. Four red dots marked the scenes of the crimes. “Since all four fires were in the same relatively small area, is it safe to say our perp lives around there?”

Layton perked up. “More than likely. Serial arsonists are similar to other serial killers in that they’ll tend to operate in areas that are familiar to them.” Though much of Layton’s FBI experience was in Cyber Crimes, he had moved over to the Behavioral Analysis Unit after obtaining a doctorate in psychology. He’d transferred departments around the same time as Amelia, and ever since then, she’d interacted with him much more frequently.

SSA Burton centered the map and snapped his fingers softly. “It’s likely, yes. But there are plenty of media outlets trying to put a different spin on it. At any rate, we’re dealing with four different scenes so far.”

He tapped a key to highlight one of the dots. “The specifics of each fire, including the victims and survivors, are in the case file. To expedite things so you can get to the scene, let me just say that there are a lot of similarities that link these cases. At each scene, locks have been found on the windows on the first floor, shims were shoved along doorjambs, and survivors recall smelling gasoline.”

Sherry pushed a strand of ash-blond hair out of her eyes. “I saw where the survivor from the oldest fire jumped out a window. Melanie Osborne. Was that because of the locks?”

Burton’s expression sobered. “Yes, it was. Her son and husband, Heath and Dane Osborne, were both killed. All first floor windows were locked and all doors leading outside had shims jammed into the frames.”

Layton turned to the SSA, a perplexed expression on his face. “He’d have seen a shim, though, right? You’d just pull it out.”

“If the family members were in a panic, or if there was too much smoke, all they’d know is that the door wouldn’t open. Fires are chaotic and scary.” Burton nodded toward the screen. “CSI recovered shims at all the other scenes, along with a couple clear plastic window locks on each first floor window and wooden two-by-twos jammed into the tracks of the rear sliding glass door.”

Combined anger and disgust simmered in Amelia’s heart. “So you’re saying the arsonist went through the trouble of securing every available exit on the first floor?”

“That’s exactly what they did. They even jammed several shims above the door to the basement. Speculation is that the suspect didn’t want anyone to be able to escape through a basement window.”

“How does the perpetrator himself get out?”

“At the Morrison scene, a window was found with a shim shoved into the exterior sash instead of the interior.” The SSA’s tone was grave, his fifty-some years suddenly more apparent in the lines on his face. “Probably went out that way and stuck the shim in once he was outside.”

A short spell of silence was interrupted by the clicking of Dean’s pen. “They recovered parts of what was left of these locks on the windows, right? Did forensics manage to pull anything from them? Manufacturer, anything like that?”

Rubbing his bearded chin, SSA Burton checked his laptop. “A few were recovered without much damage to them, but most were melted. Some of the plastic window locks were found near shards of glass from windows blown out by the raging fire. And on windows that weren’t blown out, they were badly melted. But enough remained to determine it was the same type of device used at every scene.”

A criminal with this distinct a ritual might make them easier to find.

The SSA took a sip of water and glanced around at the attentive faces of the agents. “It appears they used two different types of blocks for the doors. The exterior doors that were not sliding doors were jammed with shims, while sliding glass doors were blocked with a two-by-two slat of wood. You’ll have to read into the lab report for all the details. As far as I can tell, there wasn’t anything distinguishing about them, but they’re still a lead.”

Layton crossed his arms. “That’s their calling card, then. They use these particular devices to block the easiest exits and trap the victims inside their burning house.”

“It would appear so, yes.”

Amelia shifted in her chair. What kind of sick bastard were they dealing with?

“All right,” Burton pressed another key, highlighting a dot east of the first. “Let’s take a quick look at the other scenes. November last year, almost exactly six months after the first fire. The Day household. Same M.O. Fire set in the middle of the night, all means of escape including the basement door blocked. Although there’s no sign of forced entry, it seems the easiest point of entry is the sliding glass door at the back of the home.”

Amelia scanned the report for the Day family file. These poor people. She couldn’t imagine the horror of their last few moments.

“Jewel and Jeremiah Day, ages twelve and nine at the time of the fire, survived. Their parents, Brian and Ingrid Day, forty-four and forty-two, were killed. The children escaped by breaking a window on the first floor with a heavy bookend. They’d tried the front door but couldn’t open it.”

Dean clicked his pen again. “Because it was jammed.”

“Right.” Burton slid his finger across his track pad to scroll farther down in the case file. “They both suffered significant smoke inhalation, plus cuts from the broken glass. Neither child recalled hearing someone break in, and, like Melanie Osborne, they smelled gasoline.”

Since Amelia had lost her own mother when she was only ten years old, her heart twisted for those poor kids. She’d been fortunate enough to still have her father, though he’d spiraled into a self-destructive cycle of alcohol addiction for nearly seventeen years after Amelia’s mother died. His addiction caused emotional scarring to Amelia and her two siblings, but he was still alive, a recovered alcoholic for four years now. She only hoped Jewel and Jeremiah had found stable family members to take care of them.

“The next fire hit the Marquez family. That was in March of this year.” SSA Burton gestured to the map, his voice pulling Amelia from her thoughts.

“Glenda Marquez, age fifty, and her daughter Roxanne, age thirteen, both perished in the fire. Glenda’s husband Carlos, fifty-one, and their oldest daughter Tania, fifteen, survived. Carlos and Tania reported having no indication anyone had been in their home, and they recalled smelling gasoline. They escaped by jumping out a second-floor window where the father attempted to catch his daughter.”

Layton lifted an eyebrow. “So the killer wants them to jump?”

Burton offered the BAU agent a shrug. “I’m not sure. All I’ve got are a couple guesses. He can’t secure the second floor without getting too close to where the majority of the victims would be sleeping. Maybe he wants to see how strong people’s survival instincts are.”

Layton tapped a finger against the table. “I’ll have to think about that some more. See if it might be significant in some other way.”

The SSA glanced at his watch. “All right. Hopefully, you have a better idea of what you’re headed into.” He removed his notebook from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “The scene you’re headed to is the Morrison house.”

Three destroyed families is bad enough. Amelia braced herself for the incoming details of the fourth.

“Darrell Morrison, fifteen, is the sole survivor. His parents, Logan and Stella, fifty and forty-nine, died along with Darrell’s nineteen-year-old sister Tara. She’s the one who called 911.” He looked up from the notebook. “Darrell jumped out of his bedroom window on the second floor without his phone. By the time he woke a neighbor up, the fire department was on the scene. Other than a sprained ankle, a burned hand, and a little smoke inhalation, he’s mostly unharmed.”

Layton adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, his visage as solemn as the atmosphere in the room. “I realize we’re just looking at this for the first time, but considering that the increments between these fires are getting shorter, I think it’s safe to say this unsub is escalating.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you. One more thing before I let you head out to the Morrison home.” Burton raised the remote. “A symbol was found at each of the four scenes. That’s what landed this case on our desks. It’s also become too much for the local investigators to deal with.”

Sherry shot the SSA a questioning look. “Where did they find this? And how was it intact?”

“In the basement.” With another click, the image on the whiteboard changed to a bizarre, circular symbol painted on a wall next to a breaker box. “Here’s the most intact of the three, which was found at the Marquez home back in March. You can see it was painted on a cement wall. The same is true for the symbol found at the Day house, but the first one was partially burned away on green board, a type of moisture-resistant drywall.”

Amelia frowned. “None of the case files indicate any accelerant was used in the basements?”

Burton shook his head before moving to the wall and flipping the light switch on, bathing the room in light. “You can dig into the symbol when you get back.” He waved a hand. “Right now, you’ve got a scene to canvass.”

Amelia sat staring at the blank whiteboard for a moment. After dealing with a killer who targeted social media influencers in search of his own fifteen minutes of fame—and to spread his demented “message” to the masses—the reason for the symbol seemed obvious to Amelia.

Whoever had set the fires wanted the world to know they, and no one else, were responsible.

3

As Amelia stepped out of the black sedan, a wave of warm, humid summer air rolled past her. Rather than the usual, pleasant scent of freshly cut grass or blooming flowers, the breeze carried with it the bitter odor of burned debris. Shoving the car door closed, Amelia swept her gaze over the small crowd huddled around the crime scene tape that cut off the street in front of the Morrison house.

The Chicago PD had set up a perimeter at the other end of the block to keep traffic away from the scene, leaving another few officers to patrol around the house itself. The street was lined with squad cars, as well as two white vans that belonged to the CSU and the medical examiner. Most of the fire department had left the area, leaving only a couple of firefighters behind to make sure there were no flare-ups.

Somewhere nearby, a hidden camera was recording the little crowd, just as they had at the prior three scenes. If the firebug was in attendance—as pyromaniacs tended to insinuate themselves among onlookers—a keen eye would spot them in the recording. Having busied herself with studying the details of the three previous arsons on the drive over, Amelia knew that a few of the neighbors had been noted at more than one of the fires. But investigators had thoroughly vetted them, and they had solid alibis.

Of course, mixed in with that crowd were reporters from all the local news outlets. Their bright lights, telephoto lenses, and long-range microphones were eager to scoop up any morsel they could find. Absent any success, the reporters would continue to rehash what they did know while trying to make the information sound fresh and “breaking.”

Amelia and Sherry approached a young officer stationed in front of the fluttering yellow tape. As they flashed their badges and introduced themselves, he beckoned them through.

Pausing on the sidewalk in front of the house, Sherry let out a low whistle. “It always hits a little different when you see it in person, you know?”

She wasn’t wrong. Where once there’d been a covered porch with a handful of potted plants, a tall wooden door, and a picture window overlooking the lush front yard, now there was little more than a ruined husk left behind. Like a pumpkin the week after Halloween, hollowed out and rotten.

The basic structure of the house remained, though it was now blackened. In places, such as near the front door, the walls had burned away almost entirely, exposing extensive damage to the interior. Much of the siding had peeled away with the intense heat, and the wooden beams of the structure stood like a rickety skeleton.

Amelia had been to her share of gruesome crime scenes, but Sherry was right. There was something different, something bleaker, about destruction created from fire. The acrid scent of burned wood still lingered on the humid summer air, and as Amelia drew closer to the house, she could almost taste the bitter odor.

Sherry craned her neck to peer around the partially destroyed wall. “Siobahn Buchanan is the fire investigation specialist on the case. She ought to be around here somewhere, but I don’t want to walk into the scene without her giving the green light.”

Though a handful of people milled about the remains of the house, Amelia was inclined to agree with Sherry’s decision. All the crime scene investigators were suited up in rubber boots and gloves, and odds were, they knew exactly what they were looking for.

Amelia gestured to the house. “We might as well walk the perimeter while we wait for her. See if there’s anything out of place.”

“Good call.” Sherry produced a pair of vinyl gloves from the back pocket of her slacks, and Amelia did the same.

As they started toward the corner of the house, Amelia thought back to what they’d learned about the previous crime scenes. “This makes the fourth fire within twelve square miles. Initially, Melanie Osborne was the prime suspect in the arson of her house, but she was ruled out once the same symbol showed up at the Day house while she had an alibi.”

Sherry’s expression grew contemplative. “Melanie’s husband had a half-million-dollar life insurance policy, so the most logical place for the Chicago PD to look to was the wife. Even though insurance fraud is less than ten percent of all arson cases, it was the only real lead they had.”

Amelia couldn’t imagine what that experience must’ve been like for Melanie Osborne. Not only had she barely escaped an inferno with her life, but she’d lost her child and her husband in one fell swoop. Then to be accused of setting the blaze that had killed them? Amelia would’ve lost her mind.

“Well, at least the other victims didn’t have to go through that. The symbol they found in each of the basements was a clear sign the previous fires were set by the same person.”

Pausing beside a singed shrub, Sherry tilted her head. “My best guess is that once our firebug got inside, they headed to the basement to paint the symbol. Shimmed the doors and locked the windows after that. Then spread the accelerant.”

“Then they climb out the last window and stick a shim in the sash, closing off every exit.” Amelia turned to Sherry. “How in the hell did the unsub manage to secure all the windows and doors and slosh gasoline throughout the victims’ houses without waking them? Were all the families sound sleepers, or was the arsonist just that sneaky?”

“Great questions.” Sherry peered up at the blackened skeleton of the house.

One thing Amelia had learned since her transfer to VC was that serial killers, arsonists included, were nothing if not creatures of habit. Their killings were their religion, their routines their manner of worship. Acute stressors could certainly drive a killer to escalate, as this one seemed to be doing, but for the most part, the core of the act remained the same. Four families murdered with the same M.O. attested to that in this case.

As they began to walk the perimeter, Amelia examined what was left of the front of the home. “Did the earlier victims have home alarm systems?”

“Only the Osbornes, but Melanie reported that they’d triggered it so often, the family deactivated it. Since the crime rates out here are low, most families don’t bother to have systems installed.”

As Amelia started to move past the burned shrubs at the corner of the house, a familiar voice jerked her and Sherry’s attention back to the front yard.

Dean raised a hand in greeting as he and Layton approached. “Hey, I don’t suppose you two solved the crime since you got here?”

Sherry rolled her eyes at him. “Ha, ha. We haven’t even found the fire specialist yet. She’s around here somewhere, but you know how arsons are.”

Dean brushed a wayward strand of whiskey-brown hair away from his forehead. “Yeah. Best to leave the insides of these places to the experts. Anyway, it looks like they’ve got Darrell Morrison at a hospital not too far away. It doesn’t seem like there’s much reason for all of us to be here right now, so we’ll head over there to get his statement.”

“Wait, he’s at the hospital?” Amelia pulled out her cell to check the time. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. Wasn’t this fire reported at three or four in the morning? I thought Darrell’s injuries were mild?”

Dean hunched one shoulder, a hapless look on his face. “They are mild. There was a nasty traffic accident with numerous injured motorists during the morning commute, so Darrell got pushed to the back of the line.”

Like that kid hasn’t been through enough already.

Layton peered over his shoulder to the distant group of lookie-loos. “The case files say none of the bystanders have been suspicious, but we should keep an eye out all the same. There’s always a first time.”

At the mention, Amelia took a quick gander at the crowd. It was estimated that roughly half of arsonists returned to the scene of their crime for various reasons. Possibly to relive the excitement or even to take pride in the level of destruction they caused. For others, watching emergency responders deal with the fire they set gave them a feeling of power and control.

In rare cases of those with pyromania, there was a sexual motivation to their return. They derived a sense of arousal from the act of setting a fire and the chaos that ensued. The flames, the destruction, and the response could all contribute to their sense of gratification. These individuals often had complex psychological profiles, and their behavior was driven by deep-seated impulses that were difficult to control.

Amelia scanned the faces in the crowd, looking for any signs of unusual interest or excitement. A handful of men and women were holding up cameras, likely snapping photos to add to their social media posts they planned to share later. Others were either watching quietly or talking among themselves.

Normal behavior from normal neighbors.

But criminals always looked normal.

She shuddered at the truth of the thought. Not many at the FBI office would’ve guessed that Amelia’s old case partner, Joseph Larson, was a human trafficker and rapist extraordinaire. Now the prick was dead, and so were his billionaire coconspirators, including a U.S. senator.

Point was, she’d learned by now that she never truly knew who she was looking for until she found them. No one did, and it was an aspect of the job that would never change.

Amelia turned to Layton. “Yeah, the locals are recording the crowds, but I’ll double-check to make sure. Let us know how the interview with Darrell goes.”

“Will do.” With a casual salute, Dean turned, and he and Layton made their way back to the street.

With a final side-eye for the crowd and camera crews, Amelia turned back to the house, Sherry at her side.

The prominent question now was what they could recover from this scene. Contrary to popular belief, fires weren’t a foolproof way to destroy evidence. If you knew where to look and what to look for, fires could tell savvy investigators quite a bit—including where a fire started, how it tracked through a location, and whether an accelerant was used.

If they wanted to find this psychopath before they struck again, they’d need all their wits about them.

4

Amelia and Sherry circled around to the back of the Morrison house. Neither had ventured too close to the burned shell of a home, and so far, their observation of the perimeter had yielded nothing. Amelia had hoped to spot a set of footprints in one of the flower beds on the side of the house, but the entire space was a muddy, soot-filled mess.

Firefighters had likely trampled any footprints while they focused on putting out the inferno. Fire investigators had to make sense out of so much destruction, and the specialists with both the FBI and the Chicago Office of Fire Investigation would have their work cut out for them here. Amelia was grateful for their expertise.

As she and Sherry neared the cement patio at the back of the house, a middle-aged woman turned away from where she’d been focused on her digital single-lens reflex camera. Her rubber boots were the same as those Amelia had spotted on the crime scene techs busy at work inside the house, and block letters on the back of her jacket proclaimed her the fire investigator.

Upon spotting Sherry, her expression brightened. With one hand on her camera, she threw the other up in the air and waved. “Agent Cowen, afternoon. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you out at one of my scenes.”

Smiling, Sherry returned the wave. “I wish I could say I was disappointed about that, but I really don’t miss scenes like this.”

The fire investigator threw back her head and laughed. “I don’t blame you a bit.” She paused to tap her temple. “It takes a special kind of crazy to keep coming back to this job, you know?”

This time, it was Sherry’s turn to laugh. “Oh, believe me, I know.”

Amelia looked between them, surprised at the jovial exchange. Of course, the fire investigator was right. In such a bleak line of work, it was pivotal to find some way to maintain one’s sanity. If Amelia and the others constantly responded in a socially appropriate way to the heavy subject matter they encountered, they’d all wind up in padded rooms by the end of the month.

Sherry gestured to Amelia. “This is my case partner, Special Agent Amelia Storm. Storm, this is Siobahn Buchanan. She’s by far my favorite fire investigator in the area.”

With a huff of feigned exasperation, Siobahn waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. You don’t need to flatter me. You know I’ll do my job well even if you don’t say all those nice things.” Her eyes met Amelia’s as she smiled. “Nice to meet you, Agent Storm.”

The woman’s smile was infectious, and Amelia could easily see why Sherry was so fond of her. “Nice to meet you too.”

“All right, well.” Siobahn released the camera around her neck and pulled a small tablet from the pocket of her jacket. “I know you aren’t here just to tell me who your favorite fire investigator is. You ladies want to know what we’ve been looking at for the last few hours.” As she stepped off the patio, she beckoned Amelia and Sherry over.

Sherry dropped her hands to her hips, glancing at the carcass of the two-story house and then back to Siobahn. “You took over for the city’s fire investigator, right?”

“I did. He handed over all his notes, videos, photographs, and preliminary floorplan.” She held up the tablet for emphasis. “Got ’em all right here. He did a fine job, far as I can tell.”

Amelia figured Siobahn’s stamp of approval was a good sign. “Could you walk us through the timeline? We know the fire was reported at around three in the morning, but what did it look like from then on?”

Siobahn tapped her tablet and gave the screen a couple swipes. “Looks like the 911 call went through at 3:17 a.m. The caller gave her name and address before reporting that her house was on fire. Dispatch tried to keep her on the line, but it went dead about four minutes in.”

Sherry lifted an eyebrow. “That was the daughter, Tara Morrison.”

Siobahn peered at the tablet, then turned back to Sherry. “Right. Says dispatch was trying to give instructions while they could tell the call was still active, but the young woman didn’t interact much and eventually stopped responding. She mentioned that her parents used sleep aids and they might be sleeping through the fire. The report says she planned on trying to rouse them.”

Amelia’s heart ached at the thought of the poor girl. “She was nineteen.”

Despite the joviality from moments ago, Siobahn’s expression was now stony. “First responders got here within six minutes of the initial call, but by then, this is what the house looked like.” She tapped the tablet and held it out for Amelia and Sherry.

Amid the black of night, the flames shooting up the sides of the two-story home were a veritable inferno. The fire seemed to demand release, pouring out of every opening and making new ones where it found no exit.

Amelia’s breath caught. The entire house was a wall of fire. For those trapped inside, it was no wonder they hadn’t made it out with their lives.

“The first responders took a video of the scene, which is standard procedure. Mr. Bryce, the CPD’s fire investigator, also took video and numerous photos. He kept a good record of everything that occurred after he arrived on the scene. It’ll be included in my report, so if need be, you’ll be able to contact the fire crew.”

Sherry spun her white gold wedding band a moment, as if thinking. “All right, so the fire department got here within six minutes, but the victim dropped off the line in four. And judging by that picture you showed us, there was no way in hell anyone was running inside to search for survivors. But Darrell Morrison had made it out by that point, right?”

Pushing a piece of curly hair from her forehead, Siobahn nodded. “Mr. Bryce’s report says that Darrell was with the neighbors out on the street when the first responders got here.”

Amelia shifted her weight. “Did none of the smoke detectors go off?”

Siobahn tapped the tablet again to show the charred and melted remnants of a device. “Possibly. We’ve recovered two from the rubble so far. Any that are recovered will be taken to the lab to determine if they were operational, missing batteries, stuff like that.”

Amelia made a note to listen to the 911 call. She might be able to hear the alarms in the background, if they did activate. If the arsonist barred the doors, was it possible that he’d also tampered with the devices?

Siobahn’s gaze flicked back up to Amelia and Sherry. “Now, the average time to put out a fire varies. It depends on what the structure is made of, how long the fire was burning before it was reported, the type of accelerant, if any, that was used, things like that. Considering the size of this house and the intensity of the fire, I’m sure it won’t surprise either of you that it took about five hours to put it out completely.”

Amelia did some quick mental math. “So that means the fire wasn’t out until eight thirty?”

Siobahn gave a quick nod. “According to Bryce’s notes, 8:38. Now, before sending any crime scene techs in, the fire department always does a sweep of the house to check for hot spots and possible safety issues. That took another hour, which puts us at about nine thirty.”

“Any first impressions?”

Siobahn tucked the tablet back into her jacket. “Based on everything I’ve seen so far, I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Bryce’s assessment of the scene. I can’t give you the tour, since we’ve still got work to do in there, but we’ll make sure everything gets sent over to the lab.”

Sherry’s focus shifted to the skeleton of the house. “But the basement is intact, right? Although a lot of debris would’ve collapsed into it, and I’m sure there’s a lot of water from the fire hoses as well.”

“Right.” Lifting her shoulder, Siobahn reached for her camera. “This is just my initial assessment, and there’s still plenty of evidence to review, but based on the burn patterns I’ve seen in the living room and kitchen, I’m confident in saying an accelerant was used. Based on the patterns on the first floor, I’d say we’re looking at gasoline. Maybe kerosene. Those are the two most common accelerants, so that’s not surprising.”

Sherry ran her hand through her hair. “All right. We appreciate the info, truly. I saw the M.E.’s van out front. I’m assuming by now the victims have been pulled out of the scene?”

“The third gurney was wheeled out right before you got here. Three of them are heading to the M.E.’s office as we speak.”

Rubbing her chin, Sherry looked over her shoulder, then back to Siobahn. “Where were the victims found inside?”

Siobahn clicked through a handful of images, landing on a photo that appeared to be a debris pile. Amelia leaned in closer, spotting three blistered and blackened forms in close proximity to each other. Her stomach churned. The burns were so extensive, she couldn’t distinguish between the victims.

“The second floor collapsed onto the first. Based on the floorplan of the home and where the victims landed, it appears all three were in the master bedroom on the far end of the home upstairs.”

Amelia couldn’t imagine the horror that must’ve gone through the victims’ minds, especially Tara, who’d reached the presumed protection her parents could provide, only to never make it out. Had she even managed to wake her conked-out parents before being overcome by the smoke? Gazing down at the photo, she wondered what their final moments had been like. Despite the heat of the day, she shivered.

Siobahn frowned and shook her head. “Whoever set this fire, they’re one sick son of a bitch, I’ll tell you that much.”

Another item to add to the mental checklist of characteristics of serial arsonists. “Was any of your team able to gain entrance to the basement? We know from the other three fires in this area that a symbol was found down there.”

Siobahn was shaking her head before Amelia even finished. “I’m afraid it’ll be at least a day or two before we’ll be able to get down there. Again, everyone knows to be on the lookout for a symbol, so we’ll let you know once we’ve been able to poke around.”

Amelia pulled up the older case files from the other three fires and accessed a photo of the symbol. “This is what we’re dealing with. I want to say it’s something occult, but I don’t have the first clue what it is.”

Siobahn tilted her head at the picture. “Yeah, it does look occult. We’ll keep an eye out.”

Sherry smiled at her colleague. “Thanks, Siobahn. We’re going to research the symbol when we get back to the office. It’s obviously part of this person’s calling card, but I’m wondering what the significance of it is to them.”

A few months back, Amelia and Dean had worked another case that involved bizarre symbols. Rather than discovering the markings in a burned house, however, they’d found them carved into the skulls of the victims. As it turned out, the Norse runes didn’t have any real significance, but had instead been their two killers’ way of branding people they viewed as cattle.

With the strange symbol from the arsonist fresh in their minds, Amelia and Sherry said their goodbyes to Siobahn. Considering the state of the entire Morrison residence, there was no need for two people who weren’t members of the CSU to traipse through the actual scene of the fire. Not only was the soot and debris from the blaze fragile, it had also been mixed with who knew how many gallons of water.

Put simply, it was a hot mess. But Amelia and Sherry could use their expertise outside the house, checking the perimeter, interviewing neighbors, and so on.

As they returned to the front yard, Amelia scanned the thinning crowd of bystanders. Just like before, nothing seemed amiss. The news crews were still present, but their bright lights no longer shined on the scene. It appeared they were packing up their gear.

She turned back to Sherry. “Layton and Steelman went to the hospital to interview Darrell Morrison, and Siobahn and the CSU are evaluating the scene here. The three deceased are en route to the morgue, so I suppose that leaves us with canvassing the neighborhood.”

“Yup.” Sherry tilted her chin toward a pair of officers hovering around a squad car. “My guess is they were probably about to start doing that when the case was handed over to the FBI. We can grab some of the CPD officers and formulate a game plan.”

Amelia ran her gaze up and down the street. Canvassing the area after a homicide was one of the most crucial pieces of legwork. With technology so readily available, it was always a distinct possibility that a neighbor could’ve captured vital evidence on a doorbell camera, or that someone’s home security system picked up footage that otherwise would’ve been missed. Somewhere on the block, someone might possess a critical clue they didn’t even realize they had.

Everyone on the team was working to gather as much information as they could. Then it would be up to Amelia, Sherry, and the others to fit all the puzzle pieces together as quickly as they could.

Amelia tightened her jaw. The shrinking time between fires indicated the arsonist was escalating. It was only a matter of time before they struck again.

5

The cool, comfortable, sterile environment of the suburban hospital was in stark contrast to the oppressive, humid summer air outside. Even with the windows up and the air-conditioning on, the inside of the car didn’t come close to the same crisp feeling of the hospital. Try as he might, Dean Steelman couldn’t decide whether he enjoyed the atmosphere or hated it.

Dean’s dress shoes clicked against the polished tile of the hall as he and Layton made their way toward the exam room where Darrell Morrison waited. They passed a few people wearing scrubs and two in lab coats, and Dean realized how much he and Layton in their neatly pressed suits stuck out.

Dean and Layton came to a halt in front of exam room seventeen. With a quick nod to Layton, he knocked lightly, paused, and pushed open the door.

In tandem, a haggard-looking teenager lying on a hospital bed and the woman seated at his side both turned their gazes toward Dean and Layton. The teenage boy had a nasal cannula feeding him oxygen, and his bandaged hand was resting on his chest.

Dean reached for the interior pocket of his suit jacket. “Darrell Morrison?”

The teen’s eyes shifted back and forth between Dean and Layton before he nodded.

Beside him, the woman straightened in her seat. Some of the blond hair from her ponytail had come loose, and the shadows beneath her eyes lent themselves to her beleaguered appearance. “I’m Darrell’s aunt, Jessica Morrison. Darrell’s father Logan is…was my brother.”

Dean hoped the combination of Layton’s teddy bear persona and his own Southern charm would aid in collecting the teen’s statement. The poor kid had been trapped in a burning house, and he’d just lost his entire immediate family. Although all the agents Dean worked with would show the young man compassion and understanding, he believed Darrell might be more receptive speaking to himself and Layton.

Flipping open his badge, Dean moved to the side to give Layton space. “I’m Special Agent Dean Steelman, and this is my partner, Special Agent Layton Redker. We’re with the FBI, and we’re here to get Darrell’s statement. We’re very sorry for your loss…both of you. Are you Darrell’s legal guardian?”

Jessica’s eyes widened. “Oh. Y-yeah. I guess I am now. The FBI? Are you working on the fires that have been happening in this part of the city? And where are the doctors?” She rested her hand lightly on Darrell’s shoulder. “Poor Darrell’s been waiting forever for X-rays. We haven’t seen anyone since they wrapped the burns on his hand and told him to keep that tube in his nose. Hours ago.”

Dean ignored the question about the medical staff. “Yes, ma’am. We’re investigating this fire, as well as the others. Based on the evidence we have from the previous fires, there’s reason to believe this fire was set deliberately.”

“Oh my god.” Jessica shot a panicked look at her nephew, then back to Dean and Layton. “You think…someone intentionally burned down my brother’s house? All these fires aren’t just a horrific coincidence? Why the hell would anyone do that?”

When I figure that one out, I’ll let you know.

Dean kept the thought to himself. “We aren’t sure of the motive yet, but that’s part of why we’re here. I know this is a hard time for you both, but we’d like to ask some questions that might help in our investigation.”

Seeming to snap out of her state of shock, Jessica squeezed her nephew’s shoulder. “Is that all right, Darrell?”

The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yeah, okay.”

Layton pulled out his cell, holding up the device for Jessica and Darrell to see. “Do we have your permission to record this discussion?”

Darrell’s eyes were distant and even a little glazed, but for the most part, he seemed aware of his surroundings. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Thank you.” With a reassuring smile, Layton tapped the screen and set the phone on the hospital bed next to Darrell. He then stated the date, time, and names of those present. “Like my partner said, we’re here to ask some questions. There’s really no detail that’s too small. Anything you can tell us will help.” He moved to stand at the foot of the bed next to Dean. “For starters, do either of you know of anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt a member of your family? Any disgruntled coworkers of either of your parents, an angry friend, anything like that?”

Jessica and Darrell exchanged glances, and Jessica shook her head. “No. My brother and I are…” she paused, and her shoulders slumped, “were really close. I’d’ve known if anyone was hassling him.”

Her statement helped eliminate possibilities, but they’d still verify that Logan hadn’t received any harassing messages.

She sucked in a shuddering breath and absently twisted her smartwatch. “He owned his own business, Morrison Plumbing. It was a modest company, not on par with the bigger names in the city. Logan always went out of his way to make sure his employees were taken care of.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “They loved him. No one was disgruntled or had an axe to grind. Logan would’ve told me, because he took that very seriously. It was a source of pride for him.”

In another scenario, Logan Morrison’s colleagues would all shoot to the top of the list of suspects. To be sure, Dean and the others would still interview them. It was possible Logan had been working with a serial killer all along, and that the man or woman had finally decided to turn their sights on him and his family.

Though the conversation was being recorded, Dean pulled a small notebook and a pen from the pocket of his slacks. “Who will control the company now that Logan can’t? Would one of the folks Logan worked with take over?”

Jessica pushed the errant hair out of her face and attempted to tuck it behind her ear, failing as it drifted back down and brushed her cheek. “No, it’ll go to my other brother, Aaron. He cofounded the business with Logan.”

In light of the three previous fires, Dean doubted the brother was a viable suspect, but he scrawled out the name Aaron Morrison. “Okay. And, Darrell, are you aware of anyone who may have had a grudge against your parents, sister, or you?”

The teen’s red-rimmed eyes glowed like beacons as he blinked several times. “No. We’re a chill family. My sister did shit that annoyed me sometimes, but she’s a…she was a great person.”

Dean didn’t want the teen to focus on his grief. He needed the young man to stay clearheaded, so he resumed his questions. “I know this might be difficult for you, but could you walk us through what happened last night?”

Darrell shifted on his bed and sat up. “I…um, I woke up in the middle of the night. I think it was around three in the morning. I don’t really know what woke me up. I’d fallen asleep while playing on my phone, around one, I think. So I was still dressed. But when I woke up, I smelled smoke. I thought it might’ve been coming from outside, but my window was closed.”

He held up a bandaged hand. “I…I got up, and I went to go open my door, but the handle was superhot. It burned me, and I remembered from some fire safety stuff from elementary school that I shouldn’t open it because there’s probably fire on the other side.”

The kid was right. Odds were, if he’d powered through the burning handle to open the door, he wouldn’t be alive. “And where is your bedroom in relation to the others?”

“It’s on the second floor, closest to the stairs. When we moved in, my parents joked that I should have that room because I make frequent trips to the kitchen for snacks.” A shadow of a smile flickered across Darrell’s face, then disappeared. “I guess I wouldn’t wake the others since they were farther down the hall.”

Dean jotted that detail down. “Aside from the smoke, did you smell or hear anything else? Anything that might’ve seemed weird or out of place?”

Darrell started to shake his head but stopped. “Yeah, actually. I mow the lawn at our house, so I’m familiar with the smell of gasoline. I smelled that. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it until now.”

As Dean made more notes, Layton took his cue. “What did you do after the door handle burned you?”

Darrell hesitated, a faraway look in his eyes. “I just…I don’t know. I guess it was survival instincts or something? I opened my window and just jumped. I knew if I thought about it too long, I’d lose my nerve, so I just went for it. Tried to do a roll or whatever when I landed, but I guess I did it wrong, because I messed up my ankle.”

“A fall like that would break a lot of people’s legs, so trust me, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Dean clicked his pen a couple of times. “Once you were outside, did you see anyone?”

“No. But I could see the fire. It was…insane. I didn’t see any of the flames when I was inside. But when I was outside, it was like the whole world was on fire. It was popping so loud.” He paused. “I don’t really remember doing it, but I ran to the neighbor’s house and called 911, since I hadn’t thought to grab my phone before jumping. The dispatcher said someone had already called, but I…I don’t know who it was.”

“Actually, Darrell, it was your sister Tara who called. She was found in your parents’ bedroom. I think it’s obvious she was trying to warn all of you.” Dean couldn’t imagine losing a sister like that. “I think that’s heroic.”

Darrell hung his head, and a sob escaped his throat. Jessica squeezed his unbandaged hand. “She…she was…” He took a few deep breaths and brushed a tear away as it trailed past the cannula before looking at his aunt. Tears streamed down Jessica’s cheeks as well. “She was always looking out for everyone. But if she knew there was danger…”

The room fell into a few moments of silence.

Holding out his hands, Layton’s gaze shifted from Jessica to Darrell. “She sounds like a great sister. You might be able to help us find who did this. We just have a few more questions.” He waited for Darrell to nod, giving him the go-ahead. “In the past few days, did you notice anyone strange in the neighborhood? Anyone who seemed like they didn’t quite belong?”

Pursing his lips, Darrell appeared thoughtful for a beat before he replied. “No. Not that I remember seeing anyway. I…I guess I don’t pay much attention to stuff like that.”

Layton offered the young man a reassuring smile. “That’s all right. Next, we like to get a picture of the families and what they did in the days before the fire. Darrell, can you tell us what you and your family did this past week? Anything you can remember, no matter how normal or inconsequential it might’ve seemed. Did you go anywhere, talk to anyone, anything like that?”

“Um, I don’t know. It’s summer, so we all kinda do our own thing.” Darrell fidgeted with the neckline of his hospital gown. “Nothing out of the ordinary. My sister’s home from college for the summer, and I think she was hanging out with her friends yesterday. Mom and Dad both had work, so I was home alone for most of the day. I played video games and watched a movie.”

Sounded pretty typical for a teenage boy passing the hours of his summer free time.

Darrell flexed the fingers of his bandaged hand before shaking his head. He sucked in a shaky breath and Dean feared the young man was battling the memories of when his family was alive. “When Mom and Dad got home, we all just sort of did our own thing, like we always do. Dad has his own games that he plays to decompress from the day, and Mom was reading in the living room.” His voice cracked a bit as he stared down toward his lap. “I…I should’ve spent more time with them.”

Sensing they were losing the kid, Dean jumped in to redirect his thoughts away from regrets. “You said your sister was hanging out with her friends. Do you know any of their names?”

Darrell’s eyes narrowed as if he was concentrating as he relaxed his bandaged hand. “Only one of them. From high school. Mallory Knight. I think that’s who she was hanging out with. They were going to the pool or something. I…I don’t really remember. I’m sorry.”

Layton held up a hand. “No need to apologize. You’re doing great. Do you remember what time your sister got home?”

Darrell’s posture relaxed a little at Layton’s reassurance. “I think it was around five. She had to get cleaned up before dinner. Mom and Dad weren’t home from work yet, which is pretty normal, unless Dad has a cancellation. I was watching TV. My mom came home around six or so. My dad wasn’t much longer after that. I know the sports was on the local news, so that’s always at six twenty.”

When the teen sat up straighter on his bed, Jessica readjusted a pillow behind his back.

Darrell was nodding now, apparently feeling better for being able to recount the events of the day. “My mom needed sour cream for our taco dinner, so my dad grabbed Tara who was bitching about having to go with him.”

Dean scrawled out a few more notes. “Do you know where they went?”

As he shrugged, Darrell glanced at his aunt. “I’m not sure. Probably the same store we usually go to. Anderson’s.”

Every scrap of information could lead to the arsonist, so Dean wrote that down too.

“Okay, we’re just about done.” Layton tucked one hand in his pants pocket. “Did anyone show up at your house in the days before the fire? Someone doing maintenance, checking up on the utilities, or trying to sell your parents something, anything like that?”

Halting the swirl of questions still flitting through his head, Dean studied Darrell as he stared up at the ceiling tiles as if the kid was sifting through his memories.

“Uh, no. Not that I remember, no. I mean, it’s possible, I guess. Mom or Dad might’ve answered the door when I had my headphones on or something, but I don’t remember anyone.”

Damn. It’s never that easy, is it?

Not that finding a mysterious visitor would’ve been a simple task. But it could’ve provided a definitive direction for the investigation.

After a few more routine questions—and a request for the teen to write down everything he could remember about his family’s activities for the past week—Dean and Layton left Darrell and Jessica with their business cards, advising them to reach out once they had the list, and if they remembered anything, no matter how trivial it might seem.

In the ten years Dean had spent with the FBI, he’d come across a few firebugs. He could already tell this was different. It was the first case he’d worked where an arsonist had purposely secured the exits to prevent the victims from escaping the blaze. There was little chance of an elaborate insurance scam this time around, but they’d check every angle just the same.

Whoever had started these fires had a goal in mind, and it wasn’t financial gain. It was murder.

6

Setting a handful of glossy photos down on the edge of the oval table in the fifth-floor incident room, Dean paused to drain the rest of his cup of coffee. He and Layton had returned to the Bureau office not long after their interview with Darrell Morrison, and they’d wasted no time acquiring a room and getting started on a murder board. They already had a map of the four crime scenes, and now they were filling in the details of each family.

Though Dean was the type of person who preferred to be as hands-on as possible with every investigation he worked on, he didn’t mind being back in the office today.

At the scene of a homicide, there was usually some sort of evidence trail to follow. Something to tell a story. But with arson? Not without the highly skilled observations of the fire inspector. Anytime he was in the field for an arson case, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a dog chasing its tail.

As Dean scooped up the photos, along with a roll of tape, the door at his back swung open. Glancing over his shoulder, Dean held up a hand in a quick greeting to Layton. “Welcome back.”

The BAU agent nodded as he moved toward the table. “Thanks. Anything come up while I was gone?”

“Only if you count my successful trip to the vending machine.” He let out a little chuckle. “Anything beats battling the printer which still hasn’t been fixed.”

Layton also chuckled. “I’ll take sustenance over aggravation every day.”

With a wave of his hand, Dean turned back to the whiteboard. “Anyway.” Dean taped up the first photo, an image of Dane Osborne taken from his wife Melanie’s social media account. “I was looking through the four different families, trying to see what they all had in common. I haven’t done a real deep dive yet, but on the surface, the only thing they seem to share is that they all live in the same area northwest of the city. But we already knew that, so…” He left the thought unfinished and shrugged.

“True. Aside from Glenda Marquez and her daughter Roxanne, all the victims were white. That’s not saying too much, considering the demographics of Falcon Point and Highfield are ninety percent Caucasian. Otherwise, at first blush, it seems like all four families were relatively well-off, financially speaking. I’ll dig deeper, look for any outstanding debts.”

In Dean’s experience, apparent affluence could come from mountains of credit card and loan debt. “I didn’t know banks are resorting to mob tactics for debt collection these days.”

“They had to give up on the collector phone calls eventually.” Layton twisted the paper sleeve of his cup before taking a sip. “But you know what I mean. Considering the signs are pointing to a serial arsonist, I’m skeptical of any mafia angle. We can keep it on our radar, but I think we have plenty of other leads to chase before that one.”

Still, unpaid debts to loan sharks or shady groups could go sideways in a hurry. Amelia and Zane, with their history in Organized Crime, could probably tell them some stories.

“You know, if we’re looking at the usual means, motive, and opportunity, our unsub had opportunity in spades.” As Dean shifted over to the next section of the dry-erase board, he glanced to Layton. “All of the houses burned down had two floors and a basement, meaning the perpetrator had a better chance of moving around the lower levels without waking up anyone sleeping on the second floor.”

Coins jingled as Layton fiddled with them in his pocket. “Plus, there’s the home security element. If the killer knew security isn’t tight in these neighborhoods, they must be familiar with the area. A local.”

Nodding, Dean added their thoughts to the board, the wet tip of the marker squeaking as he scrawled in his neat lettering. “Let’s send the symbol and the M.O. through ViCAP and see what comes up.”

The FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program was a database of information on violent crimes that had occurred across the country. Even the smallest, most rural police departments had access to report their jurisdiction’s homicides, missing persons, and sexual assault cases to the database.

Layton pulled a quarter from his pocket. “Toss for who has to write up the report?”

Thing was, despite the access everyone had to the ViCAP database, finding the time to add incident reports was a different matter altogether. Doing so allowed investigators to track serial homicides and assaults by the perpetrator’s modus operandi, but those all-important reports tended to pile up during investigations of new serial homicides and assaults.

Dean didn’t hesitate in his choice. “Tails.”

A ting sounded through the quiet room as the coin flipped in the air. Layton caught the quarter and slapped it down on the back of his hand, checking the results. “Nuts.”

With a triumphant grin at the American eagle face up on the quarter, Dean went about affixing the remaining photos to the whiteboard. While the room lapsed into silence, it wasn’t an uncomfortable spell of quiet, but instead an oddly calming one. Dean fell into the rhythm of checking files and writing out the pertinent details, becoming almost hypnotized by the sheer amount of data they needed to sort and categorize.

His hypnosis broke, and Dean almost jumped out of his skin, when Layton muttered, “Oh, shit!”

Over the sudden race of his pulse, Dean barely made out the clack of a keyboard as he spun around to face the table. Inhaling through his nose, Dean willed his tense muscles to relax. “What? Did you find something?”

Layton didn’t look up from the laptop. “Yeah, I think so. Took a little digging in ViCAP, since what I found is a little different, but I found three different fires set in Chicago about eight years ago. At all three of them, there was a symbol spray-painted on a wall.”

After tapping another key, Layton turned the computer around.

Dean leaned down to see the circular symbol, which was quite similar to the mark they’d found in the basement of the three arsons from Northwest Chicago. But the more Dean studied it, the more a sliver of doubt prodded at the back of his mind.

As Layton pulled the laptop back, Dean straightened. “I don’t know. It doesn’t look quite the same, you know? The upside-down cross and those lines on the lefthand side were different from the more recent symbol. The major similarity is the shape, and the fact that they both look occult.”

“True.” Layton drummed his fingers on the table. “But the fire investigator’s report states there was an accelerant used, and lab tests confirmed it was gasoline. That’s the same as our four scenes, although it’s a common fire starter. Plus, the three older fires were in an affluent area. That suburb is on the east side of the city, probably about forty-five minutes away from Falcon Point and Highfield.”

“Eight years is a long time.” Dean scrunched his face up. “Countless aspects of a person’s life could change in that span. And maybe those changes led to something of a refinement in how a crime was perpetrated.”

Dean had been relatively new to the FBI eight years ago, and he’d still owned a surfboard from when he lived on the coast. Though his life hadn’t changed tremendously in the near decade since, his outlook and his temperament certainly had. Back then, he’d been convinced he had to prove himself at every turn. He hadn’t felt worthy of his title as a special agent, suffering from what his fellow agents and the public at-large often called imposter syndrome.

These days, he knew he was exactly where he belonged, even when his cases turned frustrating and dark.

Considering all the changes that had occurred in Dean’s psyche over those eight years, was it really that hard to believe a serial arsonist might’ve decided to switch up their signature?

No, not particularly. The symbol could’ve evolved over time, or they could’ve altered it to represent some form of change in their life.

“Is there anything else in ViCAP? Any fires matching the M.O. in other cities? The perp could’ve moved away from Chicago for a while.”

“I was thinking that, too, but there isn’t anything I can see here.” Layton tapped a few keys on his laptop. “A few years ago in Oregon, there were a couple of arsons in warehouses around the area. The perpetrators there had spray-painted a pentagram at the scene, but they were caught after one of the fires killed a worker. Looks like they’re still in prison.”

“Pentagram’s not right, not for this person. The warehouse part of it doesn’t fit either.” Dean jerked his chin toward Layton. “But what about those fires from eight years ago here in Chicago? How did those pan out?”

“There were three fires in total, but only the third one was fatal. That same symbol, slightly different from the one we’ve seen at our more recent fires, was found at each scene.” Layton scrolled down the page. “And from what I’m seeing here, the damage wasn’t anywhere near as extensive as it was with these last four. CPD worked out that each of the houses had been burglarized beforehand.”

“That doesn’t fit either…or does it?” Dean paused to scrutinize the photos from the Marquez home. “Depending on the damage to each house, it could be difficult to tell if something was stolen. What about those older fires?”

The glare of the laptop glinted off his glasses as he studied the screen. “Chicago PD had a suspect for those three fires, including the one that killed someone. They just never had enough to charge him.”

A jolt of anticipation shot through Dean at the mention of a suspect. “Really? Who is he? And where is he?”

“Hold on.” Layton’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Jamie Calhoun, and…” the BAU agent blew out a heavy sigh, “he’s in prison. Been there for the last two years for a murder committed during drug trafficking. Calhoun claimed the murder was self-defense, but since it’d been committed during a felony drug incident, the prosecutor used the felony murder rule to charge him with first-degree murder. But when it comes to those old fires, he was never charged.” Layton paused, peering at the laptop screen. “Actually, no one was.”

Well, so much for a nice slam dunk.

“So let’s see…” Dean paced toward the end of the oval table, then turned around to begin the path anew. He’d never been great at sitting still for extended periods, and pacing often helped him think. “Someone sets three different fires eight years ago, killing one person. The CPD suspects Jamie Calhoun, but never has enough to charge him. I don’t know…it almost sounds like the justice system worked like it’s supposed to.”

“A fair point.” Leaning back in his chair, Layton adjusted the screen of his laptop so he could see it from his new vantage point. “If we’re dealing with the same guy, then it means Jamie didn’t set those fires eight years ago. It’s unusual for serial killers to go through lengthy periods of dormancy, but it’s certainly not unheard of.” He held up a finger. “Dennis Rader, the BTK murderer, is a great example. He killed his final victim in 1991 and wasn’t heard from again until he started sending messages to the local media in 2004.”

“That’s right. He sent a photocopy of Vicki Wegerle’s driver’s license to the newspaper.” Dean snorted. “Wish the serials we came across were that stupid. But yeah, I see what you’re saying. We shouldn’t rule out the possibility that it’s the same guy just because the symbols are a little different and some time has passed.”

“Exactly. So we need to check the list of any offenders charged with arson who were released before May of last year, the time of our first fire.”

Layton eyed the whiteboard at the end of the room. “But there’s also the potential that Calhoun did set those fires, and that he inspired a copycat. I’m not sure why that would’ve taken eight years, but it’s still possible. Someone could’ve been going through news archives and seen the old headlines, then gotten a wild hair to replicate what they saw.” He pursed his lips. “Or he could’ve had an accomplice, and his accomplice could’ve recently decided to take up the old mantle again.”

Dean halted his pacing to rock back on his heels. “There’re a lot of variables. Someone from the team ought to pay Mr. Calhoun a visit. Where’s he serving his time?”

“Stateville Correctional Center in Joliet.” Layton glanced at his watch. “We can get something set up for tomorrow, but it might be a little late for today. Then whoever’s available can head out there.”

Dean waved a hand at the board. “We’ve still got plenty to do here anyway. If he’s going to be interviewed tomorrow, we ought to make sure we do our homework. Not just on these four cases, but on the three older ones. I mean, it’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

Layton snorted. “No. Not in this lifetime anyway. I’ll see what I can dig up about these older cases if you want to keep setting up the murder board. Your handwriting is better than mine anyway.”

With a lazy salute, Dean reached out to grab his coffee. The sense that they were close to unraveling a part of the puzzle was satisfying, though the nagging part of his brain wondered if the discovery would be substantial enough to point them in any real direction.

There was only one way to find out. They had to keep digging.

7

Though muffled, Amelia’s and Sherry’s footsteps echoed in the unadorned hallway as they made their way toward a set of double doors. Even at four in the afternoon, the medical examiner’s office was eerily quiet, at least once they were past the check-in point in the front lobby. Then again, how many living people were in the building?

The receptionist had advised them that Dr. Adam Francis—the office’s most tenured forensic pathologist—was expecting them downstairs in exam room B. Amelia wasn’t sure what she and Sherry would find by speaking to Dr. Francis, but the M.E.’s office was on their route back to the Bureau from canvassing the neighborhood around the crime scene.

They hurried down a set of stairs and made their way through a set of swinging doors. Though FBI agents tended not to visit the morgue as often as a city homicide detective might, Amelia was familiar enough with the layout that she headed straight toward exam room B.

Before letting themselves into the enclosed space, she and Sherry each grabbed a pair of neoprene gloves and paper gowns to wear over their clothes. Amelia didn’t plan on touching any of the victims’ bodies, but protocol was protocol.

With an elbow, Amelia pushed open the nearer of the two double doors and stepped into the sterile exam room. Almost right away, the faint odor of burned flesh greeted her.

Amelia had sat in on a handful of autopsies in her career, one of which involved a corpse pulled from Lake Michigan. None of the smells had been remotely pleasant, but burned flesh was especially unsettling.

Her gaze shot to the stack of barf bags on the counter next to the door. On the center of each bag was a barfing emoji almost identical to the one Zane had texted when he advised her the cat had puked on the floor last week.

At the silly memory, as well as the reminder of Dr. Francis’s sense of humor, the threat of bile in the back of Amelia’s throat receded.

From a computer in the corner of the room, Dr. Francis turned to offer Amelia and Sherry a warm smile. “Afternoon. My assistant should be back in just a moment, and we’ll get started on the postmortem. This is the second victim of the three from the fire overnight. I finished the first about an hour before you got here. I’m assuming that’s why you dropped by?”

“It is.” Sherry approached the exam table in the center of the room, her paper gown rustling with the motion. “We were hoping to pick your brain about this case and the three other fires in the same area.”

“Of course.” Dr. Francis ran a hand over his bald head as he studied the computer screen, as if wiping away the mental image of them literally picking through his brain. “Six of the nine fire victims had autopsies performed between three and thirteen months ago. I want to check my notes on the older ones, since it’s been a while and I see a lot of corpses come through here.”

In a city as large as Chicago, the work of the M.E.’s office was split between a handful of different forensic pathologists. Amelia was grateful all their victims had been reviewed by Dr. Francis, since that meant he might recall intricacies once he checked his detailed notes.

“Glenda and Roxanne Marquez are the two postmortems I performed back in March.” He enlarged a photo. “Honestly, the postmortems for all the previous victims were largely the same. The bodies were all badly burned, but none displayed signs of physical trauma. We found substantial, lethal levels of soot in their lungs, which is a clear indication they were killed by smoke inhalation and not a different source.”

Sherry raised her eyebrow. “And that’s the same for all the victims so far? There’s been no indication of physical trauma inflicted before the fire was set?”

“None whatsoever.” Dr. Francis gestured to the sheet that covered the victim on the exam table. “As I mentioned, all the bodies were badly burned, which can sometimes obfuscate the exact manner of a victim’s death, but only to an extent. We searched for damage to the tissue and bone, as we always do, but I’m afraid there was nothing. Not with Tara Morrison, her parents, or any of the others.”

Though Amelia had a chance to look over some of the notes from the older autopsies, she’d held on to a sliver of hope for a hidden clue at the morgue. On some level, it would’ve been a relief to learn each victim had been shot in the head before the fires were set.

The case files indicated that almost all the victims had never even made it off the second floor before succumbing to the smoke. Amelia hoped most of them never realized the horror raging around them. But she knew Tara Morrison had been aware, as had the survivors who’d managed to extricate themselves from the trap set for them.

Only one victim, Glenda Marquez, had been found on the first floor. Her body was discovered by the front door held firmly shut by the shims. Investigators had found scratch marks on the interior of the door and wood splinters under her fingernails, presumably from trying to unjam the shims. The poor woman had tried to claw her way to freedom.

Amelia swallowed hard as she imagined the horror of Glenda realizing she was trapped. The hope she must’ve felt when she reached the door, only to find when she’d tried to open it…nothing.

She nudged Sherry. “The arsonist is going through the trouble of jamming the doors and windows to trap the victims. But if their goal is to kill these people, why risk leaving a survivor who could potentially provide evidence against them? Is it because they want the people to suffer?”

Sherry pursed her lips. “Well, so far, none of the survivors have caught so much as a glimpse of the unsub. Maybe they know that, and they’re cocky. Could be that they think the people who manage to find a way to escape are ‘worthy’ somehow.” She paused to shake her head. “That might be far-fetched. What’s clear is this firebug wants these people to die, not survive.”

“Or they’re just not risking waking people up on the second floor.”

Amelia didn’t disagree with Sherry’s suggestion of a killer allowing a chance for worthy victims, but what would that mean for the profile of the suspect? Their unsub’s desire to kill made them a serial killer more than an arsonist. Were they also someone who’d survived a fire?

Did they consider themselves superior to their victims who died?

8

Setting her paper coffee cup beside her laptop, Amelia stretched her back and stifled a yawn before dropping into her office chair. The sun had risen a few hours earlier, but she’d had a restless night’s sleep.

Across the table from her, Sherry’s drawn expression looked just as weary as Amelia felt. She’d spotted Layton in the break area on her way to the incident room, and if she had to guess, Dean was at the nearest coffee shop, ordering a sugar-filled latte.

After her and Sherry’s visit to the medical examiner’s office the previous afternoon, they’d returned to the office to discover Dean and Layton’s detailed murder board. By the time they’d acquired physical copies of all the previous case files and printed a yearbook’s worth of photos, the wall clock had showed almost seven in the evening.

With much of the tedious legwork completed, the four of them had agreed to call it a night and return to the case rested and refreshed the following morning. Well, as rested and refreshed as they could get while in the midst of a high-profile case.

So far, the reporters had been kept far enough away from the crime scenes that Amelia and the other agents hadn’t been confronted directly, though the fire had still hit the top story in both the evening and morning news programs. Each member of the team wore the public pressure over the mounting local unease like weights around their necks.

Before Amelia had a chance to open and power on her laptop, Layton emerged in the doorway, his own laptop tucked beneath one arm. “Morning, Storm. Cowen. Don’t suppose either of you know if we’ve gotten anything back from forensics yet?”

“They’re still processing a lot of it, but they did send us a list of what they’ve recovered so far. It’s more or less what we expected, and what we’ve seen at the other houses.” Sherry held up three fingers and ticked one down with each item. “A clear plastic lock for the first floor windows, and wooden two-by-twos on the sliding glass door tracks. Indications that shims were used to jam the basement door and the main doors.”

Amelia pictured the unassuming pieces of stainless steel, each darkened in places by smoke and soot but still intact. “Do we know yet if they’re the same types of locks as the ones from the other scenes? Brand name or anything like that?”

A spark of energy seemed to chase the tiredness from Sherry’s face. “Actually, yes. The brand name was stamped into the sides of them, some company called Full Home Security. I looked them up, and they’re a common manufacturer and seller of basic household security items. From what I can tell, a good chunk of their business is from online sales. Some hardware stores also carry their product, so it could go either way.”

“Huh.” Layton took a seat next to Amelia. “Sounds like it’ll be tough to track down how our unsub got their toys. Could’ve paid cash for them at a hardware store, could’ve bought them online with some form of crypto, or could’ve just bought them with a debit card.”

“Fantastic. That’ll be fun to chase.” Sherry swirled the coffee in her cup. “We’ll wait and see what else forensics turns up, though. Maybe they can figure out some kind of batch number for when the locks were manufactured, that sort of thing.”

“We can have Cyber look into digital sales for the locks, too, maybe check on the sales of some hardware stores near where the victims live.” In such a detailed investigation, they could use all the help they could get, as far as Amelia was concerned. “This guy’s got to be buying them in large quantities. Maybe they could pick up on some of those patterns.”

Layton shot Amelia an approving glance. “Good thinking. I’ll reach out to one of my old colleagues and see what they can turn up. I don’t suppose we were lucky enough to find prints on any of them, were we?”

Sherry shook her head. “Nope. Our unsub either wore gloves or wiped them down, but my money’s on the gloves, since there weren’t foreign prints found on the doorknobs or any other surfaces left for the CSU check.”

Movement in the doorway drew Amelia’s attention to Dean as he stepped over the threshold. As she’d guessed, he held a green-and-white coffee cup in one hand and a laptop bag in the other.

As Sherry filled Dean in on their brief discussion, Amelia located the updated list of evidence from forensics, and as she began to scroll through, one particular item caught her eye. “Hey, have any of you seen what the CSU pulled from the basement at the Morrison home? They haven’t cleared all the debris yet, but they found the same symbol painted on the wall.”

Everyone crowded around her laptop as she opened a photo taken of the symbol. There in broad strokes on the basement wall was a symbol of an upside down cross inside a circle of red paint. A pair of peculiar, seven-pointed stars bracketed the cross, with squiggles and triangles and half-lidded eyes and even the weird S symbol everyone doodled in notebooks at Amelia’s high school scattered around in the rest of the space. She’d never seen anything like it before.

Dean lifted an eyebrow. “I assume the chemical makeup of the paint is the same?”

With a few clicks, Amelia navigated to the details of the CSU’s analysis so far. “It’s the same color. They’ll know for sure if it’s the same paint as at the three other scenes after they analyze it. But even if they’re not the same brand, our unsub could’ve switched things up.”

“Paint cans were found at each of the scenes. Looks like this one too.” Sherry frowned at the screen over Amelia’s shoulder. “But nothing conclusive has been found about the paint. The composition is pretty common, and the labels were scorched off in the fires, so no store brands.”

Realization crept into Layton’s expression. “It’s interesting that he leaves the paint cans behind, especially since they are just small sample-sized cans and would be easy to carry. The profile I’ve been working on generally indicates our suspect is organized. If he is and he’s leaving the cans behind, he probably doesn’t see them as important once he’s left his message.”

Turning away from the list of evidence, Amelia shifted her full attention to the behavioral analyst. If there was one part of this job that fascinated her the most, it was diving into the psyche of the men and women who committed these horrific acts.

“Do you think they want the victims to panic when they realize their routes of escape have been cut off?” Amelia wondered what kind of trauma a person would have to endure to do something so sadistic.

“Possibly. The steps our perpetrator takes are psychologically significant. The fact that certain elements of the crime are repeated indicates a distinct signature.”

Sherry’s chair squeaked as she settled into it. “Then there’s no deviation from their pattern.”

“Not with the core psychological elements, no. But pieces of their M.O. might change according the situation. If they’re discovered in the home, or the fire gets out of hand before they’re done, they’ll have to adjust.”

“Speaking of being discovered…” Sherry swiped a few times at her tablet. “We’ve got footage and photos of all the onlookers from the previous crime scenes. The investigators of the first three fires found only two neighbors who’d been at more than one scene, but they had solid alibis. We’ll run through the footage from the latest scene, but it’s looking like our firebug might not be sticking quite that close.”

“Which brings me back to the killer’s profile. To not stand out in these neighborhoods, our suspect is likely Caucasian and the statistics indicate he’s likely male.” After another sip of coffee, Layton took a quick look at the murder board. “Our suspect’s propensity to use fire as his weapon suggests he may have had a traumatic experience with a fire in his past.”

That didn’t make sense to Amelia. “Why would someone with a traumatic past with fire choose it as a weapon?”

Could fire have saved him from that abuse before?

“There are several reasons.” Layton held up a finger. “First, there’s the concept of reenactment and mastery. Individuals who’ve experienced trauma often feel a need to reenact the event in an attempt to gain control over it. By setting fires, our arsonist might be trying to transform a source of terror into a tool of power.”

Sherry snapped her fingers. “So it’s like he’s trying to conquer his fear by controlling it. Like Batman”

“Exactly.” Though Layton winced at the comparison as he held a second finger up. “Then there’s the aspect of psychological coping mechanisms. Trauma can lead to PTSD, where individuals might engage in behaviors that help them cope with their symptoms. For some, setting fires could be a maladaptive way to deal with intrusive memories and emotional numbness. It’s a form of emotional regulation, albeit a destructive one.”

“What serial killers do isn’t usually just about causing destruction…” Dean tapped his pen thoughtfully. “Sometimes they’re like Batman, but they’re not usually like the Joker. They have reasons for what they do, however twisted. But in this case, it’s about managing their own internal chaos?”

“Correct.” Another finger went up as Layton shot Dean an exasperated look. “There’s also a symbolic significance to fire. It can represent purification, destruction, or transformation. For our arsonist, fire might symbolize a way to cleanse or change his environment, reflecting his internal psychological state. It could also be an expression of anger or revenge, externalizing intense emotions.”

That made so much sense.

“And then there’s the fixation on fire itself. Some people develop a pathological obsession with fire, especially if they’ve had a significant early experience with it.” Amelia had briefly gone through her own firebug phase as a kid, until the day her mom caught her with fireworks on a day of the year that didn’t rhyme with “Independence Day.” She’d thought that grounding would never end.

“Precisely.” Layton dropped his hand to the table. “This fixation can manifest as a compulsive need to start fires, driven by an intense fascination with the element. It’s a behavioral pattern that can be deeply ingrained, especially if it started during their formative years.”

Sherry rested her chin on her fist. “So we’re looking at someone who’s not just using fire as a weapon, but as a way to deal with their own past trauma and psychological needs.”

Layton pointed at her. “Understanding this can help us predict his next moves and possibly identify him. We need to keep these factors in mind as we continue our investigation.”

Dean clicked his pen. “So we should track down fires in what time span? Any special characteristics of the fires we should be looking for?”

“He’s probably in his late twenties to early thirties, and the event would’ve imprinted on him during his formative years. We’ll need to go back about twenty to twenty-five years and search for fires where someone died.”

“Why these families though?” Amelia rubbed her temple to stave off the headache beginning there. “Maybe they represent the family life he had when he was abused? Upper middle-class white family, parents not separated or divorced, usually with one or two kids?”

Raising his eyebrows, Layton stretched his arms in front of him, cracking his knuckles. “Now, that’s a solid hypothesis. Let’s not narrow our possibilities down too much, but we should look at similar family makeup when checking out those past fires. And we need to figure out how he’s coming across the victims and what sets him into action.”

Amelia started taking notes. “Given the proximity of the homes, it’s possible he’s interacting with them through his job or as their neighbor, or he could just be in a position to observe the families from a distance.”

Sherry drummed her fingers on the table. “Steelman, you collected all the logs from the survivors that detail their activities and movements in the week leading up to each fire, right?”

“Still indexing it and trying to make sense of it all.” Dean blew a light raspberry. “But, yeah, that’s an angle I’m pursuing.”

“Those logs the survivors provided might help us pinpoint a common place they’ve all been, and that might lead us to our killer.” Sherry snapped her fingers. “Speaking of leads we’re following, I don’t suppose anyone’s had an epiphany about where that symbol might’ve come from? The databases didn’t have anything matching it. Not even when we expanded the search to include tattoos.”

“I think our strongest lead right now is Jamie Calhoun.” Not that Amelia considered it much of a lead, what with Calhoun doing time in prison during the most recent murders. He couldn’t get a much tighter alibi than that.

Sherry tapped her fingers against her keyboard. “Dean got a meeting scheduled with Calhoun today at Stateville. He was the primary suspect in the fires from eight years ago, and the symbol found at those scenes is the closest thing we’ve found to the ones in Falcon Point and Highfield. Since Calhoun’s been in jail for the last couple years, he obviously didn’t set these fires, but…”

“But since he was never convicted for the arsons, it’s possible the CPD have the wrong suspect and the person who actually set the fires is still out there.”

Layton looked between Amelia and Sherry. “If the original firebug was never caught, then they could’ve experienced a significant life event in the past eight years that escalated their crimes from burglary and arson to premeditated murder.”

Amelia pondered what event could tip someone over the edge.

Dean exhaled loudly. “Feels like we’ve got a bunch of pieces from about four different puzzles, and we need to figure out which ones fit our puzzle.”

No one disagreed.

“We looked to see if there were any similar fires in other parts of the country. The perp could’ve moved and started setting fires in a new city after all.” Layton lifted one shoulder. “But there was nothing. Just the fires from eight years ago and the four we’re looking at.”

“I was thinking last night about how that’s quite a change in his M.O.” Sherry paused in her typing to fiddle with her wedding band. “In the older fires, the houses were burglarized and then set on fire, and they found a similar symbol at the scenes, but that’s where the parallels end. The first two fires eight years ago didn’t kill anyone. The homeowners weren’t even there. There was one victim in the third and final fire, then nothing for eight years.”

“Maybe that’s what made him pause. That final kill.” Dean met Amelia’s gaze. “He didn’t mean to kill anyone, so when he did, he cut himself off all this time.”

At the same time that Amelia said, “You’re ascribing a lot of empathy to this sociopath,” Sherry put in, “So what made him start up again?”

After a pause, Amelia blew a raspberry of her own. “That’s a better thought.”

“If it’s the same person, the memory of the kill that made him stop could’ve festered long enough to make him want to reenact that consequence. Maybe he’s finally admitted he liked it. Maybe the two aren’t connected.” Layton set down his empty cup and slowly flattened the paper under his big palm. “It’s far from a complete theory, I know. But…at the same time, the pieces can fit together if we can explain the eight-year gap between the old set of fires and the more recent group.”

Dean stretched both arms above his head. “Like Amelia said, Calhoun’s a good place to start, even if all we’re doing is ruling him out. We also have a couple of statements from the Marquez family’s neighbors saying they saw a white SUV driving around the neighborhood on the night the fire was set.”

Sherry perked up at the mention of the vehicle. “Wait, there were reports of a suspicious vehicle in the first two cases, too, but it was a sedan. Black or dark blue, the witnesses couldn’t quite tell.”

One symbol turning into another, a handful of burglaries evolving into a series of cruel murders, and now a sedan turning into an SUV? Dean was right. It sure seemed like they had the pieces to about four different puzzles.

Divide and conquer.

Amelia turned to Layton. “You and I can speak with Jamie Calhoun and the detectives from that case. Cowen and Steelman can keep looking through everything gathered from the crime scenes so far.”

She felt a twinge of selfishness. Talking to the jailed man was going to be way more interesting than poring through lock purchases and financial records. While necessary, those tasks would be a snooze fest.

With a quick glance to Sherry, Dean straightened in his chair. “Yeah, that’s a good plan. But we’ve already got Cyber on the lock purchases. We’re waiting for the lab right now, so we can re-canvass some of the Morrisons’ neighbors and ask about any suspicious vehicles that might’ve been in the area. Could be something as simple as the unsub getting a new car.”

Simple wasn’t a word Amelia would’ve ever considered attributing to the case in front of them. But maybe they weren’t dealing with four different puzzles after all. Maybe the pieces just fit together in a way they hadn’t yet envisioned.

9

With a shopping basket in one hand, I rounded the endcap of the pasta aisle and made my way toward the towering wall of chips and snacks. This shit wasn’t healthy, but I didn’t care. I deserved a reward, no matter how salty or greasy it was.

Three of the four Morrisons were dead. I’d created a new personal record, and I was still riding high on the wave of satisfaction. If I could figure out what had made the fire at the Morrison house more effective, more deadly, then I could copy what I’d done. I hadn’t used any more gasoline than usual, so why had three of them died and only one survived?

As far as I could tell, the sole survivor of the Morrison family was the teenage kid who’d jumped out his second-floor window, same as the Osborne woman.

As I paused in front of a shelf with my favorite chips, a woman’s laugh caught my attention. She was on the other end of the aisle.

I recognized her immediately. I’d been keeping tabs on her and her family for more than a week, ever since I’d first overheard part of a shoplifting incident here. One of her sons had been the culprit, but it was a different kid with her today. This one was shorter and younger.

How was she laughing when one of her stupid kids had tried to steal from this very store a week ago? How dare she show her face here without a care in the world?

If I’d shoplifted when I was younger, my father would’ve socked me in the jaw and thrown me outside on my ass—provided he was home and wasn’t on a bender in some crack house down in South Chicago, usually the Wild Hundreds. In which case, my mother would’ve gone for that wooden spoon she’d always favored.

A mom’s supposed to be nurturing, right? Have your back, get you ready for the world. But mine? When she wasn’t wasted, she was all right, I guess. Hell, she could even crack a smile.

But that bitch was never not wasted. Not when I was a kid, and probably not even now, six feet under.

She’d checked out with a fifth of vodka in one hand and an empty pill bottle on her nightstand, right after she’d plugged my old man in the chest with a twelve-gauge. I was barely a teenager.

Could I blame her for taking out the miserable bastard? Nah. The prick had tried torching our home for the insurance money when I was eight. Still got the scars on my arms from when Mom and I had to bust out of the burning house by crawling through a broken window. Dad tried explaining it away by saying he was gonna wake us up.

Bullshit.

But the jerk never thought about what would happen to his six-year-old daughter. Lily got caught in those flames. The sweetest kid in the world, gone in an instant. But I was still here, listening to the cheerful laughter of the mother I’d been stalking like she was mocking me.

After the fire, Dad’s abuse simmered for a while. Not that it lasted long—he was back to smacking Mom and me around within a month, like it was some sick hobby. I’d never get how she let that bastard stick around for another five years after he tried to off us.

But that was Mom for ya. She never gave a shit about me, Lily, or even Dad. All she cared about was that damn bottle.

There was no escape from the constant crap storm of insults and violence.

With my folks, they didn’t give two shits about what I did outside the house. Sure, if I got caught shoplifting, I’d catch hell. But as long as I kept my nose clean with the cops, they were cool. It was everything I did under their roof that set them off.

Now, my grandpa? That dude ran his house like a boot camp. Ex-drill sergeant, Vietnam vet. His way or the highway.

I ground my teeth and shifted my attention back to the chips, stealing glances at the mom and kid. Their happy banter stoked the furnace of hatred inside me.

“…needs new cleats for…”

“…grandparents coming over for dinner next week…”

I bit down so hard, I was surprised I didn’t break a tooth.

Grandparents for dinner? How quaint. How sickeningly wholesome.

Though I knew squat about this mom and her son the little thief, I despised them with a passion. As their oblivious chitchat closed in around me, my pulse thundered like a war drum.

“Should we make some guac? Grandpa’s been, like, obsessed with it lately.”

Another irritating laugh from the mom. “He sure has been. Ever since he and Grandma went to California back in March. I think that’s a great idea. Let’s grab some tortilla chips, then we can go back to the produce section and find some good avocados and everything else we’ll need.”

They were getting closer, reaching for chips right by mine. With every step, the scent of smoke grew stronger. It was all in my head, but for a beat, I smelled gasoline and burned flesh right under my nose. Memories, but not from any of the fires I’d set nearby.

Lily’s screams, imagined but vivid, echoed in my head. My brain loved to torture me and fill in the gaps. I could almost feel her tiny fists pounding on a door that had swelled shut from the heat of the fire.

That last detail? Real as hell. I’d found out about the swollen doors from Dad griping about the fire report that ended up denying his insurance claim. He’d stated there was enough circumstantial evidence to suspect intentional fire-setting, even though the police and fire marshal hadn’t pressed any charges.

Lily had died for nothing. He’d placed a bounty on our heads and ultimately come up empty. It served the bastard right.

I didn’t stick around near the houses to watch them burn, though I wished I could. What I’d give to witness their suffering, watch their skin slough off their faces.

With a sharp breath, I snapped out of my thoughts. Snatching a jumbo bag of my favorite chips, I turned and headed away from the mom and her kid.

Funny how my triumph at the Morrisons’ place lost its shine. Yeah, I’d done what I set out to do. Made them squirm, shattered their picture-perfect family.

But that felt like ages ago now. Each family I tormented, each fire I ignited, they all blurred together. The rush I’d gotten from each fire faded faster, it seemed.

I guessed that meant it was time to get back to work.

10

Dean straightened in his spot on the overstuffed couch as Gale Ward emerged in the doorway with two ceramic mugs in hand. Offering their host a polite smile, he took the first mug and handed it to Sherry, then accepted the second. He wasn’t much of a tea enthusiast, but with as much as he’d been talking so far that morning, he figured the soothing brew would be good for his throat.

The Wards lived across the street from the Marquez residence. Even now, three months after the fire that had claimed half the family’s lives, the Marquez house was still a charred husk of what it had once been. Dean had heard plenty of insurance horror stories from folks whose houses had burned down, and he could only imagine the company was dragging their feet when it came to processing the remaining family’s claim.

One small relief about visiting the older sites was that the news crews had long since vanished. The crews needed the latest breaking news, and that meant the remnants of the Marquez home weren’t flashy enough for their audience.

“There you go. Green tea with a little bit of honey. It’s one of my favorites during the summer months.” Returning Dean’s smile, Gale smoothed out the front of her t-shirt and sat in the center of the love seat.

Sherry lifted the mug. “Much appreciated.”

Sipping the hot beverage, Dean was impressed the tea didn’t taste like watered-down grass. The flavor was subtle, but it was there.

With sunlight streaming in through the picture window to their side, the modernly furnished space had a homey glow. Sleek, black bookshelves lined the wall opposite the window, and a spotless glass coffee table made Dean wary to touch just about anything in the room.

As Sherry set her tea on the table, Dean followed suit. “We’re sorry to bother you, Mrs. Ward.”

“Call me Gale.”

“Gale, as you may have heard from the news, the Marquez’s case has been handed over to the FBI. My partner and I are just taking a moment to reinterview some of the neighbors. All standard procedure.”

Gale’s gaze was fixed on Dean and Sherry, her expression growing serious. “Of course. Do you mind if I ask why the FBI’s working this case now and not the local police? Not that I’m complaining.”

Mentally, Dean walked through the talking points the SSA had provided in a press conference earlier that morning. For some cases, the Bureau would keep a small, specific aspect of the crime to itself in the hopes they could use it to weed out the killer once they’d located a suspect. However, for the fires in Falcon Point and Highfield, there wasn’t much that was unavailable to the public. So far, only the information about the window locks and door shims was being kept private.

Investigators had first thought to keep the symbol from the basement under wraps, but by now, it was available in most news articles about the fires. On the off chance there was someone out there who might recognize it, they’d elected to provide the image to the media.

Despite trying to work with the media and the public, pressure was growing within the greater Chicago area to solve the crimes and make an arrest. The unease was palpable.

Dean pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his suit jacket. “The local police have asked for the Bureau’s help, so we’re working with them. More resources, that sort of thing.”

Understanding lit up Gale’s expression. “Oh, I see. That’s good, then. I’m glad to hear it.”

Sherry held out a glossy photo. The quality of the image was a far cry from the digital SLR cameras used by the crime scene unit, but these days, capturing a crisp video was easy even for a layperson.

The photo—taken from a doorbell camera—looked out onto the Wards’ porch and lush front lawn, then to the tree-lined street just beyond. In the center of the road was a light-colored SUV. Dean and Sherry had been over the footage already, and to their chagrin, only two digits of the SUV’s license plate were visible.

Leaning forward, Gale blinked down at the photo. “Right, that’s the footage from our doorbell camera. We gave it to the detectives who were working on your case.”

Sherry tapped the SUV. “What could you tell us about this vehicle? In your interview with the police, you said you’d seen the SUV driving around on the night of the fire. Is that right?”

“Yes. I was outside watering the flowers I keep on the porch, and I saw it drive by three different times. I thought it was weird but figured it might’ve been someone who was lost or having a hard time with their GPS.”

Dean fought the urge to click his pen repeatedly. “Have you seen the SUV around the neighborhood since then?”

“No, I…I don’t think so. Not that I can remember.” Gale clenched her hands where they rested on her knees. “Do you think that could’ve been them? The killer?”

“We’re just trying to account for anything that seemed unusual before the fire.” Sherry gave the woman a reassuring smile. “We’re doing our due diligence, making sure we don’t leave any stone unturned. Now, thinking back to the day of the fire, do you recall seeing anything else out of the ordinary in the neighborhood? Any maintenance vehicles that might not have belonged, a door-to-door salesperson, things along those lines?”

Pressing her lips together, Gale appeared focused, as if she was mentally replaying the events of that March day. “I don’t think so. I mean, I try not to be one of those nosy neighbors. I do remember it was a Thursday, because classes end early on Thursdays, and I took my students’ assignments home to work on them instead of staying at the school. I’m a high school teacher, hence why I’m home right now. Summer vacation.”

If Dean remembered correctly from the case notes, Gale’s husband was an engineer who often worked long hours. “Where was your husband? Do you know if he saw anything?”

“I can ask him, but I doubt it. He didn’t get home until after I was done on the porch. He usually goes into work around ten in the morning and gets home around seven.” She tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “Wait, you said maintenance vehicles, right? Does the internet guy count?”

“Sure does.” Sherry propped her elbows on her knees. “Do you remember something?”

“Probably nothing. I think I remember seeing one of the internet provider’s vans in the neighborhood, but I can’t remember whose house they were at. It was the same provider we have, Chicago Communications Network. Our internet had been acting up over the past few months, so I thought I should pop over and ask the guy to take a look at the lines coming into the house.” Gale forced a mirthless laugh. “But those vans are in the neighborhood all the time. If our reliability is any indicator, my guess is lots of folks around here have service issues.”

The van’s presence wasn’t unusual, especially if Gale’s assessment of the company’s reliability was accurate. Dean’s own provider was CCN’s competitor, and he was content with the internet speed he got on the rare occasions when he was home and doing something other than sleeping.

He knew serials could pose as maintenance personnel to scope out their targets. If there was a similar occurrence at the other scenes, then they could be onto something.

Gulping down a hefty drink of tea, Dean scrawled the service provider’s name on his notebook. “There’s no detail too small, so we appreciate it.”

Gale’s expression brightened, and her clenched hands relaxed. “Well, I hope I was at least a little helpful. I wish I had more footage from the doorbell camera that day. Those things are motion-capture, and the only reason it caught that SUV was because there was a stray cat on the porch. I guess it’s a good thing we leave food out for those little guys.”

Glancing to the photo, which included a pair of pointy ears in the bottom right-hand corner, Dean chuckled. “It sure is.” If a stray cat was what led to breaking open their case, he’d be tempted to come back to the neighborhood with a five-gallon drum of cat treats.

Gale rubbed her knees. “I can have my husband give you a call when he gets home, if you’d like to speak to him as well.”

Taking the cue, Dean retrieved a business card and handed it to the woman. “Of course. If he thinks of anything, have him reach out. And if there’s anything else you remember, just let us know.”

As Sherry followed Dean’s lead and handed Gale a business card of her own, the two of them finished their tea and said their goodbyes. Gale Ward was the last on the short list of neighbors they’d stopped to interview. Their next visit was Carlos and Tania Marquez, the two surviving members of the Marquez family.

Neither Carlos nor his daughter had interacted with the killer inside their home, but had they unknowingly let the man into their house under the guise of improved internet reliability?

With a serial killer using fire as their weapon, there had to be a common trait between the families. A person with whom they’d all interacted, a place where they’d first been spotted by the killer. Maybe even a mutual acquaintance. Something.

Question was, could they uncover that hidden thread before this lunatic claimed even more victims?

11

The scent of burned coffee wafted over to Amelia as she and Layton entered the bullpen of the Chicago police precinct. Only a handful of detectives milled about the area. Most were at their desks busy with paperwork. None of them seemed to pay Amelia or Layton much mind, but she could sense their wariness at the arrival of a couple of suits.

According to the Chicago PD’s personnel records, one of the two detectives who’d worked the arson cases for which Jamie Calhoun was the prime suspect was located in this building. The other was retired.

The investigation had been handed from Burglary to Homicide when the third fire had claimed the life of a sleeping homeowner. Amelia and Layton’s hope was that the two detectives could give them a little insight into the investigation. Gut feelings didn’t always make their way into case notes, but they could be just as useful.

Most of Amelia’s interactions with local police departments, including the Chicago PD, had been professional enough, but every precinct was a bit different. Just because the officers in Wicker Park were glad to see the FBI didn’t mean the detectives in the Near South Side would share the sentiment.

Based on the bizarre atmosphere so far, Amelia was inclined to believe this precinct was one of those that didn’t appreciate federal involvement in their cases. Though Amelia and Layton could’ve gone straight to the captain’s office to make their request, they’d headed to the homicide department instead, hoping to save time and make acquaintances.

She wasn’t so sure they’d made the right call. Apparently, the detectives seemed content to ignore their existence altogether.

Just as Amelia was about to someone’s—anyone’s—attention, a tall man with dark skin and closely cropped hair glanced up from his computer monitor. According to the silver nameplate affixed to the side of the desk, he was Detective Norton. His expression wasn’t friendly, but he didn’t appear to be an asshole either. “Can I help you two find something?”

Amelia produced her badge, followed by Layton. She introduced them both. “We’re looking for Detective Amanda Avery. Is she here?”

“Avery? Yeah, she should be in here. She and her partner just wrapped up a case yesterday, and now they’re stuck doing paperwork.” He cracked a smile. “The joy of our careers, right?”

“Of course. It’s the whole reason I decided to become an agent.” Layton’s tone was so casual, Amelia had a hard time determining whether he was sincere.

“Yeah, me too.” Rolling his chair away from the desk, Norton peered out over the bullpen. “There she is. Right down the row behind me, second to last desk before the captain’s office.”

Amelia followed Norton’s outstretched hand to a woman with an auburn ponytail. Her expression seemed disinterested as she faced her monitor, the sure sign of a cop stuck with a load of paperwork.

Layton gave Detective Norton an appreciative smile. “Thanks.”

Badges in hand, Amelia and Layton skirted around Norton’s desk and made their way down the row of five evenly spaced desks. Only one of them other than Detective Avery’s was occupied, and the man didn’t seem to care as they passed him.

Detective Avery, on the other hand, quickly shifted her attention to the newcomers. A hint of surprise passed over her expression, though the sentiment was brief. She fixed her scrutinizing stare on them and moved her chair to the side. “Feds? What’re you doing here?”

“That easy to tell, huh?” Layton flipped open his badge and ran through their introductions again. “We’re here to talk to you about a case you worked about eight years ago. A series of fires set in the area, one of which was fatal. The prime suspect at the time was a man named Jamie Calhoun.”

Recognition sparked in the woman’s eyes. “Calhoun, yeah. I remember him. He painted that weird symbol on the wall of the houses he burned down. Well, allegedly burned down. He was our prime suspect, but all we had at the end of the day was a witness who turned out to be unreliable.”

Layton gestured to the pair of chairs in front of Avery’s desk. “Do you mind if we sit?”

Her gaze flicked to Amelia, her suspicion evident. “If you want. If you’re after Calhoun, I don’t have much to tell you. Dude’s been in prison for the past two and a half years, but I wasn’t the one who put him there. Something to do with drug trafficking, if I remember right.”

Despite the detective’s hesitancy, Amelia and Layton took the seats.

Tucking away her badge, Amelia noted Avery’s gold wedding band as the woman folded her hands next to her keyboard. “We’re not after Jamie Calhoun. Not exactly. Are you familiar with the string of arsons in Falcon Point and Highfield?”

Avery lifted her eyebrow. “The burbs? Yeah, it’s all over the damn news. I heard all about it on my way to work this morning. Wait, is that the case you’re working?”

“It is.” Layton reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and produced a photo of the symbol taken at the Morrison house, followed by another picture of a similar marking from one of the older fires. “And whoever’s been setting them has been tagging each house with this symbol.”

As Layton set the photos on Avery’s desk, the woman peered down at them, her expression unreadable. “Yeah, that sure is similar. We didn’t keep the symbol from the public, though. Any third grader could find it online in one of the articles they wrote about those fires.”

She wasn’t wrong, and the idea had already occurred to Amelia and the others. “We wanted to know your thoughts on the case from back then. Did you have any theories about Calhoun’s motive? Were there suspicions that he might’ve had an accomplice, anything like that?”

“An accomplice? No, we didn’t think so. His M.O. was pretty simple. He’d break into a house that belonged to someone well-off, rifle through the place and take the valuables, then he’d douse it with gasoline and set it on fire.” Avery folded her arms over her chest. “The first two homeowners were on vacation when it happened, and I think that was by design. The third homeowner was supposed to be on a trip with her husband that weekend, but she wound up staying home sick.”

That’s very different from the guy who purposely blocks exits to make sure people die.

Layton gestured to the symbols. “Did you have any other suspects? Anyone you might’ve considered suspicious, even if you didn’t have any evidence against them?”

Avery shook her head. “No. No one. There was a witness at the third fire who identified Calhoun, but they recanted their testimony before we could get anywhere with it. They claimed it was dark and they weren’t a hundred percent sure the guy they saw was Calhoun.”

Layton adjusted his glasses. “Any suspicion of a protégé?”

“Protégé? No. But that symbol,” she swept her hand over the photos, “I think some true crime social media personality posted about the symbol and what they thought it meant. They compared it to the seals of major demons in some movies and video games, things like that. Turns out, that kicked up a weird little following online.” She shrugged. “Might be worth checking out.”

An online following would’ve exposed even more potential copycats to follow in Jamie Calhoun’s footsteps, maybe even taking it further by trapping the families in their own homes. Maybe the killer was making a statement about life in the suburbs.

“Will do. We appreciate the insight.” Layton gathered up the photos. “As a professional courtesy, we want to let you know that we’re looking into getting Calhoun’s sentence altered, assuming he’s a cooperative and helpful witness in these current cases.”

A flash of disgust on the detective’s face was quickly replaced with resignation. “Happens all the time. I’ve got other things to worry about besides how long Calhoun rots behind bars. Knock yourselves out.”

Amelia and Layton thanked her and departed the precinct.

Having just recently finished a case that involved a killer spreading his twisted message online, Amelia wondered exactly how much of an effect this digital following had exerted on the unsub. And better yet, had Jamie Calhoun been involved all along? There were stories of killers orchestrating murders from behind bars. Certainly, someone motivated enough could manage it.

There was one way to find out. They needed to speak to the man who’d first used the strange symbol in his crimes.

12

Detective Amanda “Mandy” Avery fixed her eyes on the glow of the computer monitor on her desk, but the text on the screen blurred under her unfocused gaze. The report on her and her partner’s most recent case was due before she went home for the day, but she couldn’t pull her scattered thoughts together. Not after her visit from Special Agent Amelia Storm.

What were the odds? Infinitesimal, or higher than she’d realized?

Of all the cases to bring her face-to-face with Storm, Jamie Calhoun had been the one.

Mandy swallowed a snort of laughter. Calhoun was a burnout, a promising student throughout high school who’d turned to self-destructive behavior the second he’d been granted an ounce of personal freedom. His spiral downward had been swift and unrelenting. A spree of bad relationships, a couple of minor drug charges, and one petty theft later, the guy had turned to arson.

On some level, Mandy could relate. Her mistakes hadn’t been borne from a lack of self-control as an adult, but she’d made plenty of bad decisions in her haste to escape her home life. Fortunately for her, one of those choices had landed her in the path of the man who would become her husband.

And then her late husband.

At the thought, her chest tightened, anger and sorrow simmering in her like a witch’s cauldron.

Before the unpleasant reverie had a chance to go much further, movement in her periphery jerked her attention to the tall figure of an approaching man. His dirty-blond hair was brushed straight back from his face, and even if he didn’t wear the captain’s insignia on the lapel of his black button-down, his piercing gaze was enough to tell an onlooker he was an authority figure.

Flashing him a quick smile, Mandy internally reeled from the mental whiplash as she sat up a little straighter. “Hey, Captain Becker. How’s it going?”

The tall man dropped to sit in one of the chairs in front of Mandy’s desk. “I’m good. Where’s Kennedy? He didn’t leave and stick you with all the paperwork, did he?”

After Mandy’s former partner—the same detective who’d worked the Calhoun arsons with her—had retired three years ago, Lane Kennedy had been assigned as her partner. As a fresh transfer from Narcotics, Lane had faced a steep learning curve, but he’d taken it all in stride.

Mandy waved a dismissive hand. “No, no. You know Kennedy, he’s not like that. He took a few hours to go to his kid’s award ceremony. He’ll be back soon, and then we’ll both suffer together.”

The captain laughed. “Fair enough. I remember my first partner when I joined homicide. He’d do whatever it took to skip out on paperwork, even if it meant sticking me with the lion’s share.”

“Yeah, that’s how Bernie was, too, before he retired.” Mandy propped her elbows on the desk. She wasn’t naive enough to believe the captain of the precinct would stop over at her desk to discuss their disdain for paperwork.

As if he could sense her thoughts, the captain’s face grew serious. “I saw the Feds. They told me they’d be swinging by. They were here about the fires, right?”

An unbidden sliver of anger threaded its way into Mandy’s heart at the thought of what Amelia Storm had taken from her, but she didn’t let her ire show. “That’s right, the fires northwest of the city. Apparently, the perpetrator’s tagging the walls with a symbol similar to the one a suspect of mine used about eight years ago. Guess they wanted to pick my brain about him, even though he’s in jail.”

“You mean Calhoun? You don’t think he’s got anything to do with those murders and fires, do you?”

“Intentionally? No. But someone around him picking up that symbol he used to tag those houses? That’s something I’m a little more inclined to believe.” She held up her hands. “But that’s why the Bureau’s involved. They’ve got the manpower and the resources to sort through all that.”

“I suppose they do.” The man paused, his expression contemplative before he spoke. “Good work on the Velez murders, by the way. I don’t think a lot of detectives out there could’ve pulled that off, especially not with what you’ve been through this year. If Saul were still here, I know he’d be damn impressed too.”

Mandy’s heart clenched, but she did her best to ignore the feeling. “Thanks. I appreciate it, especially coming from you.”

With a wistful smile, he rose to his feet. “Let me know if the Feds need anything else from you.”

“Will do.”

As the captain turned to make his way back to his office, Mandy barely resisted the urge to curl up in a ball beneath her desk. Her husband had been gone for two months, but on days like today, the loss seemed much fresher.

If those damn FBI agents hadn’t butted in when they did, Saul would still be alive.

He could’ve received the heart transplant he’d needed, even after being rejected by the hospital.

But he didn’t know someone would have to die for him to live.

Saul hadn’t needed to know. He’d always been a kind soul, but Mandy was prepared to take the secret to her grave. She’d have done whatever it took to keep him in this world with her for a while longer. He’d been the love of her life, her North Star. The reason she’d grown into the person she was now. The detective she was now. If it wasn’t for Saul, she’d be long dead, just another young, vulnerable girl chewed up and spat out by the mean streets of Chicago.

But now he was gone. She’d been so close to saving him. Until Special Agent Amelia Storm and her pals at the FBI had arrested Lou Sherman—now dubbed the Chicago Organ Thief—before he could harvest a healthy heart for Mandy’s husband.

Part of the blame rested on Sherman’s shoulders. For a smart man, he was a real tool. Mandy didn’t know the particulars of what had led to his downfall, but it didn’t matter. Dr. Sherman was in prison for the rest of his life after pleading guilty to all his crimes. He was paying for his fuckup.

That left Mandy with none other than Amelia Storm to blame. She stared out over the bullpen, as if she could still see Storm standing there.

With the most important part of her world gone, what else did Mandy have to live for if not revenge?

13

I studied the bitch I’d been watching at the grocery store as she navigated her sedan through midday traffic. Apparently, she had it cushy enough that she didn’t have to punch a clock when she took her lunch. Something my job would never allow. On top of that, she had days when she worked from home. Today seemed to be one of those days.

But I’d called out sick, so today seemed to be one of my days too. Lucky I’d crossed paths with her at the store.

As the traffic light turned green, Kristen Russell continued her journey home. I’d scoped out her place a few times, and I was confident I’d flown under her radar.

In ritzy neighborhoods like where the Russells lived, blending in was a matter of slipping into the right outfit. Throw on a tracksuit, jog around for a little while, then stop by the target house to pretend to check my heart rate. Nobody suspected that, instead of counting my beats per minute, I was counting the windows and doors of their neighbor’s home. Scoping out any obstacles or if a pet lived there.

Another trick was to dress like a service worker. It was crazy how many doors magically opened to a stranger in a convincing uniform snagged at a thrift store and doctored to look real. Then those same clueless idiots spilled their guts to you about their lives and their schedules.

Why, no, I can’t talk right now. We’re getting ready to head out of town for a long weekend.

Of course, that wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I wanted them home, snoozing away as I did my thing.

Rich folks like the Russells hardly noticed “the help.” We were unworthy of even basic recognition. But that gave me the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop and learn their routines, their secrets. Heck, I even knew if they had a home security system they’d stopped using out of annoyance with false alarms. All because they didn’t realize anyone else was around.

But I was there. Listening, learning, planning.

The Morrison fire was one of my best.

The Russells had one of the few ranch homes in the area. It was like a fucking wet dream. Ranch homes meant I could lock every window—no one jumping out, no one escaping.

I’d start my work well past midnight, when I had the cover of darkness to move around unseen. Their neatly trimmed shrubs and hedges offered all the camouflage I’d need.

Kristen Russell turned into a local strip mall, jerking me from my memories. Flicking on my turn signal, I entered the rectangular parking lot. Cruising past where she’d parked, I slipped into a spot at the far end of the lot, one row back from her sedan. I adjusted my rearview mirror so I could keep an eye on her.

My thoughts drifted back to the Morrison fire. Sure, wrecking these perfect families didn’t thrill me for as long as it used to.

It’s never as good as the first time.

But I kept chasing that high.

As a car parked next to me, I pretended to text someone. After all, responsible, law-abiding people pulled over to text. A flicker of movement behind my car caught my attention, but it wasn’t the Russell bitch.

Once again, my thoughts drifted back to the night of the Morrison massacre, desperate to feel the euphoria I’d experienced just last night.

Where the fuck had it gone?

I’d parked inconspicuously, hauling my gas cans and backpack into the backyard and stashing it all behind the deck box that held the family’s patio furniture cushions.

Repetition of the tasks meant I’d perfected my work and could turn the homes into coffins in minutes.

After picking the lock on the sliding door, I’d ducked into the dining area of their kitchen. I waited just inside the back door, my pulse throbbing in my ears, while I strained to hear any indication that someone was awake when they shouldn’t be.

With everyone fast asleep, I made my way to the basement to leave my mark. Once the symbol was in place, I stowed my brush and small paint can on a shelf with other painting supplies. I could almost see the cops scratching their heads, trying to decode the symbol’s meaning. But that wasn’t my true work of art.

No, that was when I spread the gas strategically around the house like paint on a canvas. My masterstroke was in making sure nobody could slip out, concentrating more fuel by the exits. I even jammed the basement doors just in case any panicked family members tried to get below the smoke or escape out one of those windows.

With my backpack that carried my equipment, I headed back to the dining area. Sliding open the back door, I set the empty gas cans and backpack outside. Then I placed my two-by-two in the track. A quick test told me the door wasn’t going to slide open again. I headed to the nearest window and slipped out.

I poked my head back into the home and struck a match, watching it ignite before dropping it onto the pool of gasoline I’d trailed to below the window.

As the flames grew and danced, I backed out into the fresh night air, sliding the window closed and jamming the final shim into place.

I savored that first cleansing breath. But only for a moment before grabbing my empty gas cans and pack and disappearing into the night.

Part of me itched to stick around, watch the chaos unfold. Did they press their faces to the window, desperately tugging on the sash trying to open it? Would they scream for help?

Although my thoughts were glued to my masterpiece at the Morrison home, I couldn’t suppress a smile as I recalled the news anchor who’d detailed the Marquez lady’s final moments three months earlier by her front door. It was the same door I’d made sure would never open. Did she think of her perfect little family? Or had she shown her true colors and selfishly tried to save only herself?

The car door next to me slammed shut, jolting me back to my surroundings. Kristen Russell’s car was still there.

But I didn’t need to tail any of the Russells anymore.

My reminiscing had briefly improved my mood. Still, it was concerning that the high I felt didn’t even last twenty-four hours.

It would take me a few days to resupply. I shivered in anticipation. The Russells weren’t going to be a perfect little family for much longer.

14

Amelia had never been to the Stateville Correctional Center, yet it didn’t seem much different than other prisons she’d visited. Even the waiting room chairs and tables appeared to have been purchased at Prisons “R” Us. Unbelievably, the corrections officer behind the front desk was equally nondescript, practically blending in with the beige walls behind him.

When the warden arrived to greet them just beyond the security checkpoint, the woman introduced herself as Nikki Rae. Her chestnut hair was trimmed short on the sides and back with longer strands on top that had been gelled and spiked.

“Hello.” The warden extended a hand to Amelia, then to Layton. “You’re here for an interview with Jamie Calhoun, correct?”

With a quick smile, Amelia accepted the handshake. “We are, yeah. Before we head over to the meeting room, I was wondering if you could tell us what you know about the man. You know, the type of thing that’s not in his file. Do you know if he gets a lot of visitors, or if he’s particularly friendly with any other folks in the prison?”

The warden fiddled with the spikes in her hair. “Honestly, I’m not sure. It’s hard to keep tabs on this many inmates, but Calhoun’s been here for a couple years. Nothing’s jumping out at me when I think of him, and I want to say he mainly keeps to himself.” She dropped her hands to her sides. “He’s not a popular guy, but he’s not unpopular, if that makes sense. He’s just…here.”

So far, the warden’s description matched what Amelia and Layton had learned from Detective Avery. “How about the visitors, then? Word has it his string of arsons were pretty popular online. Does it seem like he’s got a fan club coming to visit him?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Rae paused to produce her cell. “I’ll send over Calhoun’s visitor logs for the past two years so you can take a look. But as far as I can remember, it’s just been his aunt and his mother.”

“That would be helpful, thank you.” Amelia shot Layton a questioning look. “Anything else we want to ask before we go talk to the man himself?”

Layton tucked his hand in his pocket. “No, I don’t think so.”

Rae gestured toward a beige hallway to their left. “All right. Right down this way. Someone will meet you at the door to let you in. If you need anything else, just let me know.”

“We’ll do that. Thanks again. We appreciate it.”

Amelia and Layton made their way down the unremarkable hallway. Just as Rae had promised, a black clad corrections officer stood beside a door labeled Room C.

The young man straightened as they produced their badges and introduced themselves. After they signed in on a clipboard hanging on the wall, the guard unlocked the door and beckoned them inside.

Two walls were the same dull beige as the hall, and the other two were comprised of a mesh grate that covered a series of metal bars. Through the opening, Amelia spotted the tinted glass of the guards’ command center for the private visiting rooms.

Turning her attention toward the stainless steel table bolted to the cement floor in the center of the room, she was surprised to find Jamie Calhoun there, staring into space. For a man who received few visitors, she’d figured the presence of two Feds would pique his interest.

Though Jamie’s hair had been shoulder-length in all his mug shots and old photos, he now sported a buzz cut and a scruffy beard. He was a year younger than Amelia, but he appeared as if he were a decade older. Then again, prison wasn’t exactly a place where a person aged gracefully.

Amelia pulled out her badge and flipped it open. “Jamie Calhoun? I’m Special Agent Amelia Storm, and this is my partner, Special Agent Layton Redker.”

Calhoun turned his bored gaze to Amelia. “Okay. What do you want?”

Layton pulled out a chair across from him and sat down with a half smile. “Straight to the point. I like that.” He pulled out his cell and held it up for Calhoun to see. “You mind if we record this discussion?”

Calhoun shrugged. “Knock yourselves out.”

“Great. We’ve got some questions for you about a few fires about eight years ago. Strange, occult symbol painted on the wall, a single fatality at the third one. You know what we’re talking about, right?”

Shackles clattered against the metal table as Calhoun clasped his hands together. “No, I’m afraid not. Last I checked, that didn’t have anything to do with the reason I’m in here. I don’t exactly have time to keep tabs on other dudes’ crimes, you know?”

So Calhoun was a smart-ass. In Amelia’s experience, sarcasm wasn’t all that uncommon when it came to criminals. Fortunately, it was a dialect in which she was fluent. “All right, then why exactly are you in here? Something to do with your brother?”

The man seemed unperturbed. “My stepbrother, Keith. Like I told the other Feds a hundred times, it wasn’t the proudest moment of my life. I was down on my luck, selling drugs to make a few bucks. Then my asshole stepbrother catches wind of what I’m doing and decides he wants a cut or he’s going to rat me out to the cops. I told him fine, but he just kept pushing it and pushing it. Par for the course with that fucker.”

Layton lifted an eyebrow. “Now, I don’t have a JD, but didn’t you claim self-defense in court?”

Calhoun rolled his eyes. “Let me finish. I know you already know this, but whatever. He kept asking for more and more. So one day, I finally put my foot down and told him I was drawing the line. He’d get half the sales as long as he was helping me, but he needed to pull his weight and actually do something. Dude must’ve been keyed up at the time, because he lost his shit. Went for a gun I didn’t even know he had.”

If Amelia remembered correctly, Calhoun’s self-defense explanation hadn’t held up in court, because there were no witnesses to confirm the altercation had taken place as he’d described. Along with the drugs in his possession and his clear intent to sell them, the States Attorney’s office had sought to use the felony murder rule.

In a nutshell, the felony murder rule meant that any death that occurred in the commission of a felony could be classified as first-degree murder, even if the loss of life was the result of an accident.

Or, as Calhoun had stated, self-defense. Even if Calhoun had been able to prove that he’d acted in defense of his own life, odds were good the prosecution would’ve sought first-degree murder charges anyway.

That was the tricky part about working as a federal investigator. The lines were never clear, and no situation was ever black and white. The world existed in shades of gray, but most of the time, the law didn’t.

Calhoun sighed. “Seemed pretty clear Keith wanted to kill me and steal all the drugs I was supposed to sell. Long story short, he shot me in the arm, but I took the gun away from him and shot him in the abdomen. Ambulance got called, and next thing I know, I’m waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed. Turns out Keith died in the OR. Nicked an artery or something.”

The man’s expression was a perplexing mix of melancholy and annoyance. However, it was becoming clear the case files didn’t quite encapsulate the nuances and complexities of Calhoun’s situation.

Seeming to shake off the moment of wistfulness, Calhoun flexed his fingers. “Look, I’m already in here for life without parole. I submitted an appeal, but my lawyer told me not to expect anything from it. If you’re here to try to throw more shit at me, then knock yourselves out.”

As Layton reached in his pocket for the photos of the two symbols, Amelia finally took a seat beside him. “We aren’t here to throw more shit at you, Calhoun. We’re working a case you may have heard about in the news. The fires in Falcon Point and Highfield.”

A crease formed between his eyebrows. “Falcon Point and Highfield? Yeah, I heard about ’em. Some lunatic’s been going around burning families alive in their houses. That’s some fucked-up shit, if you ask me.”

Layton set down the photo of the symbol from the old fires, followed by the picture taken from the basement of the Morrison house.

The crease between Calhoun’s eyebrows deepened, and he leaned forward to study the photos. Silence descended over them, only broken by the clatter of his shackles as he reached for the image of the Morrisons’ basement. “You mind telling me what the hell I’m looking at?”

“This one,” Layton tapped the older picture, “is a photo taken from the house of Roy and Janet Atkinson eight years ago. Well, seven years and eleven months, to be exact. It’s one of the three fires that were set in an affluent part of East Greenwood Terrace.”

Calhoun narrowed his eyes. “Okay. What’s the other one?”

Layton’s finger drifted toward the photo of the Morrisons’ basement. “This one was taken from a fire set a couple days ago. Someone broke into the Morrisons’ house while they were asleep, doused the place with gasoline, and set it on fire. Three of them died, and the sole survivor only escaped by jumping out a second-story window.”

The color drained from Calhoun’s face, but his eyes remained glued to the strange symbol. “What the hell…”

Amelia gestured to the photos. “Do you know anything about this? What it means? Anything?”

Blinking a few times, Calhoun finally looked up at Amelia and Layton. “What it means?” He stared hard at them for a moment before speaking again. “I might be able to help. Depends what you’re offering.”

15

Amelia kept her attention on Calhoun, searching his expression for any hint of deception. Though Hollywood liked to portray FBI agents as mind readers capable of discerning a lie from the truth based solely on a person’s facial tics, the truth wasn’t quite so clear-cut. Regardless, one of the earliest lessons Amelia had been taught about interviewing a suspect was to trust her instincts.

“Go with your gut. Don’t think.” Those had been her old case partner’s exact words.

So what was her gut telling her about Jamie Calhoun?

He has a conscience. And I don’t think he meant to kill his stepbrother.

Layton folded his hands near the two photos. “Will you tell us what it means?”

Calhoun blew out a long sigh. “Okay, here’s the thing. I’m locked up in here for the rest of my life with no chance at parole, right? Now, just because I don’t have any shot at getting out of here doesn’t mean I’m going to start heaping more shit onto the pile. I’d love to help you out of the goodness of my heart, but good intentions don’t mean a damn thing in here. If you want me to help you, then you’re going to have to help me.”

“Fair enough.” Layton leaned back in his chair. “We already talked to the S.A.”

Calhoun snorted. “The one who put me in here? Yeah, I’m sure he’s jumping at the opportunity to help me get out.”

“No, he moved districts. We’re talking about States Attorney Cassandra Halcott. She spoke with some of her old colleagues about your case. And she’s willing to give you a chance at parole after twenty-five years.” Layton paused, his brown eyes boring into Calhoun.

A tiny glimmer of hope flashed across Calhoun’s gaze, there and gone in an instant. They almost had him.

“She believes there are mitigating circumstances from your original case, combined of course with your cooperation now, that would warrant reducing your current sentence. It’s part of a prosecutor-initiated resentencing law that Illinois has on the books. The paperwork’s all digital.” Layton gestured toward Amelia. “My partner can pull it up for you right now.”

As Calhoun’s gaze shifted to her, Amelia retrieved her cell from the pocket of her slacks. “You can read through it. We’ll send it over to your lawyer as soon as we’re done here. Don’t get me wrong, the S.A. will have to charge you with the death of Barbara McKinney.” Amelia held up her hand as Calhoun opened his mouth to interject. “But she’ll reduce the charge to involuntary manslaughter, and the sentence will be served concurrently with your newly reduced prison term.”

A healthy dose of suspicion remained in Calhoun’s expression as he clenched and unclenched his hands. “What makes you think anything I can tell you will be helpful in finding the psychopath killing those people?”

Amelia held out her phone so he could view the screen. “Let us worry about that. What we want to know is absolutely everything you can tell us about the fires you set. Who you knew at the time, if any of them were aware of the fires, and anyone you might’ve told about them since. Everything.”

Squinting, Calhoun peered down at Amelia’s phone. She scrolled down the document once he’d had a chance to read through the first section, and after a few more moments of silence, he glanced back up at her, then at Layton.

Layton fixed him with an expectant look. “Well?”

“Yeah, all right.” Calhoun straightened, tilted his head back, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “All right. I’ll tell you everything I can.” He pointed to the older image of the symbol. “It kinda sorta looks like an insignia I saw in a book a long time ago.”

“Please elaborate.” Layton’s tone was so flat, Amelia could’ve used it as a level.

“It might have something to do with summoning a demon.” He gave a little shake of his head as if it didn’t matter.

“And the name of the book?” Layton tapped the image of the older symbol.

“I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”

Layton’s sigh was strong enough to move both photos across the table and closer to Calhoun. “The deal involves your full cooperation. If you don’t answer all of our questions, the deal goes away. Do you know the name of the book or not?”

Calhoun pressed his lips together. “I’m pretty sure I saw that same insignia in a horror novel written back in the early nineties. It’s called The Dark Inferno. Can’t remember the author’s name. It was the first in a series of three I read when I was in high school.” He hunched his shoulders. “They weren’t very popular, but I liked them.”

Amelia was relieved Calhoun was cooperating. “What did that emblem mean in the context of the book?”

Calhoun jerked his chin toward the photo from the older fire. “It’s the summoning sigil for the Demon Kunaku in the series. See, there’s an inverted cross in the middle of the circle.”

Amelia and Jamie were about the same age, but she couldn’t recall ever having read a similar book when she was in high school. “How about the other one? Is it from that same series?”

Another shake of his head. “Might be, but I don’t recognize it. That author could’ve written more books, I guess. They’d always include a page at the start of the book that had the summoning sigils for a bunch of the major demons in the world of the book. If they wrote more books, there might be more symbols.” His gaze shifted from Layton to Amelia and back. “I thought you needed to know about the fires. What does The Dark Inferno have to do with anything? You’re really gonna reduce my sentence over that?”

Amelia held up a hand. “No. There’s more to it. Look, I’ve got a knack for reading people, and I saw the way you looked when you told us about your stepbrother. You didn’t want to kill him, but he didn’t leave you with much of a choice.” She tilted her head. “As for the drugs? Yeah, those were a bad decision. But who hasn’t gone through life without making a few of those?”

Calhoun looked at her and then to Layton, before returning his gaze to Amelia.

“One thing I know,” Amelia raised her index finger for emphasis, “you’re not a cold-blooded killer. We need your help with a case, and you’ve been offered a pretty good deal.”

When Calhoun scrunched up his face in confusion, Layton took the opportunity to explain further. “The Chicago PD liked you for those three arsons eight years ago. The ones where the Kunaku summoning sigil was found. But the detective we spoke to said it was clear the first two houses had been targeted because the residents were gone. And in the third one, they were supposed to be gone, but Barbara McKinney had stayed home sick.”

As soon as the woman’s name left Layton’s lips, Jamie Calhoun deflated. The bags beneath his eyes seemed to double in size.

It wasn’t the first time Amelia had watched a person become weighed down with guilt.

Calhoun clenched and unclenched his hands. “What makes you think anything I can tell you will be helpful in finding the psychopath killing those people?”

Layton raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

As far as Amelia could tell, Calhoun’s confusion was genuine. The guy was completely clueless. “Those fires and the symbol from them…they’ve made the rounds online over the past eight years. Seems you’ve got quite the fan club.”

“Quite the what?” Calhoun lowered his head and rubbed his temples. “Jesus, who in their right mind…”

I don’t think they’re in their right mind.

“All right, so you didn’t know about the online following.”

“No. Hell, no.” He groaned and shook his head. “Look, those fires I set were just some stupid antiestablishment bullshit I was hell-bent on at the time. It was eight years ago, and I was barely twenty-one. I was a stupid kid who needed cash to fund all the partying I liked to do back then. I thought I was untouchable, I guess. I was always a straight A student in high school and the one year of college I did afterward, so I figured I was smarter than all those other stupid criminals.”

Amelia was surprised by Calhoun’s self-awareness.

He let out a mirthless laugh. “I thought to myself, ‘hey, I don’t have to hurt anyone if I want some quick cash. I won’t even steal shit from poor people. But those rich folks…they won’t miss their jewelry and small electronics. Hell, they’ve probably got it all insured. Just make sure they’re gone, break in, and take whatever I want.’ I even made sure they didn’t have pets.”

Jamie Calhoun’s thought process was common among burglars, particularly those who were more meticulous about their crimes. Amelia crossed her arms. “All right, that makes sense, but why the fires? And the symbol?”

He clasped his hands together. “You ever done coke? That shit makes you feel like you can fight God. I was pissed off back then. At the establishment, corporate America, all of it. Had the bright idea to get high before I broke into those houses, and the first one I broke into had a can of spray paint in a hall closet.” His mouth twisted. “In my infinite wisdom, I remembered those damn books. Kunaku…she was the demon who represented discordance. Chaos, you know?”

Layton held his hand out at his side. “So you figured you’d sow a little chaos, then?”

“Exactly. Like I said, it was stupid. I’m not proud of it. Any of it. But that’s what was going through my head.” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if seeing the scene behind his eyelids. “After I tagged that wall, I went to check the garage. That’s where I found the can of gasoline and got another great idea. Set the place on fire. Make sure the cops can’t find any evidence to convict me. Downright brilliant, right?”

Having experienced her own share of difficulties throughout life, Amelia didn’t have a hard time following Calhoun’s line of thinking. To be sure, she’d never considered setting a person’s house on fire or stealing their valuables, but she hadn’t always held a favorable view of the so-called establishment. Even though she was now part of said establishment, she never let herself forget that no one was above reproach.

“All right.” Layton propped his elbows on the edge of the table. “What happened at the McKinney house, then?”

An air of sullenness settled over Jamie Calhoun. He opened his eyes, but his gaze was distant, even sad. “Like I said, I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I wanted to freak ’em out, sure. That’s why I painted a ‘satanic’ symbol. Figured I’d mix things up for those rich folks, and yeah, I liked the attention.”

Another astute insight. Amelia was beginning to wonder what would have become of Jamie Calhoun if he’d chosen a different path.

Calhoun had clearly spent his time behind bars pondering the reasons for his actions. “Maybe that goes back to my relationship with my parents, I don’t really know. But that’s not the point. I had no idea that lady was in there. I did my usual shit, didn’t even try to be sneaky. But I guess that lady, Barbara, was sick, so she must’ve taken something to help her fall asleep.”

Amelia hadn’t expected to experience a pang of sympathy for Jamie Calhoun, but remorse was evident in his entire demeanor—from the look in his eyes to the tone of his voice.

He flattened his hands against the table. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I swear to god. I just thought I was lighting up another empty house. When I heard in the news that a lady died, I…I couldn’t believe it. I thought about turning myself in, but my god, I didn’t want to go to prison. I didn’t want the lawyers to spin the story and try to say I did that on purpose. I’m a thief, a drug dealer, but I wasn’t a murderer.”

“What about the witness?” Layton’s tone was neutral and non-accusatory. “The detective we spoke to said there was a witness at the McKinney house who recanted their testimony.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Calhoun shrugged. “They saw me, but I never saw them. Don’t know them, never met them. The Chicago PD took me in for an interview, but I asked for a lawyer right away. Let them do the talking for me. The CPD kept me in holding for a day, but the next thing I knew, they cut me loose.”

Amelia made a mental note to check on the status of the witness. “Did you have an accomplice in any of the three fires?”

“No. It was just me every time. But afterward, when I needed to get rid of all the shit I stole…I had some help with that.”

“Help how?”

Calhoun scratched the side of his nose. “Some friends of mine knew people who wanted to buy some of the stuff I took from those people’s houses. I didn’t tell them outright I was the one who was burning those places down, but they weren’t stupid. I think they put two and two together.”

Layton pulled a small notebook and a pen from his suit jacket. “All right. Tell us about these friends. We’ll need names and what exactly they did to help you.”

Calhoun narrowed his eyes at them. “Look, they’re not going to get charged with anything, are they? I was the only one doing the breaking and entering. They were just friends I partied with, old buddies from high school. They’ve all got lives and shit now.”

Amelia waved off his concerns. “We’re just after the person setting the fires in Falcon Point and Highfield. If any one of these guys decided to take that demonic sigil and start killing people, then we need to find out. We don’t care about whether they pawned a stolen watch eight years ago.”

The tension left Calhoun’s shoulders. “Okay. Right. There was David Pierce, he was one of my skateboarding buddies from high school. We used to party together back then, and he was friends with the son of a guy who owned a pawnshop. Graham’s Pawn and Loan, that’s what it was called. He’d pass a few things over to his old man, and I’d give him a cut of whatever the sale was.”

As Layton scrawled out the names, Amelia continued to press for information. “Anyone else?”

Calhoun bobbed his head. “Yeah. I had four good buddies. Leon Kearney is another. He worked at a garage, and the dude who ran that place had a weakness for expensive watches. Leon sold him a couple of the pieces. Then there was Chris Rayfield. He worked at the same garage as Leon. Leon’s the one who did the selling, but Chris knew about it too. Chris is the one who taught me to pick a lock. And then there was our buddy, Andrew. Andrew Cottage.”

“Tell us about Andrew.”

Pressing his lips together, Calhoun paused before he replied. “Just Andrew was a cool guy, but he was always a little…off, I guess.”

Layton glanced up from his notebook. “Off how?”

Calhoun shook his head. “He’d party with us sometimes, but he liked to stay in his apartment and play video games by himself a lot. Kind of a geeky guy, you know? But, man, when someone pissed him off…Andrew wasn’t afraid to throw down. He had a hell of a temper.”

A temper? Could out-of-control anger drive someone to commit the horrific crimes in Falcon Point and Highfield? Locking innocent people in a house and leaving them to die in a fire required some form of motivation. Maybe the killer received a sense of gratification—sexual or otherwise—from the murders.

Or perhaps they were compelled by anger.

Whatever their motive, the newest question was whether any of Jamie Calhoun’s partying friends had morphed into a darker, more twisted version of him.

And if they had, which one was it?

16

Stepping out of the passenger’s side of the black sedan, Amelia glanced around the neighborhood. Late-morning sunlight streamed through gaps in the trees overhead, but for the most part, the block was shaded by branches and leaves. On a day where the temperature was predicted to reach the mid-nineties, Amelia was grateful for the foliage.

Four days after meeting with Jamie Calhoun, Amelia and Layton were nearing the end of their follow-up from the information he’d given them. After that interview, they’d taken the four names he’d provided back to the office to research further. Though the lead was tentative, it was their best bet for the time being.

Sherry and Dean’s reinterviews of the victims and their neighbors hadn’t yielded any new information, and forensics was still processing the evidence from the Morrison house. The internet-provider vans seen in the two neighborhoods had all been documented service calls from residents in the area.

The techs had researched the composition of paint found in the basement and found the shade of red wasn’t a custom color, so anyone could walk into a hardware store and buy a small can without standing out from a crowd. Add to that the sheer number of hardware stores in Chicago, and the search quickly devolved into trying to uncover a needle in a mountain of needles.

But that was part of the job.

One such lead was where the unsub was buying his gasoline. After CSI confirmed that was the accelerant used in all four fires, Cyber had been tasked with surveying video footage from all the gas stations within a thirty-mile radius of where the house fires had occurred. And they were still digging through the sale of the locks used for a pattern there.

So far, nothing. But they’d all keep looking.

Amelia and Layton had knocked the first name off their list the day after meeting with Calhoun. Leon Kearney was a newly divorced father of two. The handful of court documents in his background check supported the idea that he and his wife were on good terms. Both his kids had been present when Amelia and Layton had spoken to him on Friday, and Amelia had surmised he was a decent person.

Kearney admitted to going through a wild phase when he was younger, but he’d abandoned his partying when his ex-wife learned she was pregnant with their first child. Ultimately, Amelia and Layton had ruled him out as a suspect. Not only was he a poor fit for the psychological profile of the killer, but he was at work on the night of the Morrison fire.

David Pierce was a long-haul trucker, and he had been out of town until last night. Much like the interview with Leon, the discussion with David had only served to rule him out as a suspect. David Pierce wasn’t as pleasant as Leon Kearney, but he’d been across the country when the Morrisons were killed.

Amelia turned her focus to the house at the end of a short stretch of sidewalk. The two-story home was modest enough, as were the rest of the houses in the neighborhood. The area was home to working-class families, many of whom worked odd hours in the service industry.

Just like Leon Kearney. How the man had gone from a mechanic to a hotel manager wasn’t quite clear to Amelia, but she’d heard of stranger career shifts.

Running a hand over his dark hair, Layton stepped across the curb and made his way to Amelia’s side. “Third name on our list of four. Then Andrew Cottage. Maybe we’ll get lucky and be done with this thing by quitting time.”

“Actually, he’s out of town at his sister’s wedding in Arizona. Left Friday night.” She held her phone up, on which she’d just been scrolling through Cottage’s social media on the ride over. “Summer’s the season for weddings and vacations. Can’t say I’m all that surprised.”

Even if he could’ve skipped town with a tip from Leon Kearney after they’d spoken with him. The timing looked a tad suspicious.

Layton made a disgusted noise. “So much for dreams.”

“He’ll be back tomorrow night, though.”

“All right.” He gestured to the sidewalk. “Let’s see what Mr. Rayfield has to tell us.”

Though Amelia was losing hope that Jamie Calhoun’s information would lead to a new clue, she kept the pessimism in check. They were about to speak to a new person of interest, and there was no telling what little detail could point them in the right direction.

Straightening her shoulders, Amelia strode past the postage stamp-sized lawn. Badge in one hand, she pulled open the storm door and knocked with the other.

A series of barks rang out almost immediately.

“Who is it?” The man’s voice was muffled. “It’s okay, Sadie. It’s just someone at the door.” At the man’s reassurance, the dog quieted, but Amelia caught the clatter of nails on hardwood.

Amelia cleared her throat. “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Ha ha. Very funny. Who is it actually?” A set of footsteps drew nearer, and the curtain covering the window on the front door parted for a split second. “Wait, you actually are FBI?”

As the man swore, Amelia had to fight the urge to laugh. “Last I checked, we are. Do you have a few minutes to speak to us?”

The lock disengaged with a metallic click, and the door swung inward to reveal a fit man with dark, tousled hair—Chris Rayfield. With one hand, he held the collar of a well-groomed golden retriever who glanced excitedly at the two visitors. The dog didn’t seem like she would cause a problem if the man let go of her, but Amelia could understand his trepidation.

Chris shot them a concerned expression. “Is…everything okay? What can I do for you?”

Layton flipped open his badge and introduced them both. “Do you mind if we come in?”

Chris’s eyes shifted between Amelia and Layton, a hint of wariness replacing his concern. “I guess so. Long as you don’t mind getting dog fur all over your clothes.”

With a wide smile, Layton pocketed his badge. “I’ve got a dog and two cats. Won’t be anything I can’t handle.”

“Oh, good, because there’s a cat around here somewhere too.” He tilted his chin toward the living room to their right. “Come in, then. The air conditioner’s running.”

“Well, you’d better go catch it.” Why in the hell had she said that? She laughed to cover her deep embarrassment at the gaffe. “Oh, I’m so sorry that slipped out.”

Chris chuckled and waved off her concern. “I appreciate a good dad joke as much as the next person.”

As they followed Chris past a small foyer, the hum of the central air conditioner came to life. Waving a hand at the L-shaped sectional, Chris waited for Amelia and Layton before he took his spot at the edge of a chaise. All the while, Sadie sat back on her haunches next to her owner. Golden retrievers were known for their intelligence, but Amelia was still impressed by how well-trained she seemed to be.

Layton pulled a notebook from his blazer.

Taking the cue, Amelia turned to Chris. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to us. We’ll try to make it quick, so you can get back to your day.”

“I appreciate it.” Chris’s tone was agreeable, but there was a distinct skepticism evident in his tense posture. “Could I ask why the FBI’s on my doorstep on a Monday morning?”

Amelia folded her hands in her lap. “My partner and I spoke to Jamie Calhoun on Friday.”

Chris’s eyebrows shot up. “Jamie Calhoun? Why? He’s in jail, isn’t he?”

“He is. We were there to ask him about three burglaries that occurred about eight years ago. Each of the three houses were set on fire afterward.”

Before Amelia had even gotten to the fatality in the third fire, Chris blanched.

He knew. He’d known for the past eight years that Jamie Calhoun was responsible for the fire that had killed Barbara McKinney. So had Kearney, and so had Pierce.

Layton offered Chris a curious look. “You knew about the fires, then?”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but he didn’t immediately reply.

“Look, Mr. Rayfield.” Amelia lifted her hand. “We’re not here to arrest you for not reporting your friend eight years ago. He’s in prison now for an unrelated crime, and he’s already confessed to the fire that killed Barbara McKinney.”

Only a fraction of the tension dissipated from Chris’s shoulders. “Then why are you here?”

Layton clicked his pen. “First, could you tell us where you were last Tuesday night into Wednesday morning?”

Chris’s eyebrows knitted together. “Tuesday night? I was at work from eleven at night to seven in the morning. I work the third shift. There’s a whole lot of people and security cameras that can prove I was there. I’m assuming you already know where I work.”

Amelia shot him a smile. “We do.” A mistrust for law enforcement had been commonplace in her home neighborhood of Englewood, and she figured she was one of the more understanding agents when it came to dealing with skeptical civilians. For a good portion of her life, Amelia had harbored the same attitude. Of course, corrupt agents like Joseph Larson didn’t help with public perception.

“And I also assume you just ruled me out for something, or you will when you confirm my alibi. You mind telling me what that is?”

Layton unfolded the photo of the symbol from the Morrison house. “Does this symbol look familiar to you?”

Leaning forward, Chris studied the photo before glancing between the two Feds in his living room. “It looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on where I know it. A comic or something? Maybe a book? Why?”

Apparently, Chris wasn’t an avid news enthusiast. “It was painted on the basement wall of a house set on fire in the Falcon Point suburb. The third in a series of four, all of which had that symbol. This most recent fire killed three people, which makes the total number of fatalities nine.”

Chris’s mouth dropped open. “Wait…nine? Someone’s killed nine people in a suburb? And you think I know something about it?”

“The reason you recognize that symbol,” Layton pulled out the second photo of the older scene, “probably has something to do with the fact that Jamie Calhoun, who you were friends with in high school and afterward, tagged the houses he burglarized with a similar symbol. This one.”

“Wait, but Jamie’s in jail. He didn’t have anything to do with the fires in Falcon Point or Highfield.” Chris rubbed his hand over his face. “I mean, he used to talk some shit back in the day, but he’d never hurt anyone unless he was defending himself. He liked coke a little too much, but he wasn’t a bad guy.”

Layton smoothed his silver tie. “We know. Regardless, he’s amassed something of an online fan club over the years. He wasn’t aware of it, but we aren’t so sure about the people he associated with. What can you tell us about your circle of friends from around that time? Specifically, Leon Kearney, David Pierce, and Andrew Cottage?”

Scratching the top of Sadie’s head, Chris shifted in his seat. “I don’t know. The only one of those guys I still associate with is Leon. David’s kind of an asshole, and I haven’t talked to him in seven years or something like that. Leon’s a good guy, though.”

Amelia had gleaned the same impressions from the two men she’d already met. “What about Andrew Cottage?”

“Andrew was a weird guy. It’s been a while since I’ve heard from him, but we’re not on bad terms or anything. He got married and had a kid, so he’s just off doing that, I guess.”

Both Leon Kearney and Jamie Calhoun had commented on how strange Andrew Cottage was, though David Pierce had merely shrugged at the mention of him.

Layton scrawled out a note. “In what way was Andrew Cottage weird?”

“I don’t know, he was just…odd. He had a rough life. Grandparents raised him because his parents were too busy partying, that sort of thing.” A thoughtful expression came over Chris’s face. “Maybe because he’s sort of introverted, I guess. He used to get frustrated when he was playing video games, and he’d just throw the controller at the wall. He was always buying new controllers because he’d get pissed off all the time. Couldn’t control himself. You know the type.”

Amelia did. Better than she cared to. “Anything else?”

A spark of recognition came to life in Chris’s eyes. “Yeah, actually. Me and him went to the same school since we were in first grade, but we weren’t really friends until high school. I remember when he was a freshman, he got suspended because he set a fire in the boys’ bathroom. Damn near got expelled.”

Amelia tempered a look of surprise. “Did he do anything else like that? Set any more fires?”

“Yeah, there was another one the summer after our junior year. He’d just gotten his license, and his grandparents would let him use their truck.” Chris sat up straighter. “We all thought it was great, but one night, he dragged me out to this rural place south of the city. I kept asking him what the hell we were doing, but he wouldn’t tell me. Then, when we finally get there, he pulls a gas can out of the fucking truck bed.”

“What happened next?”

Raking a hand through his hair, Chris sighed. “He told me he saw this abandoned barn when he was in Peoria, and he thought it’d be cool to set it on fire. But…man, I was looking at this barn, and I kept telling him I didn’t think it was abandoned. Not that he gave a shit. He just went ahead and lit the place up like it was nothing. Sure enough, we start hearing a horse going crazy.” Chris shuddered. “I tried telling him we needed to call the fire department, but he didn’t want to get in trouble.”

Burning down a barn with a live horse inside? Their search of older fires had been focused on blazes where someone had died, so Amelia wasn’t surprised this fire hadn’t pinged their radar.

“Next thing I know, this damn horse comes barreling out the back of the barn after it knocked down the door. I guess that was good enough for him.” He shook his head, his face somber. “Soon as he saw that horse was out, he floored it out of there. The horse was fine, and no one got hurt. There was just one pissed-off barn owner. Far as I know, neither of us told anyone, not even our friends. Eventually, I think we just forgot about it.”

Amelia could hardly imagine letting such an event slip her mind. Clearly, Chris Rayfield and Andrew Cottage had experienced even more bizarre events in their lives, if almost burning a horse alive was so easily forgotten.

For the remainder of the interview, Chris seemed markedly calmer, almost as if confessing his knowledge of both the McKinney fire and the horse fire had cleared his conscience. Amelia and Layton ran through a few more questions about Andrew Cottage before leaving Chris with their cards and heading back to the car.

As Amelia buckled her seat belt, she waited for Layton to close the door before she spoke. “So Andrew Cottage, huh?”

Layton pressed his lips together. “Last one on the list. You suppose he was part of Calhoun’s inspiration to set those three houses on fire?”

“I’m not so sure.” Amelia leaned back against the headrest. “Calhoun didn’t mention being inspired by anyone else, just the gas can he found in the garage of the first place. But I can see how Calhoun setting those fires might’ve given someone like Cottage motivation. Question is, why wait eight years?”

Drumming his fingers against the wheel, Layton turned the key in the ignition. “It might be something he’s been trying to repress all these years. I think we ought to take a look through Cottage’s background again, see if there have been any major life events in the past two years. Anything that dates back to when the Osborne house was set on fire thirteen months ago.”

“You think he might’ve experienced a stressor that pushed him toward violence?”

“It’s hard to say for sure, but it’s possible. There’ve been serials who’ve remained dormant until something triggers these underlying urges.” He jerked his chin at her. “Hell, we’ve run into a few of them. Not every serial has something happen that spurs them on like that, but there are plenty who do.”

Most of the time, people weren’t born as ruthless killers. Life experiences, trauma, and environmental influences molded them over time. “Rayfield did say Cottage had a rough childhood, which fits our profile.”

Layton pulled the car away from the curb. “Rayfield saying that reminded me of something I’d been contemplating for the last few days. Are you familiar with a type of killer referred to as a ‘family annihilator’?”

Amelia turned the phrase over in her mind. “A little. I’ve heard the term used before. That’s usually someone who’s killing their own family, though.”

“Yes. In most cases, the perpetrator is the male head of the household. Obviously, that’s not exactly what we’re dealing with here, but I’ve been wondering…” He flicked on the blinker and made a right turn. “All the killers’ targets so far have been families. Happy, functional families, at least as far as we’ve been able to tell. What if the killer views the victims as surrogates for his own family?”

Amelia had thought maybe their unsub was killing the family that abused him through his murders, but she hadn’t considered this might’ve resulted from his urge to annihilate a family that depended on him being stymied. “So he could be killing the victims because he can’t get to his own family for whatever reason, right?”

“Exactly. Could be a man whose wife just filed for divorce, or whose wife moved herself and the kids across the country to a place where he can’t find them. It could just be that the man doesn’t want to kill his family because he doesn’t like the idea of what that would do to his reputation.” Layton glanced at her. “A lot of the profile of a family annihilator revolves around the way he thinks others perceive him, so in a sense, it fits.”

Though Amelia’s mind shot right back to Leon Kearney, she dismissed the idea. Leon’s alibi was rock-solid, and Amelia trusted her feeling about the man. When she and Layton had visited him, both his kids had been in good spirits.

But Andrew Cottage could be a different story. Chris had told them Cottage had a kid, and that his upbringing had been troubled.

Did an impossibly cruel killer lurk behind a mask Andrew Cottage wore?

17

Throwing the gear shift into park, Kristen Russell glanced to the rearview mirror as her garage door slid toward the ground, blocking out more and more of the early evening sunlight. Before getting out of her car, she made sure the door was all the way down. She felt silly about it, but with everything happening in the area, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Though Kristen was desperate to get off her feet after a long workday, she wasn’t about to let the ice cream she’d just bought melt in the bag. In the middle of the summer, a ninety-degree day could spell disaster for the frozen treat if she didn’t make a beeline to the kitchen.

As she stepped out of the air-conditioned sedan and into the stuffy garage, the door at the corner of the space swung inward, revealing Kristen’s sixteen-year-old son, Brendon. Though Brendon had most definitely inherited his height from his father, his brown eyes and chestnut-brown hair were a perfect match to hers. “Hey, Mom. Dad told me to come and help bring in the groceries. He’s cooking something he said he couldn’t leave. A béchamel, I think? Whatever that is.”

Kristen laughed and popped the trunk. “Yeah, he’d better not leave that. If he does, we’ll be eating burned cheese sauce on our veggies tonight.”

Brendon wrinkled his nose. “Gross.”

“You know what else is gross?” Pausing for effect, Kristen pried open the trunk. “Melted ice cream. Here, take this inside and put it in the freezer.”

As he accepted a plastic bag, Brendon shrugged. “I dunno, melted ice cream’s all right. I don’t mind it.”

Huffing in feigned exasperation, Kristen jabbed a finger at the open door. “Well, I don’t want this ice cream to turn into a soup, and I’m the one who bought it.”

With a grin, Brendon turned around and trotted back into the house.

Normally, Brendon would’ve been off skateboarding with his friends or spending time at one of his friends’ pools. His summer had been full of that and video games. Unfortunately, he had added “shoplifting” to the list. Well, attempted shoplifting, since he’d gotten caught.

In the middle of an otherwise normal shopping trip, her son had decided to apply the five-finger discount. Little did he know, even though Kristen was in the next aisle over, an employee had been stocking shelves nearby. Then, of course, there were the security cameras.

Kristen held in a groan as she scooped up the remaining bags of groceries. For a day or two after the incident, she’d genuinely considered switching grocery stores. Showing her face in the same store her kid had tried to shoplift from was an experience for which she’d never quite prepared herself.

When she and her husband Henry were alone, he’d joked that Brendon’s real offense was how poorly he’d kept track of his environment. Not only had a damn security camera caught the entire debacle, but a store manager—and probably an employee or two—had witnessed the theft.

Kristen wasn’t entirely sure what Brendon and the others got up to when they were together, but clearly, some of the rebellious teenage experience was spreading to her otherwise quiet, geeky kid. It wasn’t all bad, of course. From what Kristen understood, it was normal.

She and Henry had gone through similar phases, though they’d both grown up in vastly different lifestyles. As a teenager, the last place Kristen thought she’d ever wind up was in the suburbs, married, with two kids and some pet fish. She was a respected therapist with a growing practice. She even had the freedom to sometimes work from home or rearrange her schedule to get a day off midweek.

How many times had she and her friends lifted a few free items from the stores they visited? The only real difference was that they never got caught.

Recalling her own experiences helped to set her mind at ease when she considered Brendon and his sticky fingers. Kristen and Henry had grounded Brendon for a little over a week, and tomorrow, he’d be free to return to his friends and his skateboarding. And since Kristen had taken the day off, she’d have the house to herself.

Seems like a good opportunity to eat some unmelted ice cream.

As she nudged the door closed behind her, she was greeted by the savory scents of onion and garlic. Her trip to the grocery store hadn’t taken long, but Henry had gotten a head start on dinner, since he was scheduled to go into work that night.

Sunlight slanted through the sliding glass doors at the other end of the combined kitchen and breakfast area. The space was open to the living room as well, which sported a large picture window and even more sunlight.

Wiping his hands on a towel, Henry turned around to offer her a wide smile. “Hi, honey. How was the store?”

Kristen blew out an exaggerated sigh as she set the groceries on the granite bar across from Henry. “It was a zoo, like it usually is at five o’clock on a weekday.”

Henry laughed and reached for a plate stacked with neat disks of ground meat. “I’ve got the burgers ready for you to throw on the grill. Cam’s eating at his friend’s house, but we both know that’s only his fourth meal of ten.”

“He eats more than me.” Brendon gestured to the pantry. “Remember when he totally killed that party-sized package of Oreos? I tried to do that and only got, like, halfway through before I wanted to barf.”

With a grin, Henry reached for one of the grocery bags. “I do remember that. I’ve got to say, though. You two come by it honestly.” He glanced at Kristen and grinned. “Ask your mother. On one of our first dates, we went to a Chinese buffet.”

At the memory of Henry piling his plate with lo mein and crab rangoons, then going back for three more helpings, Kristen couldn’t stifle her laughter. “I still don’t think I’ve ever seen someone eat that much. But you were being smart. You just wanted to get your money’s worth. We were poor college kids, after all.”

“Oh, man. I wish I could see Dad and Cam do an eating contest. That’d be hilarious.”

Kristen placed a jug of milk inside the fridge. “As long as someone else is footing the bill for that. I just got a raise at work, but it sure as hell isn’t enough to cover that kind of expenditure.”

Henry laughed, but before he could reply, the chime of the doorbell sounded. His forehead creased in confusion. “Someone’s at the door? Brendon, you’re still grounded until tomorrow. That’s not for you, is it?”

Brendon shrugged. “I don’t think so. Not like I can check my texts, though, since you guys took away my phone.”

Though she was just as surprised as her husband, Kristen shoved a bag in her son’s direction. “Help your dad put away those groceries. I’ll go see who it is.”

As Kristen made her way past the living room, through a short hallway, and into the foyer, she fully expected to find a teenage boy standing on the front porch.

When she peeked through the curtains covering a window beside the door, however, she jolted with surprise as she spotted a full-grown man clad in the blue-and-gray attire of a local internet service provider.

Reaching for the dead bolt, Kristen paused to run through the events and appointments she’d written on the calendar in her home office. A plumber was scheduled to come out to assess the work that needed to be done to add a bathroom to the basement, but otherwise, she couldn’t recall any other work orders.

Why would an internet guy be here at five thirty on a weekday? For sales? We already have Chicago Communications Network.

A slew of memories from the true crime documentaries Kristen had watched over the past couple years zipped through her head like a hundred little lightning bolts.

Didn’t serial killers like to pose as maintenance personnel?

A year ago, Kristen would’ve laughed at the idea of a serial killer prowling the suburbs. But in that same time frame, four different houses had been set ablaze. Ever since the fire set a week ago, the neighborhood had become even more tense than before. Folks were locking their doors, using their alarm systems instead of hoping the yard signs were enough of a deterrent, and keeping an eye on their neighbors.

The day before, Kristen’s youngest son had found a flyer for a town hall meeting tucked in the jamb of the front door. Kristen and Henry planned to attend. Neighborhood watches had already been put in place in not only Falcon Point and Highfield, but also nearby communities who feared they were next.

Everyone was on edge. Until the person was caught, all they could do was keep their heads down and their eyes open.

Kristen’s parents had visited them for dinner a few days ago, and the fires were all they could talk about. Not that Kristen could blame them. She tried to keep her thoughts away from the terrible fates that had befallen the four families, but anytime she dwelled, she was racked by a sense of paranoia stronger than anything she’d faced since she was younger.

Taking in a sharp breath, Kristen shook her head, as if the motion would clear the unsettling thoughts. With Henry and Brendon in the next room, she felt silly for mistrusting the man in uniform on her porch. She brushed off the front of her shirt and pulled open the door.

With a polite smile, the man pocketed his cell. Though it was difficult to gauge his age through his scruffy beard, Kristen’s best estimate put him in his late twenties or early thirties. “Evening, ma’am. I’m with Chicago Communications Network.”

He turned and gestured to a company van parked in front of the house next door. “I’m working on a request for your neighbors over there. Turns out there was some faulty wiring that was causing their internet to crash, and I wanted to check and see if your household was having the same issue.”

A portion of Kristen’s paranoia remained, but she tucked the anxiety away. His explanation made sense. Plus, would a serial killer really risk driving a company van to their target’s house? Those things were equipped with GPS, and they were easily monitored.

Good lord, Kristen. Stop it. Maybe cut back on the true crime shows.

Working to keep the skepticism off her face, Kristen shook her head. “I work from home sometimes, and my husband and son are into online gaming, and we haven’t noticed anything. I think we’re okay.”

The young man made a couple of marks on his clipboard. “All right, that’s good to hear. If you do have anything go on the fritz, just let us know. Thanks for your time.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for checking.”

“You bet. Have a nice night.” Offering her another smile and a nod, the man turned and made his way back to the sidewalk. Kristen stared at him as he strolled back to the neighboring house.

Who’s really the creeper?

She huffed at her own stupid observation.

There was wisdom in the old adage better safe than sorry, but at what point did she draw the line?

She wasn’t sure, but she did know that she’d be sleeping with one eye open tonight.

18

As the scent of gasoline drifted over to me on the humid evening breeze, a weight lifted from my shoulders. It was a smell I enjoyed, and I’d never understood why some folks hated it. Maybe they were just too high-and-mighty, or maybe it triggered the only vaguely pleasant memory from my childhood.

A woman’s melodic titter cut through the night air as I glanced toward the gas station’s entrance. Why did women’s laughter grate on me so much? First the Russell lady at the grocery store, and now this bitch. I blamed my mom.

As I watched the two kids with the laughing lady, a middle-aged dude trailed behind them with a stupid grin. I fought to keep from rolling my eyes. I’d spotted the family through the convenience store windows, but apparently, I couldn’t dodge ’em entirely.

The dull clank of the gasoline pump told me my ride was topped off, but I spared a quick glance at their family van.

There was only so much chaos I could stir up in one spot before I started to face unnecessary risks. And I bumped into jerks like them every day, thanks to my job. I saw families from more than just Falcon Point and Highfield. The proximity of those locations to each other had been more coincidence than intentional.

Excitement bubbled up, then fizzled out. Minnesota plates. Figures. They’re on a fucking road trip.

My next target had already been researched. But there was no reason I couldn’t add to my list for after I finished off the Russell family.

With a scoff, I reached under the license plate for the button that opened the back of the SUV.

My family had sure as hell never bothered with road trips. Hell, I didn’t even leave Illinois until I was eighteen. We mighta crossed over to Indiana once or twice, but that hardly counted.

Not that I cared. Being stuck in a car for hours with those drunks would’ve been miserable.

Our only so-called vacation was to a hotel on the other side of town. That little trip had occurred before my father’s effort to kill us for insurance money, so I suppose the old man had still been clinging to some type of illusion about us being a family.

My mother had won some cash from scratch-offs and decided on a mini vacation across town. Lily and I had been pumped. We’d never been on a vacation, and the hotel had a pool.

At the time, the experience had seemed great. For just a second, we were a functional family.

But only for a fraction of a second. Lily and I spent most of the day in the indoor pool, but by the time we headed back to the hotel room, my parents were trashed. Lily and I tried to shrink into the background and pretend we weren’t there, but like always, it backfired.

Our parents accused us of not wanting to spend time with them despite how much money they’d forked over for the hotel. We got chewed out and sent to bed before seven, but the real punishment came when we returned home the next day.

Something in the back of my head told me there’d be no beatings when the vacationing family in the minivan returned home to Minnesota, and that the father wouldn’t purposely withhold food from the daughter because he believed she was gaining too much weight. I also doubted the father would force the son to sleep in the cellar with the centipedes and the spiders.

Bile crept up my throat at the thought. To this day, I hated bugs. Didn’t matter what kind, they all reminded me of that damn cellar. When my grandparents became my legal guardians, I’d discovered that Dad had taken a page out of my grandpa’s book for punishment.

One Sunday morning, I’d overslept and made us late for church. When my grandparents and I returned home, my grandfather had grabbed me by the ear and dragged me down to the basement, where he’d locked the door and left me for the rest of the day.

While I wondered if they’d forgotten about me, I killed time by rummaging through moldy boxes and found some questionable novels, all about some demon named Kunaku. I don’t know if my grandpa was reading shit like that so he could avoid it, or if he was interested in the occult. But considering the way he treated me, he had a bit of the devil in him.

I guess I had a bit of my bastard grandpa in me, too, because he was my inspiration for the symbols I’d left behind. The families I targeted needed to experience suffering. To realize not everyone had it as cushy as them. And if a lame occult symbol could scare the crap out of them, then my message could extend beyond just the house I lit up.

But the family from out of state wouldn’t suffer. They didn’t have the first clue what hardship was.

Chances were, they’d go home, sit down as a family to watch some feel-good nonsense on TV before tucking their kids in and kissing them on the forehead. That was how it had always gone for the happy-go-lucky morons I’d known back in school too.

My scowl deepened, and I turned away so the little Hallmark family wouldn’t accidentally spot it. They were so picture-perfect, they probably called the cops on people who didn’t smile enough.

Oh, how I wished I could watch them all burn. See the fear in their eyes when they realized they were trapped in the hell I’d made just for them.

I didn’t know them personally, but I’d picked up on enough that I could tell the type of people they were. Just like all the others I’d spotted, a glance told me everything I needed to know.

It might’ve surprised most folks to learn how easy it was to obtain personal information about people without ever interacting with them. In places like gas stations and stores, it was amazing the sheer amount of information I could glean from simply listening in on a conversation or standing in line behind someone and paying attention.

First names, last names, date of birth, even approximate addresses. And with social media being such a huge part of most people’s day-to-day lives, it was easy to do a little research to fill in the blanks. And don’t get me started on people tagging their photos with their location. They practically did my research for me.

If I had the time and resources, I’d write down the vacationing family’s license plate number and pay them a visit in Minnesota. But there were more than enough targets right here in Chicago to keep me busy for a long time.

Maybe it was time I upped my game. How was I supposed to get to everyone on my list? There were too damn many of them and only one of me.

I probably needed to expand my pool of targets. Families who lived in houses had been my main goal, but what if I could wipe out so many more by focusing on a larger structure? One fire could reach dozens of families if it was set in a condo or an apartment building.

The realization replaced most of my anger with eagerness, maybe even excitement. The Russells were my priority. Kristen Russell’s son had shoplifted while he was in the store with her, and she’d coddled him instead of kicking his ass.

That kind of “parenting” was proof those kids had never faced hardship.

With another look toward the happy family as they piled into their vehicle, I pulled out one of the two gas canisters I kept in the back of the SUV. Folks here at the gas station most likely assumed I was picking up fuel for my lawn mower.

That was fine. They could keep their assumptions. The less conspicuous I seemed, the easier my task for the night would be.

My research on the Russell home was complete. Thanks to overheard conversations and social media posts, I knew who would be home tonight and who wouldn’t. I hadn’t given myself much time to prepare, but I was ready.

As I squeezed the lever to pump gasoline into the first can, a smile crept across my face. I was surprised it had taken me this long to realize I could aim higher. But hey, better late than never.

The Russell family would die tonight, and they were just the start.

19

Stifling a yawn with the back of one hand, Amelia noted the waning sunlight through the partially open window spanning one side of the incident room. As she turned to where Layton, Sherry, and Dean were all seated around the table, she wasn’t surprised to find their expressions mirrored her own exhaustion.

It had been one week since the fire that had claimed the lives of almost the entire Morrison family, and they still didn’t have any solid leads about who was responsible for the heinous act.

There was, however, Andrew Cottage. The man had been difficult to get in touch with. When Amelia and Layton had gone to his modest house earlier that afternoon to speak to him, no one had been home. They’d asked a neighbor if she’d seen Cottage recently, and the young woman confirmed he’d returned—presumably from his sister’s wedding in Arizona—the day before. Unfortunately, the neighbor couldn’t offer deeper insight regarding Cottage or his home life.

Amelia was hesitant to leave a message for him. Though she and Layton hadn’t made a point to be secretive about their visit, in Amelia’s experience, civilians—innocent and guilty alike—never reacted too keenly when they learned the FBI was interested in speaking to them. The sooner they could get in touch with Cottage and sit down for a proper interview, the better.

Judging by what they’d gleaned from his financial records, he didn’t have the means to flee the country like some of the killers who’d crossed paths with Amelia. But there was no telling how resourceful he could be.

And that was all if he was their suspect.

Amelia had been so lost in her contemplation, she almost jumped out of her seat when Layton rapped his knuckles against the table.

“All right, everyone. It’s almost eight, and I don’t know about you all, but I’m an old man, and I need my rest.”

Dean snorted out a laugh. “You and me both.”

Layton responded with a grin. “Before we call it a day, I just wanted to run through a few things I’ve come up with to update the profile of our unsub.” He gestured to a map of Chicago that hung next to the murder board. Four red dots indicated the sites of the fires, all of which had occurred in the suburbs of Falcon Point and Highfield. “We’ve already discussed the location where we think this guy lives. He most likely lives or works either in or very close to these two communities.”

Sherry propped her elbows on the table as she studied the map. “I suppose that’s one problem we’ve got with Andrew Cottage. He’s not within the area our killer has already struck.”

“That’s true.” Layton rubbed his cheek, lost in thought for a moment. “Profiles aren’t an exact science. There are exceptions to every rule. Andrew Cottage works for Chicago Communications Network in their maintenance department, so his job could take him into the target area. Our unsub has so far targeted a limited geographic area.”

Leaning back in his chair, Dean stretched both arms in front of himself. “I heard the neighborhood watches in both communities have stepped up. They have groups of people patrolling the streets of their neighborhoods day and night. The local police departments have both reported being flooded with tips about innocuous things. Clearly, they’re all on edge.”

Amelia was growing restless, so she rose from her chair to pace around the table. “I’m sure it’s frustrating to get a bunch of tips that amount to nothing. But any one of those tips might prove to be the break we need in this case.”

Layton waved at the murder board. “Have we gotten anywhere from searching past fires? I believe there must be a fire in our guy’s history.”

Dean rubbed the touch pad of his laptop to wake his screen. “I guess that’s my cue. We’ve got a whole team of people sifting through the data. Unfortunately, for the time frame we’re looking at, there are more than five hundred arson cases in the Chicago area.”

Five hundred seemed like an awful lot, but when you considered all the different types of fires that fell into the category and the size of a city like Chicago, Amelia guessed five hundred wasn’t as astonishing as it sounded.

He squinted for a moment and opened a file on his screen. “I can’t say we’ve found anything that jumps out so far. Twenty-three years ago, there was a house fire south of the city limits that killed a mother and her infant son. The older son was at the neighbor’s house for a sleepover, and five other boys provided alibis for him. The father was alibied on an out-of-state work trip.”

Sherry leaned over to read from Dean’s screen. “Wow. Twenty-five years ago, a two-story house burned to the ground in Westport, just outside of our target area. But no one survived that fire.”

“Not that I mind, but if you want to take over for the whole team we’ve got on this, be my guest.”

“Oh, poo.” She nudged Dean with her elbow. “I was just curious. Go ahead.”

Dean made a show of clearing his throat and turning his laptop screen away from Sherry. “As I was saying…there was another one twenty years ago. A six-year-old girl perished in a house fire. Her older brother and mom survived after breaking a window. Police suspected the father, but they couldn’t find any evidence. No one was charged.”

It was heartbreaking hearing about one tragedy after another. For that reason, Amelia appreciated that Sherry and Dean had lightened the mood ever so slightly.

After scrolling a bit more through the search results, he shook his head. “Like I said, there is a long list of fire deaths in our designated time frame. But we’ll keep looking into these.”

Amelia recalled her and Layton’s conversation from two days ago, and the words family annihilator came to mind. “Our profile states he’s targeting families for a reason. Similar to a family annihilator?”

“In some capacity, I think so.” Layton drummed his fingers on the table, his face contemplative. “He doesn’t fit the profile of a typical family annihilator. The killer is almost always male, they’re almost always the head of the household, and they kill their entire family seemingly out of the blue. They’re typically spurred on by some sort of life change, such as a divorce or financial hardship.”

“But this guy’s a little different.” Amelia gestured to the murder board. “He’s killing other families instead of his own. I had the thought that he might be trying to live out some sort of revenge on his parents by killing families now.”

“That’s…” Layton sat up straight, his chair squeaking. “That’s an idea. Especially since this doesn’t quite fit the family annihilator concept, given that he hasn’t killed his own family. We know a lot of serials experience trauma at some point in their lives, often when they’re kids. If this guy experienced trauma as a kid, then what he’s doing could stem from his past.”

Sherry clasped her hands together. “I can see that. It’s obvious he wants these people to suffer. If you ask Joe Schmo what he thinks the worst way to die is, two of the most common responses are drowning and being burned alive. And considering all the trouble this guy’s going through to make sure there are casualties, I think it’s safe to say he’s trying to kill these families in the most horrific way he can.”

“I agree.” Layton crossed his arms. “When it comes to whether this guy falls more into the organized or disorganized category, I think we can classify him on the organized spectrum. He plans for each of these fires, though exactly how much remains to be seen. Obviously, he brings enough window locks to cover the first floor, but that doesn’t mean he’s bringing an exact number, you know?”

“Speaking of…” Sherry gave her mouse a couple of clicks. “We heard back from Cyber about tracing sales of those same types of locks. They didn’t find anything out of the ordinary at the hardware stores in those communities. Tracking online sales has been going a little slower since there are so many ways a person can cover their tracks.”

Dean held up a photo of one partially melted window lock. “And forensics confirmed they were mass-produced. What’s interesting about that is there were a couple different brands found. Like the guy switched suppliers after the first two fires.”

There were a few reasons Amelia could imagine for such a change. “He could be trying to spread his purchases out to conceal his actions. Or he could’ve bought out all of them from his normal retailer.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Another disturbing possibility is that he might’ve figured out that some brands of locks work better than others.” Dean studied the photo and set it back on the table. “Otherwise, we’ve got the white SUV at the two most recent fires, and a dark sedan at the two from last year. The reason for the change in vehicles could be the same as the reason for the different locks, or it could be as simple as him getting a new car.”

Sherry blew out a long breath. “Seems like we know everything about this guy aside from who the hell he is. I’ve been looking through the activities of each family leading up to the day of the fire, trying to find something that ties them all together. Not having a lot of luck, though.”

Amelia scrutinized the map with all of its pins indicating the more frequently visited places of the family members prior to the fires.

Sherry gestured at the map Amelia was studying. “There’s a ton of overlap from our four families thanks to the unsub targeting such a small geographic area. A few of the kids go to the same schools, but not all of them. There’s also overlap with convenience stores, libraries, grocery stores, and coffee shops.”

Amelia perked up. “And gas stations and a warehouse club store.”

Sherry paused, her brow furrowed. “Right. Those too. But the parents don’t work at the same places, don’t even work the same kind of jobs. Oh, but two of the families attend the same place of worship.”

Sherry and Amelia had spent the latter portion of the day adding bits and pieces to the time line for each family. Dean had busied himself with the task of indexing and cross-checking each family’s whereabouts. He was searching for any common location or person, something that could give them a clue about where the killer had first spotted each family.

Could it have been as simple as a church function or a gas station? Heck, it could’ve been an informal neighborhood garage sale. Had they crossed paths months or even years earlier, only for the killer to circle back to them now?

Unfortunately, even with their due diligence, it was still possible they’d turn up empty-handed. In the digital age, the killer could’ve easily taken note of them on social media. With the bizarre algorithms each site employed to feed its users content, there might be no rhyme or reason to be found.

Then there was Andrew Cottage. A potential person of interest who’d remained elusive even after his return from Arizona. His background check had been unremarkable, though they had confirmed Chris Rayfield’s statement about Cottage’s rough upbringing.

At this point, Amelia’s brain was chasing its own tail. Her stomach had been grumbling for the past hour, and her yawns were getting larger as the intervals between them grew shorter. As much as she wished she didn’t require rest, she wouldn’t do the victims any good if she was running on fumes.

But the killer wasn’t close to being done unless she and the others stopped him.

20

The smell of fresh paint followed me as I set down the gasoline can and moved to collect my flashlight. I preferred not to turn on lights in these houses, but without some form of illumination, I couldn’t depict what had become my trademark symbol. Shining the beam onto the fresh, glistening pigment, I cocked my head and smiled.

My grandmother was long dead now, but if she could see this symbol, she’d have a conniption. She never failed to remind me of my lowly place.

“You’re the spawn of the devil, boy. Your mama killed my baby boy, my only son. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I treat you like one of my own. I won’t ever forget what you are. You’re the devil’s child.”

Usually, she’d follow the tirade with a slap to the face or a good whack with her favorite wooden spoon. Most of the time, I didn’t even have to do anything to provoke her. I just existed.

For a few weeks during my junior year in high school, I discovered the crazy bat was trying to kill me. Out of nowhere, she’d stopped her pseudo-religious rants and the beatings. For the first time in years, she’d even cooked enough food for me to eat. Before then, she’d make just enough for her and my grandpa, giving me a couple pieces of stale bread and maybe some expired bologna if I was lucky.

At first, I thought it was the change of heart I’d been praying for.

Until I started to get sick. My grandma tried to convince me it was the flu, and that I’d be right as rain if I just rested for a few days.

She’d been convincing, but even at sixteen years old, I knew there was something off about her that didn’t sit right with me. Then she brought me a bowl of soup one day, and I dumped it in the toilet.

Surprise, surprise. My “flu” had gone away as soon as I stopped eating the meals she’d been giving me. At first, I’d been frightened, knowing she’d deny everything if I reported the incident to the cops or social services. But there were only so many ways I could avoid eating the tainted food before she became suspicious.

I’d been backed into a corner, and my saving grace had come from the flame of a dollar store lighter. No accelerant back then, just my grandma’s frilly curtains. She’d liked to keep candles on the end tables near the window, so it wasn’t much of a stretch for the fire investigator to assume that was what started the blaze.

Neither of my grandparents had died that night, but my grandma had been left with a slew of burns and respiratory issues that led her to an early grave a few years later. After her stay in the hospital, she must’ve decided to abandon her quest to kill the devil spawn, because she never served me a plate of poisoned food again.

Was I really the spawn of Satan? Maybe. My mom had shot my old man with a shotgun, but maybe if my grandma knew what a miserable sack of shit she’d raised, she’d have thought better of me.

Well, I guess you were right, you old hag. I am the devil’s spawn, and I’m fully prepared to bring hell to every living person in this house. I’ll make them suffer just like you made me suffer. They might not have a clue what hardship is like right now, but I’m going to change that.

I wished I could speak to that old crone, or even my grandpa. The man’s dementia had practically turned him into a different person. He barely recognized me on the rare occasion I went to visit him. I supposed it was strange that I wasted my time visiting a man who’d inflicted so much suffering on me…or it would’ve been, if he was healthy.

Usually, he was confused, and the chemotherapy for his lung cancer had turned him into a shriveled husk. I got a twisted satisfaction witnessing how far that man had fallen. Hell, that was the only reason I bothered to visit the pathetic asshole anymore.

When he’d had a firmer grasp on reality, I’d convinced him that the nursing staff was trying to kill him and sell his body for scientific experimentation. Playing on the books I’d found in his basement all those years ago, I even convinced him some of the nurses were witches. The whole story was batshit crazy, but he’d always mistrusted the government, and he’d eaten it up.

Anytime I’d visited him in the weeks afterward, he appeared as if he hadn’t slept for days, and he’d beg me for information on what the staff’s next move would be. I fed into the lie for a while, coming up with whatever nonsense I could to set him on edge and make him miserable. Then, when I’d finally grown tired of dealing with the delusional idiot, I’d laughed in his face and admitted I’d made the whole thing up.

Grinning at the memory, I turned my attention back to the neatly painted symbol. It meant nothing, but the inverted cross in the middle gave it the air of a demonic sigil. Enough to freak people out.

I froze. Was that one of the Russells awake and moving around on the first floor while I messed with art in the basement? I held my breath and waited, listening. I strained to hear the slightest sound.

When the air conditioner kicked on just outside one of the basement windows, I nearly crapped myself. Damn rich people. Apparently, they didn’t realize that a ceiling fan worked just as well and was a whole lot quieter.

Rolling my neck to release some of the tension, I silently counted to ten just to make sure no one was on the first floor. After what seemed like an eternity, I gathered my supplies as quietly as I could.

Pressing the lid down, I stashed my can behind a trio of larger paint cans.

The cops wouldn’t be able to distinguish my paint from that of the homeowners. Even if they could, what good would it do them? My prints weren’t in the system, and the paint was sold at every hardware store in the state.

I didn’t really care about the fires themselves. The important part was that the families suffered. All of them. Just like I had, and just like Lily had when my father burned down our house hoping for an insurance payout that never came.

He’d never fooled me into believing he was a decent person. That was the key difference between him and my mother—when my mother was sober, she was pleasant. But my dad was born miserable, and he’d remained that way until the day he took a twelve-gauge slug to the chest, courtesy of dear ole mom.

With one last glance at the symbol on the basement wall, I clicked off the flashlight and turned toward the gas container at the base of the stairs.

It was time to show the Russell family what it meant to suffer.

21

As Kristen Russell crept back toward consciousness, she squeezed her eyes closed and tried to sink deeper into the mattress. Perhaps, if she pretended she wasn’t awake, she could fall back to sleep before life’s little worries invaded her mind.

If she didn’t fall asleep soon, her night would be lost to random thoughts about the code to her bike lock from middle school or whether she needed to stop buying unhealthy snacks for her family. Those thoughts would swirl and build on each other. It was a familiar ritual, and one that meant sleep would not return.

Before she could readjust her sleeping position to get more comfortable, a muffled clatter sounded from the kitchen. The disturbance sent a jolt of electricity through Kristen’s body, but she forced herself to relax. With practiced ease, she reminded herself that both her boys were home, and neither of them were strangers to late-night snacking, especially when they were out of school.

Pulling in a deep breath, Kristen rolled onto her side and tugged the blankets up to her chin. Henry was still at work, and the bed felt empty and cold despite it being summer. The hours of his overnight shifts at the hospital pharmacy were predictable, but it didn’t stop Kristen from hoping he’d return home early. She always slept better when he was in bed beside her, and she woke up multiple times per night when he was gone.

When sleep didn’t immediately pull her back into its comforting embrace, she cracked open her eyes to make note of the time. Quarter past three.

Great. I have to be up in less than four hours to get ready for work. Stop it. Relax. Breathe. Don’t let your mind race. Clear your mind, and sleep will come.

As she was about to roll over again, a familiar odor wafted up to greet her, though it wasn’t the scent of the essential oil diffuser on the nightstand that she’d bought to help her sleep better.

Gasoline.

Eyes popping open, Kristen wrinkled her nose and pushed herself up to sit. Why in the hell would she be smelling gasoline at three o’clock in the morning?

Like a slap to the face, the events of the day rushed back to her. The internet service guy who’d raised the little hairs on the back of her neck, plus her and Henry’s conversation about the fires and murders in the area. The town hall meetings, the constant coverage on the news, the fact that the entire suburb was up in arms, almost literally. She was a little concerned some of the neighborhood watch members might be carrying weapons and end up hurting an innocent person instead of the real culprit.

Panic threatened to overtake her senses, but she willed it back down to just below the surface. Still, the mental battle raged on.

You’re overreacting. How is smelling gasoline in the middle of the night overreacting?

Everything’s probably fine, but you need to go make sure. Sure, just wander through the house like Superwoman.

Go check on the boys. Make sure they’re all right. Finally, a rational thought.

Kristen swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, crouched, and reached for a wooden baseball bat she kept tucked beneath the bed. Just because Kristen lived in the suburbs now didn’t mean she’d been comfortable all her life.

When she was a kid, even as young as nine or ten, she’d often slept with a weapon of some sort nearby. The southern Chicago neighborhood where she’d lived had been known for its high crime rates, and her family’s town house had been broken into more than once. Her parents had always done their best, or at least they had after they’d kicked the booze and drugs. Before then, their lives had been marked by chaos.

That was the way the cookie crumbled when a person’s father was a drug dealer.

But if there was one positive aspect Kristen could pull from her upbringing, it was that it had prepared her for this moment. She’d never had to fight anyone, but she wanted to believe she could if it meant defending her boys and their home.

Tightening her grip on the bat, she rolled her shoulders to relieve some of the tension, grabbed her cell, and stuffed her feet into her slippers.

I wish my shoes were upstairs. How am I supposed to be a badass protector in fuzzy slippers?

Her footsteps were almost silent against the carpeted hall leading away from the bedroom, and she listened for any indication that she wasn’t alone. As she reached the opening to the living room, the scent of gasoline blossomed into a noxious cloud that hung in the air around her.

Flattening her back against the wall at the end of the hallway, Kristen was careful not to let the bat bump into anything and give away her presence. She peeked out from her hiding place in the shadows of the bedroom hallway and peered into the living room, scrutinizing the shadowy furniture and paying special attention to the darker areas. Anywhere another human being might be able to hide.

The glowing digital clock of the cable box and the night-light in the kitchen gave off a dim glow but nothing quite bright enough to give her an easy view of the area.

Kristen studied the shape of the couch, then the end tables and the entertainment stand, the curtains covering the large, picture window, all as quickly as she dared.

Nothing stirred, but the stench of gasoline remained.

She flexed her fingers on the grip of the bat and took a tentative step forward to give herself a better view of the kitchen. The little night-light against the wall beside the sink cast a slight, white glow on the granite counters and the stainless steel appliances, but like in the living room, she didn’t immediately spot movement. No humanoid figure lurked beside the refrigerator or next to the breakfast bar. There was just the usual.

Whoever was in her home—and she knew damn good and well someone with malicious intent was there—didn’t have a direct line of sight to her. She could use the time to call 911, but the sound of the phone call could draw unwanted attention from the intruder. One of her coworkers had once mentioned a silent method of contacting 911, but Kristen had never bothered to learn it.

Mentally, she swore at her lack of foresight.

What were her alternatives? Would knowing the cops were on their way scare the person away? Or would it simply motivate them to ignite the gasoline they’d spread? The fumes from the gas was so prevalent at this point that the pressure of an oncoming headache was building behind Kristen’s sinuses.

If the intruder spotted her, would it prompt them to start the fire? She wasn’t sure. All she knew for certain was that she wanted to get her two boys and herself the hell out of here.

But, while doing so, would the intruder leap out of the shadows to attack her before she could get to the boys? And where the hell was the intruder anyway?

As if the universe had sensed her question, a shadowy figure emerged from the breakfast area in the kitchen. In the dim light, Kristen couldn’t tell if they were bulky or thin, short or tall. Could it be one of her sons who’d woken up and come to investigate as well?

Tightening her grip on the bat, Kristen silenced all the lingering questions and doubts. This wasn’t one of her boys. This was someone dangerous, and the presence of gasoline fumes confirmed they were here to cause harm.

With a short exhale, Kristen jumped out from behind the cover of the hallway. “Hey! You! Who the hell are you? What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

As Kristen closed the distance between the two of them, she could make out the change in the man’s demeanor as his stance grew rigid.

She’d caught him by surprise. Good.

Part of her grew a little more terrified with each step she took toward him—and she could tell by now that the intruder was indeed a man. At any second, she fully expected him to raise a handgun, take aim, and shoot her square in the chest. But for every little pinprick of fear that stabbed at her heart, a surge of anger accompanied it.

She’d faced dangers to herself before, but never to her family. Her kids. This was a new level of rage unlike any she’d experienced.

As she approached the dining area just past the living room, she slowed her gait. There was little more than ten feet between her and the intruder, but in the darkness, she still couldn’t make out much of his facial features.

“Hey! What are you doing here? What are you⁠—”

Her question was cut short as the man reached for his belt.

For what? A gun?

Adrenaline pounded through Kristen’s veins with each thunderous beat of her heart. Time slowed to a crawl. Her attention zeroed in on the mystery item for which the man was reaching as she sprang forward.

The faint, circular glow of the night light caught the polished steel of a blade with a jagged edge. Though a wave of relief greeted Kristen, she reminded herself that a knife could still kill her and her boys. She needed to get that blade out of his grasp.

Before the thought had even finished forming in her head, Kristen swung the bat at his hand with every ounce of her strength. The wood connected with flesh and bone, offering a satisfying crack as it collided with his gloved hand, and the knife clattered to the tiled floor.

“What the…you crazy bitch!” He spat the words like a venomous snake.

I’m crazy? What the hell is wrong with you!

Keeping silent, Kristen advanced toward him. Though the motion was difficult to discern in the darkness, she barely noticed his eyes shift to the knife block beside the stove.

Kristen didn’t give him time to consider his next move. With a swift step forward, she angled the bat for his head and swung like she was last at bat in the seventh game of the World Series.

As she braced herself for the impact of the blow, the intruder spat out a handful of expletives as he shifted his body to the side. For a beat, Kristen worried that his movement, coupled with the momentum from her swing, would send her careening toward him with no way to stop.

He wasn’t armed anymore, but he still had at least six inches on her five-three frame. Kristen did what she could to try to stay in shape, but she was far from what one would consider athletic, and she sure as hell wasn’t one of the MMA fighters her sons watched on TV.

Her worries eased as the bat clipped the side of his head, just above one eyebrow. He jerked to one side, clutching at the site of the injury.

Spitting out another string of four-letter words, he darted for the sliding door just on the other side of their breakfast table.

It was the moment Kristen had been waiting for. He was retreating.

Kristen hesitated. Should she chase him and risk continuing the altercation? Or should she just wake up her kids and get the hell out of the house?

As much as she wanted the police to catch this prick, she needed to ensure her family’s safety more. God only knew how much of the house was doused in gasoline and whether the intruder had rigged something to set the place on fire.

To hell with him. Get the boys and get out of here.

Still clutching the bat in one hand, Kristen whirled around and sprinted toward the hallway on the other side of the living room. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure the man hadn’t decided to follow her, she almost leaped out of her skin when she turned back toward the hall.

A tall, lanky young man emerged from the shadows, throwing Kristen’s fight or flight reflex back into full gear. But before she swung the bat again, she caught herself and let out an explosive breath. “Brendon! Jesus, don’t scare me like that!”

“Mom? What’s going on? We heard yelling.” He wrinkled his nose. “Why does it smell like gas in here?”

As her younger son, Cameron, appeared next to his brother, he made a similar sour expression. “It stinks.”

“Yeah, it does.” The sound of the sliding glass door slamming shut echoed through their home. Kristen threw another quick glance over her shoulder to make sure the man wasn’t returning with a gun or something. As she inhaled, she fully expected the potent scent of gasoline. But now there was another smell. Faint, but certainly present.

Smoke. And the once-dark kitchen was now engulfed in flames.

“Shit!” Kristen gestured vehemently to her sons. “Come on, we need to leave. Now.”

The boys exchanged concerned looks, but neither protested as Kristen urged the boys back into Brendon’s bedroom, where she closed and locked the door.

Even though it had taken Kristen and her boys only a few seconds to reach the relative safety of her oldest son’s bedroom, tendrils of smoke were already winding their way through the air. The acrid scent almost completely masked the gasoline, and Kristen knew it wouldn’t be long before the flames trapped them.

Kristen rushed to the window by her son’s bed, nearly tripping over his dirty laundry. She twisted the window’s two locks on the sash and tugged upward.

Or she tried to. The damn thing didn’t budge.

“Mom?” Alarm was written plainly on Brendon’s face, even in the darkness. “Why won’t the window open?”

“I…I don’t know.” Kristen twisted the locks in the other direction, worried that in her fear she’d locked the window instead of unlocking it. But when she pulled on the handles at the bottom of the window, there was still nothing. After one more attempt, she turned her attention to the baseball bat. “You two, get back. Cover your faces, okay?”

Both boys muttered their agreement, and once they were clear, Kristen swung straight for the center of the window’s lower pane. She half expected the glass to resist the blow or for the bat to bounce off the surface. To her relief, the pane offered little resistance. Using the barrel of the bat, Kristen knocked away as many of the shards of glass as she could.

Behind her, she heard Brendon talking with a 911 operator.

With the silvery chime of breaking glass still fresh in her ears, Kristen beckoned her sons forward. She grabbed Brendon’s comforter and layered it over the broken glass across the windowsill.

The three of them scrambled through the makeshift opening, a wall of humid night air greeting them as they bolted to the front yard. All the while, Brendon continued his conversation with the 911 operator, relaying their instructions to her and Cameron.

Kristen ushered the boys across the street. When she turned to face the house, she had to shield her eyes from the bright flames already flickering in every room she could see. Smoke billowed from the eaves along the gutters.

How the hell…?

The stench of fire wafted across the street, and heat licked her face. Loud crackling rang out from their home, already consumed.

Outside in the fresh air, Kristen’s knees grew weak as she realized how close they’d come to losing their lives. She hugged Cam and Brendon to her side as they watched their home burn, vowing to catch the bastard who’d nearly destroyed everything she held dear.

22

Red-and-blue lights pierced the early morning darkness as Amelia pushed open the passenger side door and stepped out onto the curb. The bitter odor of smoke and burning debris rushed at her, leaving a foul taste on her tongue.

The prominent roar of the fire, the frequent crack-pop that accompanied the flames, and the flashing light from the emergency vehicles crammed onto the block had turned the suburban neighborhood into a battlefield. Amelia’s ten years of military experience recognized war when she saw it, and these communities had been at war for a while now. This was just the latest skirmish.

Taking in the raging fire, she realized with a hint of disappointment that it would be a while before the CSU could enter the premises. Flames licked at the house’s siding, clawing their way out the windows, seeking the oxygen they needed to consume more of the ranch-style home. A steady stream of water jetted toward the blaze, but from where Amelia stood, it seemed like they might as well have been hitting the conflagration with a squirt gun.

According to the notification from Chicago PD, everyone in the family who was home had escaped the house without injury. As Amelia observed the veritable inferno, she was amazed the serial killer hadn’t added to his body count tonight.

The stench of burned wood, melted appliances, and burning electrical wires hung on the humid early morning air. Not even a breeze provided any respite by dispersing the acrid smell. Though Amelia reminded herself that a breezy day would only complicate the firefighters’ efforts in dousing the hungry flames.

The entire block of the suburban neighborhood was a hive of activity. There were more squad cars than she cared to count, almost as many fire engines, and an entire team of firefighters, not to mention two ambulances. And the crowd of bystanders—no doubt including the neighbors who’d been evacuated from their homes—milling just beyond the barrier at the end of the street had to be nearing triple digits.

Not to mention a handful of news vans and camera crews already filming.

Last Amelia had checked, it wasn’t even five o’clock in the morning. “Wow, they sure get here fast.”

Dean snorted as he joined her. “No kidding.” He turned to scan the onlookers. “I’m sure CPD’s already on it, but we’ll check and make sure they’re keeping track of the lookie-loos. There hasn’t been anyone who’s stuck out in the scenes so far, but we know how fast that can change. The only repeat observers have been neighbors of the victims, and honestly, I don’t blame them.”

“And they’ve all checked out anyway.” Amelia gestured to where the pair of ambulances were parked near one of the fire engines. The view was mostly obscured by a squad car, and she assumed that was by design. “The victims are probably over there at the ambulance. CPD said they made it out before the fire really started, but I’m sure the paramedics wanted to check on them just in case.”

As they circled around to the front of the cruiser, a familiar duo emerged from behind the nearest fire engine.

Dean let out an overdramatic sigh. “Looks like Sherry and Layton beat us to the scene.”

With another glance at the bystanders, Amelia fell in beside Dean as they made their way to their fellow agents. The loud pops from steam escaping the burning wood inside the home drowned out the chatter of the nearby firefighters and police officers.

As the pair rounded the end of the fire truck, the vehicle served as a barrier to block them from the reporters. With how prevalent the fires had been in the local news cycle, Amelia would take the relative privacy wherever she could get it.

Right away, she noted the energy around her and her fellow agents was more upbeat than it had been at the scene of the Morrison house. The primary reason was obvious. No one had died here tonight. But Chicago PD had confirmed Kristen Russell had briefly encountered their unsub. Maybe they’d finally get the lead that would extinguish their serial killer’s reign of terror.

“Morning, Storm. Steelman.” Layton adjusted his glasses. “We just got here. Haven’t had a chance to start any interviews. CPD has the street blocked off, as per usual. The officer who let us through said the victims are still being checked out by the paramedics.”

Sherry squinted off in the direction of a neighboring house. “And it would seem the neighbors have all come out to watch the show.”

Dean rubbed his eyes. “Well, here’s hoping they’ve been doing that since it started and saw our perp.”

“Only one way to find out.” Sherry dropped her hands to her hips. “If you two go ahead and interview the victims, that’ll help us formulate some more specific questions for the officers to ask during their canvass.”

Amelia was itching to speak to the Russell family, especially since Kristen had confronted the unknown intruder. This was the first time one of the surviving victims had interacted with the killer, provided, of course, that they were dealing with the same unsub and not a copycat.

“All right.” Dean’s voice drew Amelia’s attention as he glanced at her. “Let’s go talk to the Russells and see what they’ve got for us.”

23

Fishing her badge from the back pocket of her slacks, Amelia offered Sherry and Layton a casual salute as she and Dean turned toward the ambulances. The occasional shout of the firefighters along with the popping and gray smoke from the blaze followed them.

As she and Dean rounded the back of the ambulance, her attention snapped to a tired woman and a teenage boy. The woman was seated in the back of an ambulance, but the young man leaned against the vehicle, a bottle of water in one hand. Near the adjacent second ambulance, a man who could’ve passed as an older clone of the teenager stood next to a second, younger boy.

The woman, who Amelia recognized from her brief research on the drive there as Kristen Russell, was the first of the family to take note of Amelia and Dean’s approach. Before Kristen could pose a question, Amelia flipped open her badge and made the introductions. “We’d like to ask you some questions about what happened here tonight.”

Kristen’s eyes went wide. “The FBI? Wow, I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad to see you guys.”

Amelia held back a laugh. She liked Kristen Russell already. Considering all she’d just been through, the fact that she was able to crack a joke spoke to her resilience.

Kristen leaned forward and looked earnestly at Amelia and then Dean. “Was the man inside my home…was he the man who’s been terrorizing our community?”

Notebook and pen in one hand, Dean held both arms out to his sides. “Well, we’re not going to get ahead of ourselves, but we think it’s a distinct possibility. You interacted with him, right, Mrs. Russell?”

The woman waved a hand. “Please, call me Kristen. It always makes me feel old when people call me missus anything. But to answer your question, yes, I did.” Her gaze shifted back and forth between Amelia and Dean. “I’m not sure what came over me, but I had to confront him. I think I scared him off…probably because I hit him a couple times.”

Amelia leaned forward. “Can you elaborate on that? Where did you hit him, and with what?”

Kristen held up her right hand and pointed to her knuckles. “I hit his hand pretty hard, the right one. I used a wooden baseball bat. He went for a knife. It was kind of dark, but I could see the blade. It looked like…like maybe a hunting knife. Serrated on one side. You know what I mean?”

As Dean scrawled out a note, Amelia took her cue. “And the knife, what happened to it?”

Kristen scooted forward in her seat, more restless and energized. “He dropped it. It was in the kitchen…that’s where I found him. My husband was at work, and I woke up at about a quarter after three. I thought I heard one of the kids in the kitchen. I was trying to go back to sleep, but…I don’t know how to explain it, but something didn’t feel right.”

Plenty of those feelings had saved Amelia’s ass in the past, and she was oddly vindicated by hearing that intuition had helped a civilian. “I know exactly what you mean. Could you walk me through what happened next?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Kristen twisted her hands in her lap. “I had that bad feeling, and then I smelled it. The gasoline. I knew for sure that something was wrong, so I grabbed the baseball bat from under my bed and snuck out into the hallway. The smell of gas got even stronger out there, but it was dark, so I couldn’t exactly see where it was. But, man, it stank. I waited at the end of the hall for a minute, then I saw him.”

Dean paused in his note-taking. “You saw him?”

“Yeah.” Kristen scratched her temple. “Well, I mean, it was dark, so I didn’t really get a good look at him. But I could tell he wasn’t Henry or one of the kids.”

Amelia smiled at the woman, hoping she appeared encouraging. “If you could tell it wasn’t one of your family members, you may’ve noticed things about him you don’t realize. Can you do me a favor and close your eyes for a minute and try to picture him? Tell me any detail at all.”

Kristen rubbed her knees and sighed before closing her eyes. “It was dark, and I didn’t bother turning on any of the lights. I saw him, obviously, and he wasn’t wearing a mask or anything, but he did have a beard. I couldn’t really get a good look at him. I could tell he was white, and his hair was a little on the lighter side. Maybe blond or reddish-blond or something? I’m not sure.”

Sensing the woman’s frustration, Amelia squeezed her shoulder. “This is helpful.”

The woman hit her thigh with her fist. “Damn, I wish I could give you more than that.”

“You’re doing great. Everything you can remember, no matter how small the detail, could help us catch this guy. So take your time and just try to remember as much as you can.”

Kristen inhaled and slowly exhaled. “Okay. It just happened so fast, you know? He was definitely white. I’m five-three, and he was probably six or seven inches taller than me. He didn’t seem chunky or fat or anything, but…it was hard to tell. He was wearing a jacket.”

Dean gave his pen a couple of clicks. “Was there anything on the jacket that you noticed? A name patch, logo, brand name, anything like that? Even just the color of it.”

“No, I didn’t notice any markings or anything. It was just a jacket. Dark. Maybe navy blue or black.” Kristen opened her eyes, blinking against the light and smoky air.

The description was far more than they’d had before, but a nagging part of Amelia’s brain reminded her it still wasn’t enough. “All right, this might seem like a stretch, but do you think you’d be able to sit down with a sketch artist and describe him?”

Kristen licked her lips, her expression contemplative. “I can try, yeah. I don’t know how much help it’ll be, but I can try.”

Amelia offered the woman a reassuring smile. “That’s all we’re asking. Now, we do have a few more questions. After you saw the intruder, what did you do?”

“I yelled at him. I asked him who he was and what he was doing, but I don’t know if he even answered me. That’s when I just rushed at him. I could smell the gasoline, and I was remembering those other fires and all those people who died. My brain just connected the two things, I guess.”

Amelia couldn’t tell if desperation or bravery had driven Kristen to hurl herself at a man who could’ve had a firearm, but oftentimes, the two traits overlapped. “Is that when you hit him?”

“Yeah. Like I said, I saw him go for the knife, so I knocked it out of his hand. I tried to hit him in the head after that, to knock him out. He sort of stepped to the side, but the bat still hit him. Right here.” She pointed to her right eyebrow. “It didn’t feel as solid as the first hit, but it injured him. That’s when he bolted for our sliding glass door. The smell of gasoline was everywhere, and at that point, I just wanted to get my kids and get the hell out of there.”

Tapping his notebook, Dean glanced to the teen beside Kristen, then the kid seated next to his father. “Did either of you get a look at the man, by chance?”

Both boys shook their heads, but only the older of the two answered. “No, sir. By the time we came out of our rooms, he was gone. The only person we saw was our mom.”

Amelia turned back to Kristen. “How did you guys get out of the house?”

Kristen’s eyebrows knit together. “You know, it was the weirdest thing. Fire and smoke were coming out of the kitchen where I’d just been. I grabbed the boys, and we went to Brendon’s bedroom where I closed the door. I tried the window, but the thing wouldn’t open. I tried to unlock it a few more times, but nothing worked. We’ve never had an issue with it before, and all the windows were replaced two years ago. It didn’t make sense, but then I panicked because smoke was already filling the bedroom.”

The FBI had decided to keep the details about the unsub blocking the doors and windows out of the press. If forensics found he’d placed locks on the windows, this wasn’t a copycat. It was their man. “There was nothing wrong with your new windows. At the previous fires, he blocked any means of escape on the first floor.”

All the color drained from Kristen’s face. “Jesus, that’s horrible. I…I still had the bat, so I just broke the window.”

Dean’s expression turned curious. “Where’s the bat now?”

Kristen jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “One of the officers put it in a giant clear bag. He said it was evidence.”

The word evidence sparked a ray of hope for Amelia. Had either of Kristen’s blows drawn blood? Could they extract DNA from it?

“Do you know if the person who attacked you was wearing gloves?”

Their victim thought for a moment and then slowly nodded. “When I hit him with the bat and he dropped the knife, I noticed he was wearing gloves.”

Great.

Even if the knife he’d wielded survived the fire, it wasn’t likely they’d find any fingerprints on it. Of course, it would be thoroughly checked, nonetheless.

Amelia looked between Kristen and Henry Russell. “We’d appreciate it if you could both write down all your activities for the past week. Your sons too. We need to know every place you’ve been, no matter how briefly, and everyone you can recall talking to. Even if you don’t know their names. You can write down ‘librarian’ or whatever.”

Henry offered his wife a reassuring smile. “Absolutely. We’ll get that to you as soon as we can.”

She turned to the father and the younger son. “Did any of you notice a person around the neighborhood recently who seemed out of place? Anyone spending a lot of time around here recently who didn’t quite seem to fit? Maybe a particularly nosy maintenance worker or anything like that?”

“Yeah.” Kristen leaned forward. “There was a guy who stopped by while my husband was making dinner last night. Remember, Henry?”

Understanding lit her husband’s face. “That’s right. You got the door because I was cooking.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “Do you recall who he worked for, or why he was there?”

“Yeah. He said he was working on some kind of internet issue that the neighbors had, and that he wanted to check to make sure we didn’t have the same problem. He was with Chicago Communications Network.”

Alarm bells went off in Amelia’s head. One of the witnesses they’d interviewed had noticed a CCN vehicle on their block in the days before the fire that had killed Glenda and Roxanne Marquez.

And as it happened, Chicago Communications Network was Andrew Cottage’s current employer.

Though she suspected the next question would be fruitless, Amelia asked it anyway. “Did he give a name?”

Kristen shook her head. “No. I just told him we weren’t having any issues, then he left it at that. But…I do remember what he looked like. He had reddish-blond hair and blue eyes and…” Her hand went to her mouth, which had popped open in surprise. “A red beard.”

The description matched Kristen’s recollection of the assailant, vague though it might have been.

Amelia mentally crossed her fingers. “Do you happen to have a Ring camera or another type of security camera covering the front of your home?”

Kristen glanced at her husband. “We’ve talked about it but didn’t actually buy one.”

Amelia bet she’d install one at every corner of her next house. “That’s okay. What you’ve provided has been very helpful.”

And it was. The description matched Andrew Cottage.

24

After running through a handful of additional questions with the Russell family, Amelia and Dean hurried over to where Sherry and Layton stood conversing with a uniformed police officer. The firefighters were still hard at work dousing the blaze, though the flames did appear to have died down since they’d arrived. The house would likely be a total loss, just as the previous four residences had been. Fortunately, this time around, there were no casualties.

Layton offered Amelia and Dean a wave. “Hey, there you guys are. How’d the interview with the Russells go?”

Dean held out his notebook for Sherry and Layton. “Surprisingly well. Kristen Russell didn’t get the best look at the guy since it was dark, but she gave us a hell of a lot more than we had before. Plus, there was a maintenance guy at their door earlier in the day. Someone supposedly working for Chicago Communications Network.”

The officer, a sergeant based on the insignia on his collar, shot them a curious look. “The ISP? We were just talking about what to include in our questions when we start canvassing this morning. Suppose we ought to include something about them?”

Though Amelia still held some skepticism about the internet guy’s involvement, as well as Andrew Cottage’s, she nodded. “Yeah, I think that would be smart. We aren’t sure if our guy works for them or is posing as one of their employees, or even if the worker is connected to what’s happening here, but it’s something we should investigate.”

Retrieving his own pad and pen, the sergeant scrawled out a note.

Amelia gestured toward a nearby home. “Anything from the neighbors? Have you gotten to them yet?”

“We did.” Sherry pointed toward the same house Amelia had noted. “Just those neighbors, though. Then we came over here to talk to Sergeant Whitney.”

Layton glanced up from Dean’s notes. “Yeah, just them. They didn’t have much for us, but they did see a white SUV driving through the neighborhood multiple times yesterday afternoon. They didn’t remember the entire license plate number, but the couple digits they could recall match the ones we’ve got on video from the Marquez house.”

Dean cracked his neck. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. Let’s put out a BOLO for the van with the partial plate.”

As Layton passed the notebook to Sherry, he arched an eyebrow. “Mrs. Russell gave a physical description of the guy? Little under six foot, Caucasian, light-colored hair, and a red beard. That’s good. We can potentially incorporate part of that in our canvassing questions.”

Still writing, Sergeant Whitney’s head bobbed. “Sure can.”

Amelia held up her hand. “And the description matches Andrew Cottage. Steelman and I are going to go pay him a visit, nice and early. Layton and I missed him yesterday because he’d already gone to work, so we’ll catch him earlier this time around. What we need to do in the meantime is keep canvassing with the description of the internet guy who stopped by the Russells’ house yesterday.”

“Right. Kristen said the guy knocked on her door under the explanation of fixing an internet issue at those people’s house.” Dean gestured to the house on the other side of the Russell residence.

“Before we get to calling their manager and waiting on hold for forty-five minutes, maybe we can see if those folks have a receipt for a work order. Assuming he’s really an employee and was working at their place, then there’d be a name attached to that service call. If we can find out who he is, we can have Kristen Russell take a look at a photo to confirm it.”

“Better yet, maybe they have a camera we can pull footage from.”

Nodding, Amelia racked her brain. She recalled the internet provider for the previous families. The Morrisons had been a patron of Chicago Communications, and so had the Osbornes and the Days. It wasn’t a major breakthrough—or at least had never struck Amelia as a major breakthrough—considering most of Falcon Point was serviced by CCN. Plus, the Marquez family had a newer provider who’d moved into the area only in the last two years.

All of them have the same utility providers too. And so does everyone else in this suburb.

Because one of the homes that was burned didn’t use CCN, Amelia and her colleagues had dismissed the internet service provider as a limiting factor. But Amelia made a mental note to revisit the theory after their interview with Andrew Cottage. It could be that the common thread between the five families had been under their noses all along. The Marquez family had used CCN before switching to a new ISP.

Amelia shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The connection seemed too…obvious.

Not that she was about to turn down a lead because it was too easy. She and the others would follow the proverbial breadcrumbs to wherever they led, but Amelia knew to retain enough skepticism to keep her vision from narrowing.

Sergeant Whitney offered them a nod. “All right. Let me get a few of my officers together, and we’ll start canvassing the neighborhood. We’ll make sure everything gets back to you guys when we’re finished. We’ve also got the baseball bat from Kristen Russell bagged as evidence.”

As hard as Kristen claimed to have hit the assailant, Amelia mentally crossed her fingers that they’d recover a bit of DNA from the bat.

Step by agonizing step, they were beginning to bolster their case.

25

Rubbing my temples, I leaned back into the couch and groaned. All the lights in my place were off, and it seemed like everyone in the units around me were still asleep. The quiet was a welcome relief, yet it didn’t ease the tension building in my head. Slitting one eye open, I checked the digital clock below my TV.

Almost six. Great.

Technically, I should’ve already been getting ready for work by now, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave the damn couch. Would calling in again raise too many eyebrows? Or would anyone even notice? Better yet, would it seem more suspicious if I went into work with the knot on my forehead and my busted knuckles?

In moments like these, I regretted turning down the promotions I’d been offered. I liked my job and the cloak of invisibility it afforded me. Flying under the radar allowed me to stalk the families and learn about their lives. But if I’d been a desk jockey, I could’ve given myself the day off.

Three hours ago, I’d downed three extra-strength acetaminophens, and my head was still pounding. I couldn’t drown out the ache no matter how hard I tried, and I was starting to worry that I might have a concussion. Then, like the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae, my hand was a hot mess.

Broken? Probably. The only aspect of this whole debacle that was on my side was the fact that doctors’ offices didn’t view bruises with the same scrutiny as knife or gunshot wounds. If I’d been stabbed or shot, there was no way in hell I’d visit an urgent care center or an emergency room.

If I pretended the injury happened at work, I could get workers’ comp to foot the bill. More importantly, if anyone asked, I’d be able to say my injuries were job-related.

There was no telling if my injuries would hold me back from the plans I’d already made if I didn’t deal with them now.

Wincing at the movement, I reached for my phone and opened the photo gallery. The harsh light from the screen stabbed my brain like an ice pick, but I did my best to ignore the pain as I swiped past all the photos I’d taken of the Russell family.

Landing on a photo of my new target I’d taken the day before, I paused.

Dawn Estrada and her mother, Katie Estrada, lived in a ground-floor condominium not far from my first fire. Even though the condo complex wasn’t large, more people lived there than the houses I’d targeted. More people meant more suffering and more deaths.

After that psycho bitch Kristen Russell had attacked me with a baseball bat, I had to do something. I couldn’t sit back and pray the cops didn’t catch on to me. It might’ve been dark in that kitchen, but I wasn’t willing to bank on her not recognizing me, especially since I’d visited her home in disguise earlier that day.

And to literally add insult to injury, all of the Russells had somehow managed to escape. The stupid bitch must’ve busted her way out.

The Russells were supposed to die.

I should’ve been riding the high off that family’s suffering. Instead, that void was filling with rage.

It was time to unleash maximum suffering—before the cops figured out I was responsible. That bitch had gotten the jump on me, but I’d get even.

My work had just started. And once I’d inflicted massive suffering on an entire condominium complex, I’d circle back to Kristen Russell.

All those single-family homes had been my training ground, my boot camp. I’d honed my skills, and now I’d use the rage coursing through my veins to leave my mark on this city. They had no idea how much misery I could inflict.

Setting aside my phone, I reached for the laptop on the end table. I had to darken the screen to keep the pain behind my eye from making me see stars. I’d already researched the condo building where the Estradas lived, but thanks to the bitch with the bat, I needed to take additional precautions.

The dampened glow from my laptop was still like a supernova. But anger mixed with resolution melded together in my chest, dulling the pain from my injuries.

It didn’t take me long to navigate to the website I’d visited the day before.

Juniper Row Condominiums. Love where you live!

An audible scoff escaped me. These places were more expensive than anywhere I’d ever lived.

And of course, the entire place was undoubtedly populated by happy families and couples.

Perfect.

I might’ve failed to eliminate any of the Russells, but that was only because that bitch knew how to wield a bat—first at me and then at the window. Anger surged through me, fueling my actions.

The Juniper Row complex was four stories. If the residents on the higher floors wanted to make a daring escape, the best they could hope for would be to wind up crippled.

I’d snuff out their happiness, their ability to work, and even their lives.

It was a daunting task, but I was glad to take it on.

No matter what happened after today, I’d make sure this city remembered me.

26

Orange and pink rays of sunshine crested the horizon by the time Amelia and Dean arrived at the modest duplex where Andrew Cottage and his family lived. The street was lined with tall trees, and though the neighborhood had a quaint, homey air, some of the houses had clearly seen better days. It wasn’t an upper-class part of the city, but neither was it as poverty-stricken as where Amelia had grown up.

Though Layton had speculated their suspect either lived or worked in Falcon Point or Highfield, Andrew Cottage had lived within the Chicago city limits his entire life. But his job as an tech for CCN brought him into those communities—meaning he fit Layton’s profile.

Unfortunately, the Russells’ neighbor had been a dead end. They’d had a service call from someone from CCN, but both adults worked and it was their maid who’d let the tech into the home. The work order didn’t have the technician’s name nor any identifying information. She’d confirmed that the person who came to their home had light-red hair, though.

All of that aligned with Andrew Cottage’s strawberry-blond hair and neatly trimmed reddish-brown beard that he’d sported in his driver’s license photo. Besides having many of the characteristics from the profile they’d built, he was a near-perfect match to Kristen Russell’s description of the intruder she attacked.

Alone, those factors were enough to shoot him to the top of their list of persons of interest. But they also had the recollections of Jamie Calhoun and his friends, who shared stories of Cottage’s quick temper. And, for the moment, Andrew Cottage was the first and only name on their list.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, Amelia ignored that last thought. It didn’t pay to presume in her line of work. Badge in hand, she followed Dean to the tiny porch. A planter hung on the railing, and the orange and yellow hues of the marigolds stood out in stark contrast against the gray siding of the duplex.

Flowers on the porch seemed out of place at the residence of a serial killer, but Amelia reminded herself that Cottage was married with a five-year-old kid. According to Layton’s rundown of the characteristics of a so-called family annihilator, many of the men were outwardly normal, even respectable.

When silence greeted the rap of Dean’s knuckles, Amelia gritted her teeth.

Just as Amelia was about to prod him to knock again, a metallic click-clack sounded as the dead bolt disengaged from the lock. The hinges creaked as the door opened a few inches, then wider once the man on the other side had a chance to look them over.

Still grasping the door with one hand, the man who could only be Andrew Cottage stepped into the narrow opening.

As soon as the modest light from the sunrise graced him, Amelia’s entire body went rigid.

Just above his left eyebrow was a nasty bruise and a cut that was covered with a single butterfly stitch. However, at a glance, his hands appeared uninjured. Had Kristen Russell been mistaken about how hard she struck Cottage or which eye she’d hit with the bat?

Forcing her expression to remain neutral, Amelia flipped open her badge. “Good morning. I’m Special Agent Amelia Storm, and this is my partner, Special Agent Dean Steelman. We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and we’d like to ask you a few questions. Are you Andrew Cottage?”

Cottage narrowed his eyes, his expression mistrustful. “Yeah, that’s me. Why are there Feds on my doorstep at six in the morning on a weekday? Isn’t there some kind of protocol against that? I mean, if you’d knocked much louder, you would’ve woken up my kid and my wife.”

Dean pocketed his badge. “Well, Mr. Cottage, we’re in the middle of a time-sensitive investigation, and you’ve been difficult to get ahold of. So yes, we’re here early so we could catch you before you headed off to work.”

“Okay, fine. I was getting ready before you guys showed up. What do you need? Don’t tell me you’re here because you think I pirated some movies, because I haven’t. That happened to one of the guys I work with.” Cottage sighed and rubbed the uninjured part of his forehead. “He wound up having to pay a fine, but I thought they just mailed him a letter. But I don’t pirate shit.”

It was strange to Amelia that Cottage’s mind immediately went to pirated films. They knew from talking to his friends that he’d set a horse barn on fire. Although none of his speech seemed rehearsed, his innocence didn’t add up with what they knew about the man with the temper.

Amelia tilted her head. “Pirated movies? That’s why you think we’re here at six in the morning?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m taking a shot in the dark, all right? Maybe if you tell me why you’re here, I can help you.”

Expression sober, Dean retrieved his cell and held it out so Cottage could view the screen. “This is why we’re here. This is a photo taken from the street in front of Kristen Russell’s house a couple hours ago. Her family’s home was the fifth in a string of arsons in Northwest Chicago.”

A crease formed between Cottage’s eyebrows as he studied the photo. “Yeah, I’ve heard about those on the news. What kind of psychopath goes around burning people alive?” As he glanced up at Dean, then Amelia, his eyes widened. “Oh, oh, you’re here to ask me about them? You think I had something to do with this? No, no way. I didn’t have a damn thing to do with any of that psycho bullshit.”

He seemed as if he was prepared to continue, but the quiet voice of a woman jerked his attention to the interior of the house. Like a switch had been flipped, his stance went from borderline indignant to something resembling calm. “Hey, honey. I didn’t wake you, did I? I’m sorry.”

The woman’s head peeked over Cottage’s shoulder. “No, you didn’t. Who’s at the door? Are those Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

Dean seemed almost offended at the woman’s question. “No, ma’am. We’re federal agents.”

“Feds? Andrew, is this about pirating movies? Remember how Kyle got fined?”

Shaking his head, Cottage crossed his arms. “No, it’s not. They’re here asking about those fires in Falcon Point.”

“Really? Why?” Her eyes shifted to Amelia and Dean. “You can’t think Andrew had anything to do with those.”

Amelia was beginning to wonder. “We haven’t accused your husband of anything, Mrs. Cottage. We’re simply following up on a lead, and we’d like to ask him a few questions.”

The woman turned to her husband. “Well, don’t be rude, honey. I know how you feel about cops, but these guys are looking for an actual bad guy. If we can help them, we should.”

Sensing the opportunity to coax Andrew Cottage into an interview without the threat of legal action, Amelia forged ahead. “Actually, Mrs. Cottage, we were hoping your husband could come back to the office with us. We’ll make sure he gets home afterward.”

As the woman turned to Andrew with an expectant look, the man’s jaw tightened. His gaze flicked from his wife to Amelia and back before he finally groaned. “All right. Fine.” He jabbed his finger first at Amelia, then at Dean. “But you’re going to have to explain to my boss why I’m going to be late for work.”

“I think we can manage that.” Dean stepped to the side and gestured toward the car. “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Cottage.”

Though Amelia was relieved Cottage had consented to an interview without too much of a fuss, a sliver of doubt wedged its way into her mind. She’d hoped to find the man responsible for five house fires and the horrible deaths of nine people, but was that person truly Andrew Cottage?

Her first impression wasn’t consistent with that of a stone-cold killer, but it wasn’t like serial killers wore their psychotic personas on their sleeves. Most of them appeared perfectly ordinary, maybe even kind. They’d honed their masks over years or decades, and a great many of them could fool all but the most seasoned observer.

Was Andrew Cottage donning such a mask? If so, Amelia needed to find a way to peel it back and expose the monster underneath.

27

Amelia focused her attention on the person on the other side of the wide pane of one-way glass. Having situated Andrew Cottage at the table in the interview room after he’d been fingerprinted, she left to observe him while she waited on Dean. Her partner for this interview was gathering photos and other documents to use during their discussion.

Though Cottage had seemed nervous at first, he now appeared as if he was growing restless, perhaps impatient.

His behavior wasn’t strange in the slightest. Putting herself in his shoes, Amelia imagined she’d experience the same emotions if their roles were reversed.

But each time Amelia’s doubts about Cottage’s guilt lingered, she focused on the injury above his eye. That and the scrapes on both of his hands, which had become evident during fingerprinting. Combined with Kristen Russell’s description of the man she’d chased out of her house, there were too many coincidences to ignore.

“Got everything.” Dean walked in and held up a manila folder. “How’s Cottage? Anything happen while I was gone?”

“Not a thing. We already knew from his background search that neither he nor his wife own an SUV, let alone a light-colored one. And the company Cottage works for uses white vans with their logo on the side. Not SUVs.” Amelia tilted her chin toward Cottage. “What do you think about that injury on his face? And the minor ones on his hands? Kristen Russell said she hit the unsub’s hand hard. Hard enough to knock a knife out of his grip.”

Lips pursed, Dean stepped toward the two-way mirror to study the bearded man on the other side. “Hard to say with his hands folded that way. I wasn’t there when he was fingerprinted. But they don’t appear to match her description of the attack. We can get some photos of his injuries and let the lab look at the images and weigh in. It’s still possible there’s some wiggle room in Kristen Russell’s statement. It was dark, and she was hopped up on adrenaline. She might’ve thought she hit him harder than she did or the other way around.”

The lingering doubts still niggled at the back of Amelia’s head. “Fair point. But one indisputable fact is that our guy sustained his injuries just a few hours ago. Maybe we use that as a comparison instead. One way or the other, we can get the lab’s opinion on that too. Let’s go see what Mr. Cottage has to say about that wound on his head.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Dean pushed open the door, and Amelia followed him out into the hall. With a glance over his shoulder and a confirmatory nod, he led the way into the interview room.

As Amelia stepped over the threshold behind Dean, Andrew Cottage’s suspicious gaze followed their every movement. With his button-down shirt, slacks, and both hands clasped on the laminate table in front of him, he appeared as if he’d been waiting for the world’s worst job interview.

Metal scraped against tile as Dean pulled out a chair across from Cottage while Amelia remained standing. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Can we get you anything? Water, coffee?”

“No thanks.” Cottage’s eyes moved back and forth between Amelia and Dean. “I’d like to just answer whatever questions you guys have for me so I can get out of here, if you don’t mind.”

Taking the cue, Amelia pulled her cell from the back pocket of her slacks. “First things first, do you mind if I take a picture of that injury on your face and take a closer look at your hands?”

Cottage’s mouth twitched into a frown. “If it gets me out of here faster, then fine. You mind telling me why?”

Amelia didn’t see any reason to withhold the truth. “The suspect we’re looking for sustained a couple injuries. We’d like to compare yours to our witness’s statement.”

His knuckles turned white, but Cottage’s expression remained largely unchanged. “Uh-huh. Well, this,” he pointed to the swelling on his forehead, “is something that happened at work two days ago.” He lifted his hand. “I’d mostly forgotten about this. I was an idiot and closed the car door on myself the same day I bumped my head. My hand is barely even bruised, so I don’t know how you noticed it.”

As Amelia snapped a couple quick photos, Dean flipped open the manila folder. “That cut over your eye looks nasty. You said you got it at work. Don’t suppose you reported it when it happened?”

Cottage narrowed his eyes. “Should I have?”

Dean lifted his shoulders and held the shrug. “It’s standard operating procedure for most workplaces like yours. Employees are required to report any injuries they sustain on the job. Something about liability and workers’ compensation, if I remember right. We’ve got the same sort of thing here, even though the process is a little…different, you know?”

Twisting the watch on his wrist, Cottage leaned back in his chair. “No, I didn’t report it, and workers’ comp is exactly why I didn’t. Look, it didn’t even need stitches, okay? I hit my head on a shelf when I was replacing the coaxial line in a customer’s house. It’s not exactly my proudest moment, and I didn’t really want any official documentation in my file for it.”

In some respects, the man’s explanation made perfect sense. Amelia had been around enough tradespeople during her time in the military to understand the mindset behind decisions like Cottage’s. Most folks simply wanted to earn their keep and return home to their lives, and most of them preferred not to overcomplicate their job by going through official channels every time they got hurt.

Before Amelia took a seat next to Dean, she sent the images off to Jean River, her contact in the FBI’s forensic lab, though she was beginning to doubt the expert opinion was necessary.

When she’d first observed Cottage’s head injury from afar, the match to Kristen Russell’s statement seemed obvious. But the closer she got to the small cut, the more apparent it became that this wasn’t the type of injury you’d sustain from being struck with force.

A new wound, especially one caused by a recent altercation, would look quite different. Fresh cuts were typically red, swollen, and might still be bleeding or oozing clear fluid. The edges of the wound would be raw, and there might be signs of active inflammation.

This wound showed signs of healing. The edges were starting to close up, and the bruising around it was deep blue and nearly black in places, which indicated it was a few days old.

Did that rule him out as a suspect? As desperate as Amelia was to find their arsonist, she had her doubts. So far, they’d found no connection to a light-colored SUV. Cottage matched the description of both the man who’d broken into Kristen Russell’s house and the internet guy who’d visited the Russells’ that same afternoon.

Sure, there were too many coincidences to ignore, but perhaps they were just that—coincidences.

Setting aside her phone, Amelia rested her hands on the table and turned her attention to Andrew Cottage. “All right, we’ll start simple. Tell us where your route took you for work yesterday.”

“I don’t memorize the addresses. I read them off the tablet they give me and use the van’s GPS to navigate from house to house. The schedulers are supposed to organize the appointments geographically, so we don’t have to zigzag back and forth wasting time. But they don’t care, and I was all over the place yesterday. Couldn’t give you specific addresses, but the scheduling desk should be able to tell you.”

Amelia had known this fact and was waiting for that information to be emailed to her from CCN. Her phone would notify her if she received the email during the interview. She decided to shift the focus. “Where were you last night between approximately two a.m. and four a.m.?”

Cottage furrowed his eyebrows. “At home, sleeping. I work at seven in the morning unless, of course, I get a surprise visit from the FBI. Ask my wife about it if you need to. We went to bed at the same time. She’s a light sleeper, so trust me, she’d have known if I got up. I was already getting ready for work when you guys showed up.”

It wasn’t quite an airtight alibi, but if it panned out, it was another checkmark in the growing “not guilty” column.

Dean tapped the documents in front of him. “Well, Mr. Cottage, we understand you’ve got a little bit of a history with arson. We spoke to one of your old friends, Chris Rayfield. He told us about a fire you set outside Peoria, would’ve been about twelve years ago now.”

“Wait.” Cottage rubbed his temples, his face a mask of concentration. “You talked to Chris Rayfield? Jesus, I haven’t seen that guy in ages. And what do you mean he told you about a fire I set twelve years ago? Is that why you’re asking me about that psychopath who’s killing people in those communities? Because Chris Rayfield told you about some stupid shit that we did when we were teenagers?”

Dean shrugged again. “We’re following the leads we have, Mr. Cottage. It just so happens that they landed us at your doorstep.”

“Okay, fine. That fire Rayfield told you about? Yeah, I was there. Yeah, we lit a barn on fire. Chris was right there with me the whole time, and it’s not like I had to convince him to do anything.” He scrubbed his beard and met Dean’s gaze. “Look, it was twelve years ago, okay? I was a stupid teenager. I’m not saying that makes setting other people’s shit on fire okay. It obviously doesn’t. But I didn’t do it because I was trying to hurt anyone. I was just a dumb kid who wanted to set a building on fire.”

Knowing the sheer amount of brain development that took place from age sixteen to the mid-twenties, Amelia could admit Cottage had a point. They’d only received one account of the story, and Rayfield’s recollection was twelve years old.

Dean flipped to a photo of the symbol found at the fires northwest of Chicago. “What about this? Does this symbol mean anything to you?”

As Dean slid the picture over to Cottage, the man studied it before shaking his head. “I don’t think so. It looks a little familiar, but I can’t really remember where I might’ve seen it. Looks…I don’t know, satanic? Demonic? Something like that.” His gaze shifted up to Amelia. “Isn’t this what that psychopath has been painting at those peoples’ houses in Falcon Point and Highfield?”

Though the science of reading facial expressions was largely overexaggerated by Hollywood, Amelia felt confident Cottage’s lack of recognition was genuine. If he was the person setting these fires and painting the symbols—and to her, the possibility was growing more and more remote by the second—then she’d have noticed some spark of acknowledgment. Instead, Cottage seemed even more confused.

Dean tapped the edge of the photo. “Yes. This is the symbol we found in the basements of all the houses so far. It’s similar to the tag used in a string of old arsons committed by another one of your friends, Jamie Calhoun.”

“Jamie Calhoun?” Indignance colored Cottage’s tone as he repeated the man’s name. “I haven’t heard that guy’s name in years. Why aren’t you asking him about this?”

Dean held out his hands. “We did. That’s how we found Chris Rayfield and you.”

Before Cottage could respond, Amelia’s cell buzzed against the table. Holding up a hand, she grabbed the device and unlocked the screen. Anticipation prickled the hairs on the back of her neck as she noted the sender of the message was none other than Jean River, her contact in the lab.

The tech’s response was brief and to the point, and it confirmed Amelia’s suspicion about the age of Andrew Cottage’s injuries.

Based on the coloration of the bruises and the level of healing that has occurred at the injury site, I would estimate that these injuries are a few days old.

Wordlessly, Amelia held her phone out for Dean to view. His expression changed little, and she figured he’d already drawn the same conclusion.

In terms of their investigation, the assessment of Cottage’s injuries meant they could safely rule him out as a suspect. Unless Andrew Cottage possessed superhuman healing capabilities, there was no way he was the same man who’d been slugged by Kristen Russell at three in the morning. It was incredibly unlikely the man in front of them was the same man who’d set Kristen Russell’s house—and by proxy the other four homes—ablaze.

Drumming his fingers, Dean leaned back in his chair. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Cottage, we’d like to ask you a few more questions. It’s all routine, I can assure you.”

Some of the tension in Cottage’s stance lessened. “So…what does that mean, then? Do I need to get a lawyer for this?”

Dean flattened his hand on the table. “That’s your right as an American citizen, but as of right now, we’re not considering you a suspect. We’d just like to ask some follow-up questions so we can officially rule you out.”

Understanding dawned in Cottage’s expression. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

Having not received an email yet from CCN, Amelia decided to ask him directly. “When you’re out on your service calls and installations, do you ever visit neighboring homes to see if people are having issues? Say if one home’s internet is down, do you go to the neighbors to see if they’re having issues too?”

Cottage let out a derisive laugh. “You gotta be kidding. I can barely get the appointments done that are on my schedule. No way do I have time to run around checking on everyone. Trust me, from my experience, if folks are having trouble, they call. I don’t need to go surveying the whole damn neighborhood.”

After shifting through some papers, Dean started to run through a list of the dates and times of the other fires.

It came as no real surprise to Amelia that the man was out of town visiting his wife’s family for the fire at the Osborne house and was chaperoning his nephew’s birthday sleepover when the Marquez residence was targeted.

Though Amelia was glad they had enough evidence to ensure an innocent man wasn’t put through the wringer for a crime he hadn’t committed, ruling out Andrew Cottage left her with more questions than answers.

It also meant the killer was still on the loose.

28

The scent of fresh brewed coffee followed Dean as he made his way down the hall to the incident room. Though he’d been at work for almost two hours, many other agents were just beginning their nine-to-five shifts. With Sherry and Amelia visiting forensics and Layton following up with Cyber Crimes, Dean had taken the opportunity to replenish his caffeine supply.

A little more than twenty-four hours had elapsed since he and the others had arrived at the scene of the inferno that had been the Russell family’s house. It had taken the fire department several hours to put out the blaze and ensure the premises were safe for the crime scene personnel.

Dean didn’t envy the duties of the CSU in arson cases. Shoveling through the charred remains of a family home all while being mindful of potential pieces of evidence seemed an impossible task. He commended those who did it.

At any rate, the majority of the home had been scoured by now and pertinent items sent to the FBI’s lab. Fortunately, there were no casualties this go-around and thus no reason to involve the medical examiner.

That didn’t change the fact that there were still lives on the line.

As Dean let himself into the incident room, he was unsurprised to find the space empty. Much of the morning sunshine was blocked by the blinds drawn over the window on the far side of the room, but he didn’t bother to turn on a light.

He had to keep his frustration at bay. The previous day had seen a lot of investigative work that led the team nowhere. Nothing new had turned up in their research into satanic symbols. A sketch artist had created a likeness, but when they ran it against faces in the system, they’d come up empty. Even the bat they’d recovered with blood on it turned out not to have usable DNA present. The lab was still trying to get something from it, but so far, it was a big nothing burger.

With a quick sip of his still-too-hot coffee, he pulled out a chair and turned on his laptop. Except for a break to catch a few hours of sleep, Dean had been sifting through the logs that each of the survivors had supplied. In them, he found the detailed activities of each family member. There had to be a common thread binding the victims together, but so far, it had proven elusive. Come hell or high water, he was determined to change that.

On a notepad at his side, he’d compiled a detailed summary of each family’s activities in the days leading up to the fires. Most of it was information he already had stored in his head, but viewing it laid out side by side could be far more helpful than racking his brain and trying to remember. He’d cross-checked the supplied logs with the victims’ financial statements leading up to the day of the deadly fire. It wasn’t a perfect snapshot of the victims’ final days, but it was the best he had.

Dean was so engrossed in his task that his ass nearly left his chair as the door at his back swung open, but he tamped down the surprise as he swiveled around to face Amelia.

Her forest-green eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled at her fellow agent. She’d gotten even less sleep than he had, and the circles under her eyes highlighted her exhaustion. “Didn’t mean to scare you. How’s it going?”

“Slow. But I was just going to start talking through some of this. Wanna tag team?”

Amelia blew on her coffee before taking a sip. “Sure. Where do you want to start?”

He handed her a stack of papers. “I’ve been through these before, but I’m adding in the new information. We need to compare that with what we already know. Here are the activity logs from the Marquez and Osborne families. I’ll start by reading an activity the Russells did, and we can see if it aligns with what we know about the other families’ whereabouts.”

“Sounds good. Start it off.”

“On the day before the fire, Kristen Russell stopped at a café on her way to work. Same café she stops at every Tuesday. Did anyone else stop at this café?”

Amelia shuffled through the survivors’ logs until she spotted the one from Carlos Marquez. “Carlos went to the same chain two days before his family’s house was set on fire. Anyone else?”

The tiniest spark of hope lit up as Dean scanned the other statements, but it dissipated just as quickly as it had formed.

“Nope. We can rule out the coffee shop. Back to Kristen Russell. She spent a few hours in the office for some appointments, and then she went home midday. On her way home, she stopped at the dry cleaner and a card shop in a strip mall, and she didn’t leave the house until the next day.”

Amelia laughed. “Relatable.”

“I was thinking the same thing. Other than work, I don’t leave my apartment for much. I miss all the beach time, especially the surfing.”

“I guess Lake Michigan isn’t a great place to use a surfboard.”

“It’s not.” Dean checked his notes. “Okay, where else did Kristen Russell go in the days before their fire? Her activity log indicates she stopped at the grocery store with her oldest son Brendon, but she didn’t indicate which one. Let me check her financial records.” Dean’s finger traced down a bank statement. “Here we go. Anderson’s.”

“Oh, I just saw that on the log Carlos Marquez provided.” Amelia sat up straighter and riffled through the logs. “Let’s see. He swung by the grocery store with his youngest daughter Roxanne to buy some lottery tickets. They also picked up some sushi from the specialty section of the market for their dinner.”

He held up two fingers as he scanned the information for the Morrisons. Though Logan, Stella, and Tara Morrison had all been killed, the Bureau had been able to pull financial statements for all three. Lines on a credit card bill didn’t give the same story as an interview, but the information was useful enough for Dean’s purposes.

As he parsed through Logan Morrison’s purchases, his eyes locked onto a familiar name, and he extended a third finger on his raised hand. “Anderson’s. Forty-one dollars and seventeen cents spent three days before the fire.”

“Three families visiting the same store could be a coincidence. But the Marquez family lived in Highfield, and they’d actually have to pass their neighborhood grocer to shop at Anderson’s.”

The discovery was enough to send a jolt of anticipation through Dean’s veins.

Upon turning to the Days’ financial statements, he sucked in a sharp breath as he spotted a purchase at Anderson’s three days before the fire.

“Did you find another one?”

He made a show of extending a fourth finger. “Yeah, the Days were there three days before the fire. We knew this, but all these families had also been to the same big box retailer. Let me check to see if anyone in the Russell family visited that chain. If not, the grocery store is looking like a place worth visiting.”

Amelia waited while he flipped through the pages for each family member. “Anything?”

“No. There’s no mention of it in their logs or in their financial statements.”

“Okay, let’s be thorough so we don’t jump to conclusions.” Amelia scanned the Osbornes’ logs. “Go ahead and put up another finger. Two days before the fire at her home, Melanie Osborne had been out with her son so he could practice driving for his driver’s license road test. After they finished, they stopped at Anderson’s to get more postage stamps and pick up a prescription.”

Dean put up a fifth finger, and Amelia playfully gave him a high five.

He laughed before growing serious. “All five families had someone who stopped at the Anderson’s grocery store for one reason or another in the days before their fire. But only four of them were at the big box retailer.”

“We can keep looking to see if there’s any other overlap, but I think this is worth looking into.”

“We will.” Dean pushed himself away from the table and stood. “But for now, I think we ought to do some shopping.”

29

Between the stifling humidity and the abundance of sunshine, Detective Mandy Avery was almost certain she’d be cook alive in her black pantsuit if she had to spend much more time outdoors. The bullpen at the precinct tended to smell like burned coffee with undertones of stale cigarette smoke, but right about now, she was starting to miss that.

She gritted her teeth. The July weather wasn’t the only thing making her hot. Over the past couple days, Amelia Storm, the bitch, had been in the background of just about every piece of news covering the arsons taking over the city.

Each time Mandy saw the agent’s face, flames of hate burned brighter in her belly. And in those moments, she understood the arsonist’s need to set the world on fire.

Tires crunched against the asphalt of the parking lot of the park at the edge of the city. Swiping at the light sheen of sweat on her forehead, Mandy forced herself to calm down. The sleek silver flanks of the German sports car glittered in the sunlight. With the glare on the windshield, Mandy could barely make out the driver.

Not that she needed to. She recognized the vehicle from their first meeting. However, considering the relative isolation of the small park, it was imperative for her to conduct her due diligence and ensure he’d come alone.

Satisfied no one was in the passenger seat, Mandy rose to her feet as the car pulled into a parking spot two stalls away from her own vehicle. With her attention fixed on the car, she made her way toward a patch of shade near the curb.

Despite the sweat beading between her shoulders, goose bumps skittered down Mandy’s back as the driver stepped out.

His lean, five-ten stature wasn’t especially intimidating—Mandy had dealt with her fair share of buff gangsters in the twenty-plus years she’d spent on the Chicago police force. The neat side part in his light-brown hair and his pastel-blue button-down gave him the air of a salesperson or an office manager. To Mandy, the business casual was another tick in the not-so-intimidating box.

All his nonchalance ended when her eyes reached his. They’d met once previously, but Mandy had hoped the unnerving sentiment from that encounter would dissipate now that she knew a bit more about him.

To her dismay, she quickly realized she was wrong.

Something was off about this man. His steely eyes were like staring into a portrait. There was a critical aspect missing…Mandy had witnessed that quality before in her career as a Chicago homicide detective, and it sure as hell wasn’t what she’d wanted in the man she’d hired to avenge Saul’s death.

The man’s lips curved into the slightest smile as he approached Mandy’s patch of shade. “Good afternoon. Such a beautiful day, is it not?” A thick Russian accent tinged his words, but he was still articulate.

Mandy snorted. “Wouldn’t call it that. And you’re Russian. This heat must be killing you.”

Pausing at the edge of the shade cast by the tree at Mandy’s back, he shrugged. “Where I am from, we also have summer. It is not this hot, but still, not so different.”

Now you’re making small talk about the weather with a Russian assassin. There’s nothing fucked-up about this…

Weeks ago, deep in the throes of grief from losing Saul, Mandy had scoured her brain for any method to alleviate the intense heartache. Each time, she’d circled back to the same solution—revenge. Make someone else suffer the way she suffered.

Her husband had been a kind man, quick with a joke and just as quick with a smile. He’d always been the light to Mandy’s darkness, but without him around to shine, she’d folded in on herself like a black hole.

It wasn’t that she didn’t know the difference between right and wrong. Life on the streets had blurred the lines in order for her to survive. But the kindness Saul had shown her had reinforced that there was goodness deep within her. She didn’t want to let down her late husband, but she also hated Amelia for her role in Saul’s death.

For someone determined to avenge a loved one, the entire process should’ve been simple. Hire a contract killer and point them to the problem. Mandy knew enough about homicide investigations to avoid being caught, and barring that, she had more than enough money from Saul’s will to drop off the face of the planet. Living out the rest of her years in Panama didn’t sound half bad.

But here she was. Her guts twisting in knots as she stood face-to-face with a man who was missing a vital piece of his humanity.

All so she could put out a hit on Amelia Storm, one of the federal agents who’d taken down Dr. Lou Sherman. There had been others involved in the case, too, but Amelia was the one Mandy had settled on. According to one of Mandy’s contacts at the Bureau, Amelia’s boyfriend, Special Agent Zane Palmer, had also been involved with the investigation. Perhaps forcing Palmer to cope with the same level of grief and hurt would bring Mandy some semblance of closure.

Or maybe it’s all pointless.

Mandy pulled a flash drive from her pocket and held it up for the Russian to view. “Here. You wanted information, and I got it. Everything I can find is on this. I’m sure you can handle filling in the gaps.”

With a wolfish grin, he accepted the flash drive. “I am sure.”

Mandy raised a hand. “One thing. You don’t do anything without my authorization, understood? I’ll tell you when I want this done.”

“Yes, of course. As long as payment clears, I will follow your orders.”

Mandy kept her expression neutral, though she wanted nothing more than to glower at the arrogant prick. “The check will clear. Trust me.”

His fake pleasant smile returned. “Then you have nothing to worry about. Is that all?”

The weight of the handgun tucked beneath her arm was more noticeable as she shifted her stance and met the Russian’s eyes. It was just a gut feeling, but the man’s presence unnerved her. “Yes. That’s all.”

Waving his free hand, he spun around on his heel. “I will be in touch.”

You’d better be.

She swallowed the snarky comment as he climbed into his car.

As certain as she’d been about traversing the path of vengeance, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something missing. Something…wrong.

All she could hope now was that it wouldn’t come back around to bite her in the ass.

30

The hiss of sprinkling water drew Amelia’s attention toward the wall of produce. Though there were plenty of people pushing carts and carrying baskets around the store, their mid-afternoon timing meant the place wasn’t crowded. Too late for lunch and too early for dinner errands.

Dean had untucked his dress shirt and abandoned his suit jacket and tie, but Amelia was still worried they’d stick out from the other patrons.

Their plan was to walk through the store to get a feel for the place before locating a manager. Amelia had tasked Dean with carrying a basket while she pretended to search for items on a list on her phone. Since they weren’t quite sure who they were searching for—aside from the description Kristen Russell had given them—they didn’t want to risk spooking the man. If he was in the store and spotted them, he’d have ample time to disappear into the woodwork.

So what exactly were they hoping to find? As Amelia and Dean left the produce section for the middle of the store, they turned into an aisle filled with chips and snacks. About twelve feet in, Amelia’s gaze shot up to a dark bubble on the ceiling.

Security camera footage? Witnesses? If all the victims had visited the store in the days leading up to the fires, then what did that mean for the killer? Was he a store employee, or was he simply another customer who’d come across the victims while he was out shopping? Perhaps he’d used the store as his hunting ground knowing the residents he was targeting were likely to shop at the neighborhood grocer.

Quite frankly, he could be anyone. At least they had a loose description.

Doing her best to ignore a pessimistic sinking in her stomach, Amelia gestured in the direction of the customer service desk. “Suppose we ought to grab a manager?”

Dean’s eyes followed her gesture. “Yeah.”

As they made their way out of the aisle past a closed register and toward the customer service desk, Amelia scanned the employees occupied with their various tasks. Though Kristen Russell’s description of the perpetrator wasn’t the most thorough, it was still useful to narrow down the suspect pool. So far in their trip, Amelia hadn’t noticed any employees who matched the light-haired, bearded appearance.

A young, college-aged man, with short, strawberry-blond hair and a neatly trimmed moustache turned away from where he’d been sorting through a pile of receipts. Amelia eyed him a moment, knowing their unsub, who also had reddish-blond hair, could’ve shaved his beard and gotten a haircut, but he didn’t sport any injuries to his forehead or hands. With a smile, he made his way to the register. “Hello, how can I help you?”

Glancing at the man’s name tag, which read Lawrence W., Manager, Amelia replied with a reassuring smile. “Hello, we actually need to speak to a manager. Looks like we’re in luck.”

“You are. What can I do for you?”

Amelia retrieved her badge from the back pocket of her slacks, flipped it open, and slid it across the counter before introducing them both.

As Dean followed suit, Lawrence’s posture stiffened. To his credit, the surprise didn’t register in his expression. An ability no doubt honed from dealing with countless angry customers.

Lawrence swallowed. “Okay. If you guys want to follow me, we can talk in the managers’ office. Or right here. I’ll leave that up to you.”

Dean pocketed his badge. “Office, if you don’t mind. We’re trying not to turn our presence here into a big ordeal, so we’d appreciate the discretion.”

“Of course.” Lawrence turned and beckoned to a young woman who was busy sorting through a bin of merchandise at the other end of the desk. “Hey, Anne, I’ve got to do something for a few minutes. Just radio me if you need anything, okay?”

The woman flashed Lawrence a thumbs-up. “Gotcha. Will do.”

Brushing off the front of his button-down shirt, Lawrence made his way out from behind the desk. “All right, you guys can follow me.”

Amelia and Dean fell in line behind the athletically built man. They passed a handful of other employees on the trek to the other side of the store, and Lawrence greeted them with impressively nonchalant nods and waves. The man was a pro.

As they reached a door marked Office, Lawrence produced a key ring, unlocked the handle, and ushered Amelia and Dean into the modest space. The only decor on the walls were the standard OSHA printouts, as well as overtime and hourly wage law postings. A desk faced the door, and its surface was home to just a computer monitor and keyboard. Along with the sheer amount of utilitarian beige, the space was the most impersonal office Amelia had ever visited.

Once the door latched, Dean cleared his throat. “Thanks for that, Lawrence. My partner and I are following up on a lead that pointed us toward this grocery store. I’m sure you’re aware of the spree of fatal arsons that have been occurring in Falcon Point and Highfield, yes?”

Lawrence moved beside the desk but didn’t sit. “Yeah. I think everyone who lives here is. I get customers talking about it all the time. Everyone’s pretty freaked out. Wait, wasn’t there another fire the night before last?”

“There was.” Dean retrieved a small notebook from his pocket. “Fortunately, all the residents got out safely. We’re here because we’re following up on all the victims’ routines in the days before they were attacked.”

It was highly unlikely Lawrence would recognize the victims, much less recall an interaction with them. Amelia retrieved her cell anyway and pulled up a photo of Kristen Russell. Kristen’s visit was the most recent, and if any of the victims were fresh in Lawrence’s mind, it would be her.

Amelia held out her phone for Lawrence. “Do you know this woman?”

Hunching forward, Lawrence peered down at the screen. Recognition lit up in his expression almost immediately. “Wait, yeah, I do. I can’t really remember her name…” He tapped his temple. “Carrie? Kristie? Something like that.”

Hope built in Amelia’s chest. “Kristen.”

Lawrence snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Kristen. She shops here. Comes in with her sons a lot. I don’t remember customers all that well unless they’re regulars at the customer service desk, but one of her kids tried to steal a pack of batteries.”

Kristen had mentioned the attempted shoplifting in her statement, but until now, it hadn’t struck Amelia as a viable lead. “Do you have any video footage of the shoplifting incident?”

“Yeah, actually. There should be. They keep all those types of videos stored. I can pull that up if you give me a few minutes.”

Amelia wasn’t quite sure what they hoped to glean from the footage, but having the video couldn’t hurt. “That would be very helpful.”

Dean scrawled out a couple of notes. “Before you do that, we’d also like to know if you noticed anyone who might’ve been following Kristen Russell and her son. Anyone, including an employee, who seemed like they may have taken an unusual interest in them.”

Scratching his cheek, Lawrence appeared thoughtful. “I…I’m not sure, honestly. Personally, I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary, but that’s just me.”

In a grocery store this large, Amelia would’ve been more surprised if Lawrence had recalled a specific detail. “All right. Would it be possible for you to send us a list of everyone who’s employed here, along with an employee schedule for the last week?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” His expression grew somber. “Wait, you don’t think the person killing those people is someone who works here, do you?”

“Like I said, we’re following every lead at this point.” Dean’s tone was calm, even a bit reassuring. “We’d appreciate it if you don’t mention our visit to anyone. We know this is something that’s very impactful to the community, and we’d like to avoid starting a witch hunt or anything similar.”

Lawrence took a deep breath. “That makes sense. Okay, I won’t say anything to anyone.”

“Great. We do have a description of the perpetrator. He’s light-haired, seems to be in his early twenties. Around five-eight.”

Lawrence gave a dubious smile. “Quite a few of us, if I’m honest. Like me.” A nervous titter emitted from his mouth before he managed to compose himself. “I can pull up all that footage for you and you can see for yourself.”

“We’d appreciate that.”

After supplying Lawrence with a list of the dates all the impacted families had shopped at the store, Lawrence gathered the relevant video footage from each visit.

Armed with renewed hope, Amelia and Dean raced back to the field office.

31

Twisting her head side to side to stretch out her neck, Amelia scanned the collection of photos laid out in the center of the oval table. In the more than six hours since returning from their trip to Anderson’s, Amelia and Dean had taken turns researching the employees of the grocery store and reviewing the video footage Lawrence Wheeler had provided.

They alternated between gathering information on the employees who were close to the physical description Kristen Russell had provided and reviewing surveillance footage. Amelia felt they’d maintain their focus and not miss any pertinent details if they alternated between tasks.

After pulling state ID and driver’s license photos, they’d pared the list down. Since a beard could easily be shaved, they didn’t include facial hair in their search. When it was all said and done, they were left with fourteen light-haired white men who ranged in age from eighteen to thirty-six. Kristen Russell had described the man who’d come to her door in the CCN uniform as potentially being in his late-twenties and six inches taller than her five-three frame, so they’d stuck to individuals who could match the approximation.

Across from Amelia, Dean blew out a long sigh. “Fourteen matches. I’m thinking once we’ve had a chance to look at each of these guys a little closer, we ought to take our short list and make a photo lineup for Kristen Russell.”

Amelia studied the photos. “Agreed, as long as we acknowledge that it might not be the most reliable identification. But combining what we have from her description of the CCN technician and the man she fought in her kitchen, she might be able to help us.”

“Right.” Dean scratched his cheek and leaned back in his chair. “My eyes are going a bit buggy. Any chance you’d be willing to look at the videos for a while?”

“Happy to. Where’d you leave off?

“Why don’t you jump to the Russell kid’s shoplifting incident?”

“Will do.” Amelia scrolled through the date stamps until she found the appropriate footage.

As she pressed play, she almost laughed at how awkward Brendon Russell appeared. From the higher vantage point of the camera, she could tell that each time he checked his phone, he was viewing a black screen. Hopefully, his failure to pilfer a pack of batteries from a grocery store—and the subsequent embarrassment—would keep Brendon from attempting any larger thefts in the future.

A woman and her husband passed by the teen, but neither of them paid him any mind. Rather than focus on the theft that was about to be committed, Amelia kept her attention on the background. As the seconds ticked by, she realized Brendon wasn’t the only one pretending to be nonchalant.

“Hey, come look at this.”

Dean rolled his chair next to Amelia’s as she tapped her screen. “See that guy in the background? The one stocking the juice?”

“It doesn’t really look like he’s doing a whole lot.”

Amelia paused the footage, noting that the employee was kneeling in the exact same position he’d been in at the start of the video. “No, it doesn’t. I don’t think he’s stocked anything. He’s looking directly at Brendon Russell. And the employee has a beard and meets the general description we’re working from.”

Dean lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah, he does. Do you think he was suspicious of what the kid was up to?”

“Could be. Except I’ve read the shoplifting report so many times, it’ll be part of my dreams tonight.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re going to get any sleep.” Dean nudged Amelia, and her arm dropped off the armrest.

“Bite your tongue. Anyway, the shoplifting report was taken by one of the store’s assistant managers, Monique Arnold. So whoever this employee is, he’s not the one who filed it.”

“Interesting. Let’s see what else he does. Play it back from the beginning.”

Amelia returned to the video and dragged it back to the start. The duration was a hair over two minutes, and this time, she kept her attention on the seemingly sidetracked stocker.

As Brendon faked checking his cell for the second and then the third time, the stocker finally moved. Amelia assumed he was about to retrieve the first bottle of juice he’d shelved since the beginning of the video, but to her surprise, the man produced a smartphone from his pocket.

Either this guy’s the ultimate slacker, or…

Before Amelia could finish the thought, the man lifted his cell, the front of the device pointed toward Brendon.

“What the hell? The stocker took a photo, but there weren’t any pictures in the report. Why is he taking pictures of Brendon Russell if they aren’t part of the shoplifting report?”

“That’s a great question.” Dean leaned forward to peer at the employee photos in the center of the table. “Let’s see if we can put a name to our guy. This video isn’t bad, quality-wise, so…” He paused and snatched up one of the photos at the edge of the collection. “It’s this guy. Must be. Name’s Tyler Bernard.”

He passed the print to Amelia, and a surge of excitement rushed through her. In the photo, Tyler Bernard’s expression was deadpan. His reddish-blond hair was cut short but was long enough that a few strands brushed his eyebrows. According to Kristen Russell, the style was an approximate match to the man who’d broken into her home.

In addition, Bernard sported a neatly trimmed beard. The photo had been taken when he’d obtained his learner’s permit three years earlier, at age twenty-five, but the security camera footage indicated Bernard still had a beard. It wasn’t unusual these days for young adults not to bother getting their driver’s license, but Amelia made a mental note to see if Bernard’s life circumstances had dictated the situation instead of being a life choice.

Propping his photo up against her laptop screen, Amelia minimized the video feed while opening a new tab on her browser. “Let’s see what we can find on this Mr. Bernard.”

32

As I lifted the gas can into the back of my grandpa’s beat-up SUV, I allowed myself a moment to admire the day’s planning. Though I had to rest for most of the day after that crazy bitch attacked me with a baseball bat, I’d used the afternoon wisely.

After pulling up the floor plans of the Juniper Row condominiums from their sales listing, I’d studied the printout to make sure I was familiar with all the entrances and exits. Once the pounding in my head had subsided, I’d traveled far outside of Falcon Point to a hardware store to restock my inventory of locks and shims. While shims weren’t exactly traceable, those locks could be. I wouldn’t take any chances.

Since these were individual condos with shared walls and smaller footprints than the single-family homes I’d been burning to the ground, I was confident I could secure the windows and alternate exits.

Once I spread the gasoline, I’ll light the match, get out, and secure my exit door…and let the flames begin.

Frustration and anger over my failure to take out even one of the Russells had driven me to escalate. I wasn’t naive. I’d be caught eventually. But before that happened, I was going to inflict as much suffering as I could.

My plan had seemed simple enough when I’d come up with it. I would set a huge fire inside the Estrada condo. Not only would it kill the occupants, I was banking on the fire being so big, it would quickly spread to neighboring units and take out even more people.

I’d trap the Estradas the same way I had the others. Secure locks on the windows and shim the doors. Hopefully the fire would get so big that anyone living on the three floors above would be trapped.

With any luck, the occupants of all sixteen units would die.

Although my goal was to wipe out everyone in the complex, my number one target was the Estrada family. I’d overheard the family planning a sweet sixteen birthday party for their precious little Dawn.

I’d never had a birthday party, “sweet” or otherwise.

Hearing Dawn and her mom go on about the details of the party had made me feel like I was gonna hurl. They’d even fought about what the centerpiece for each table should be.

Center. Pieces. Unbelievable?

Screw that.

The Estradas, all three of them, needed to feel the heat as the flames closed in. Maybe that would give them a reality check on what truly mattered. News flash, it wasn’t a freaking centerpiece.

Steadying my breathing, I returned my focus to planning.

I still hadn’t worked out the best location to brush on my trademark symbol, but I’d figure it out before I left Juniper Row.

This shit was on a grand scale, and my nerves were off the charts. It was exhilarating. I couldn’t say for sure how I knew my plan would work, but I felt it in my bones that it’d go off without a hitch.

If you’re there, God, be great if you could have my back.

I laughed at the thought as I shut the hatch of the SUV.

Excitement tingling in my veins, I climbed into the driver’s seat, fired up the engine, and rolled down the windows. Staring at a floorplan was one way to memorize the layout, but I still needed to see the place for myself. It wouldn’t be long before it was dark, and I could do some scouting.

Before shifting the SUV into gear, I grabbed my cell from the cup holder and pulled up an image of Dawn Estrada and her mother. Both women wore wide smiles, and Dawn’s t-shirt had something to do with a fundraiser for cancer prevention.

What the fuck.

These people with their fucking centerpieces always liked to pretend they were helping the less fortunate. Meanwhile, they were planning extravagant parties for spoiled teenage brats and probably their damn dogs and who knew what. If they really cared about those in need, they’d spend their money on causes that mattered. Not stupid centerpieces and engraved invitations.

I’d lived in the shadows of cretins like the Estradas for my entire life. And I was done. Finished. Finito, bitches.

Tonight, they would learn what it meant to suffer.

33

Amelia and Dean hadn’t gotten past the grocery store videos of Tyler Bernard when Sherry and Layton returned to the incident room. While Dean continued digging into Bernard’s background, Amelia paused the video and took the opportunity to update the two on what they’d discovered.

She had surveillance footage of Bernard with Dane Osborne pulled up. The videos didn’t record sound, but it appeared Dane had asked for help in finding a product.

An employee crossing paths with customers was hardly a smoking gun. But their review of the encounters between the victims and Bernard had also captured him covertly snapping photos of them with his phone.

Layton rubbed his chin as his eyes fixed on the paused video on Amelia’s laptop. “Provided this is our guy, him taking photos of the victims makes perfect sense. These photos could be his trophies. We think he’s a variation of a family annihilator, but it’s clear he has several tendencies that are consistent with those of a serial killer. He might look back on the photos to relive the crime in some capacity.”

With all the damage that had been done to the five houses, it had been difficult to discern whether anything was missing. Serial killers were often known to take an item from their victim, or even a piece of the victim themselves, such as a strand of hair or a finger. In one case Amelia had worked near the beginning of the year, the killer had taken the victims’ eyeballs and stored them in jars.

Obviously, the man who’d set the five houses ablaze wouldn’t be able to cut an appendage off any of his victims. But a photo was much easier to obtain.

“Hold on.” For the first time since they’d gotten back, Dean’s attention shifted away from his computer and over to Amelia. “I think I’ve got something. Here, let me go through what I’ve looked at so far. I ran a background check on Bernard, and his record is clean. No priors, not even as a juvenile.”

At Amelia’s side, Layton shrugged. “It’s certainly possible. Not every serial has a documented history of violence before they make their first kill.”

“Right.” Dean gestured to his computer screen. “But recalling his fixation on families, I checked the criminal history of his family. Based on the number of arrests in his parents’ backgrounds—most of which were for possession of a controlled substance or drunk driving—it’s safe to say both Dustin and Kelly Bernard battled addiction.”

Amelia clicked away from the videos and opened a tab on her browser until she was viewing the same information as Dean. “Wow, okay. Kelly got popped four times in two years for drunk driving, driving without a license, without insurance, the whole gambit. Dustin wasn’t much better off. He got caught with meth once and did about six months for it.”

“That seems short.”

“Good behavior, and it was a nonviolent offence. Guess the decision-makers decided he wasn’t a menace to society. But then about a year after that, he was pulled over driving drunk.”

Dean scrolled farther down through the criminal reports. “From what I can tell, the two of them got married because Kelly got pregnant. She had Tyler when she was seventeen and Dustin was twenty-five. Illinois doesn’t permit marriage for anyone under eighteen unless they’ve got parental consent, so I’m betting as soon as Kelly turned eighteen, they got married. Tyler was fourteen months old, and that’s around the time Kelly got pregnant with her second kid, a daughter.”

Amelia raised her eyebrow. “A daughter? She’d be about two years younger than Tyler, right?”

“She would be, but she died. Her name was Lily.” Dean flicked his gaze between the others. “You know how she died? A fire. And this is one of the fires that came up in my research earlier, but I’d ignored it because the cops suspected the father was the one who set the fire, though they couldn’t prove it. And I think that’s why this didn’t raise suspicion for me earlier. Dustin didn’t fit our profile, since he’d be too old now. Besides, he’s dead.” Dean ran his hand over his face. “But if I’d followed up on this, maybe I could’ve stopped him.”

Sherry held her hand up. “Stop. You had no reason to think that fire was relevant.”

“Yeah, well, it certainly seems like it was very relevant. The cops’ theory was that Tyler’s dad was trying to set the place on fire for the insurance money.” Dean pushed away from the table as if he wanted to distance himself from the information.

“Insurance money? The guy set his house on fire and killed his daughter for insurance money?” Lip curled in disgust, Sherry shook her head. “It’s like he wanted his son to turn into a damn serial killer. How’d he die?”

“A few years after the fire, Tyler’s mom shot him with a twelve-gauge. Then she took a bottle of sleeping pills and downed a fifth of vodka.” Dean grimaced. “Tyler’s the one who found both bodies when he was thirteen.”

“Jesus Christ. That’d screw anyone up.”

Though part of Amelia’s heart broke for the little boy Tyler Bernard had been, if he was responsible for killing nine people, then the person he’d become was unforgivable. She’d learned early on in life that the world was comprised of shades of gray, and nothing was ever black and white. Not even with serial killers.

It was tragic that Bernard had been forced to endure such unimaginable circumstances at his young age, but Amelia could feel empathy for the little boy and still be disgusted by the man he’d become. The vast majority of folks who suffered abuse in their formative years grew into functional, empathetic adults. Not mass murdering psychopaths.

Layton adjusted his glasses. “That dysfunctional home life is part of the profile we have for our killer. We discussed that if he was a pseudo-family annihilator, he might not have access to the family members who were the real focus of his rage. Certainly, his whole family being dead fits that.”

Amelia got up and began pacing. Sometimes, especially when they were working at night, it helped clear her head if she kept moving. “I think we need to send Kristen Russell a photo of Tyler Bernard and see if she recognizes him. If we can get a positive ID, then we can get a warrant for him.”

Dean had rolled back to his spot by his laptop and resumed his research into Tyler Bernard and his family. “He doesn’t have any vehicles registered in his name and only has that learner’s permit from three years ago. There’s no record he ever received his full license.”

“How’s he getting around if he can’t drive?” Layton asked.

“What’s he using? A magic carpet?” Sherry pressed her lips together.

“I didn’t say he can’t drive. Only that he’s not legally registered to drive. Big difference.” Dean flashed a smile at Sherry. “And Tyler has a grandfather named Craig Bernard who’s been in a nursing home for about three years, and just happens to own a white 2003 Ford Explorer. Doesn’t seem like much of a stretch for Tyler to get his hands on it.” He tapped his fingers on his keyboard. “And the license plate is consistent with the few digits we’ve gotten from our witnesses so far.”

Amelia’s phone buzzed, and she checked the screen. “That was quick.” She swiped the device to unlock it and read the text. “Kristen Russell said the picture I texted her looks like the person who came to her door posing as the internet technician and also the one she hit with a baseball bat.”

Sherry hunched over her laptop, typing fast. “Everything’s pointing to Tyler Bernard right now. I’m submitting a request for an arrest warrant. With Kristen Russell’s tentative identification, tying him to the white SUV, him fitting the profile, and of course having him on video photographing the victims…” Her fingers flew across the keys before striking enter with a flourish. “Okay. Warrant request submitted.”

Amelia rapped her knuckles on the conference table before beginning to pack up her belongings. “The schedule provided by the manager from Anderson’s indicates Bernard should be off work right now.”

Dean pushed his chair away from the table. “All right. While we’re waiting on that warrant, let’s go see what this guy’s like in person.”

For the past fifteen minutes of the drive to Falcon Point, Amelia had been deep in thought. Reflecting on Tyler Bernard’s upbringing and the loss he’d suffered as a child, she understood how a little boy without guidance could get on the wrong path.

As the car slowed to a stop at the end of an off-ramp, Amelia realized how close they’d gotten to their destination.

Dean turned to Amelia. “Welcome back to earth. Something on your mind?”

“Oh, just the usual stuff. Eight-year-old boy loses his younger sister to a fire set by their dad. Then loses both parents in a murder-suicide. Even now, his only living relative is in a memory care facility.” She sighed. “You know, just contemplating the life of your typical boy next door.”

As they pulled into the parking lot of Bernard’s sprawling apartment complex, Amelia swept her gaze over the cars, searching for a white SUV. She spotted a red Jeep, a black Tahoe, and a handful of trucks, but there was no white Explorer to be found.

Shifting the car into Park, Dean killed the engine. “All right, this is it.”

“No white SUV, but it could be parked in one of those garages behind the building.” She wasn’t sure who would bother to spend the extra cash to keep a twenty-year-old SUV in a garage, but different people had different priorities in life. Maybe Bernard hated scraping snow and ice off his windows in the winter or shoveling out the SUV after plows buried it where it was parked. Or maybe he wanted to keep his serial killer mobile hidden from the law.

Of course, it could just be as simple as Bernard wasn’t home.

The faint buzz of cicadas greeted Amelia as she stepped onto the asphalt, the sound serving as a reminder that they were deep in the throes of summer. Personally, she couldn’t wait for the season to be over. She’d spent her fair share of time in the heat back when she’d been in the military. Coupled with the sense of foreboding that had been building in her gut for the past twenty minutes, part of her didn’t feel all that distant from a war zone.

Neither Amelia nor Dean spoke as they made their way into the apartment building and up a set of steps. The faint scent of pine hung in the air, and the carpet was just as clean and well-maintained as the landscaping outside.

Nearing the door labeled 205, Amelia retrieved her badge.

Dean glanced at her and knocked heavily against the wooden surface.

Though Tyler Bernard’s guilt wasn’t confirmed, she was still prepared to reach for her service weapon if the situation went south.

When the rap of Dean’s knuckles was greeted with silence, the tension in Amelia’s shoulders tightened.

This had better not be Andrew Cottage all over again.

Days had gone by before they managed to get in touch with Cottage, and if the same occurred for Bernard, Amelia thought she might lose her damn mind.

Jaw tightening, Dean knocked again.

Movement at the stairs drew Amelia’s attention to a woman carrying a couple of bags of groceries. When her gaze landed on Amelia and Dean, her expression grew curious.

Amelia turned to the woman and flipped open her badge. “Excuse me, miss. I’m Special Agent Amelia Storm with the FBI. This is my partner, Special Agent Dean Steelman. We’re looking for Tyler Bernard. Do you happen to know if he’s here?”

The instant the letters FBI left Amelia’s lips, the woman’s eyes shot to her badge. “Um, the guy who lives in 205? I’m not sure. I don’t know him, not really. He’s…he’s weird.”

Dean’s head swiveled toward the woman. “Weird how?”

The woman gnawed on her bottom lip. “I…I don’t know. He’s kind of inconsiderate. He ran into me one day and just kept going, didn’t say anything. I thought it was rude, and I’ve just kind of avoided him since then. I just figured he was probably a jerk, you know?”

Amelia smiled. “Yeah. I’ve met people like that.”

She shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound judgmental. I don’t really talk to my neighbors. We all keep to ourselves. It’s just that one interaction I had with the guy from 205…you said his name is Tyler? Kind of soured my view of him, I guess.”

Dean pocketed his badge. “I don’t suppose you know if he left recently?”

“Actually, yeah.” The woman perked up. “I remember him leaving at the same time I did. I’ve only been gone for about an hour, so he’d have left an hour ago.”

Amelia rechecked the employee schedule Lawrence Wheeler had given them to reconfirm Bernard wasn’t on it. Typically, he worked mornings. “He’s definitely not on the schedule this evening.”

As Amelia and Dean thanked the woman for her time, they took off back down the stairs.

“All right, so.” Dean pulled the driver’s side door closed. “Tyler’s not home. He left an hour ago, he shouldn’t be at work, and we don’t know where he went.”

Fastening her seat belt, Amelia retrieved her cell. “While we’re waiting on the arrest warrant, I’m going to get a hold of CPD and have them put out a BOLO for Craig Bernard’s SUV.”

Dean sighed. “That’s about all we can do right now. Would’ve been nice to sit down and have a conversation with the guy, though. The waiting game is not my forte.”

Amelia held back her own sigh. Deep down, she suspected they were in the calm of the storm, and that the period of quiet was about to end.

34

Stepping onto the curb, Amelia peered out at the Juniper Row condo building, the parking lot of which was kitty-corner to the witness’s house. Despite being woken from a sound sleep shortly after one in the morning, her senses were on high alert as she took in her surroundings.

Chicago PD had gotten a tip about a white SUV that matched the BOLO Amelia had requested a few hours earlier. All the agents had been summoned to the scene, but Amelia didn’t have many details. She hated going into a situation without more information, but her time in the military had taught her how to adapt to any eventuality.

The squad car parked in front of Dean’s car was empty, its lights dark. Amelia was glad the police had yet to make their presence known. If the killer was in the area, they wanted to avoid giving him any indication they were onto him.

A pair of uniformed officers and a middle-aged man stood near the spacious front porch, a neat array of flowers at their backs. As Amelia stepped onto the lawn, she and Dean both held up their badges. Though it could’ve been Amelia’s imagination, she swore the younger of the two officers was relieved as they rattled off their introductions.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Sergeant Landon Hale, and this is Officer Vince Calderon. We just got here a few minutes ago and were wrapping up Mr. Yang’s statement.” The sergeant gestured to the middle-aged, pajama-clad man. “He was telling us that the driver of the white SUV went into the Juniper Row condo building about ten minutes before we got here. It doesn’t look like he’s come out yet.”

Mr. Yang shook his head. “No, he hasn’t. Look, you can see the SUV parked in the corner back there, next to the red truck.”

As the man pointed toward the lot, Amelia followed his outstretched finger. Sure enough, next to a shiny red pickup was the white Explorer for which they’d been searching.

Dean opened his mouth to speak but stopped short as a familiar sedan pulled up across the street. The white glow of the streetlight made Sherry’s ash-blond hair seem almost silver as she and Layton hurried over to their little gathering. Once the two had introduced themselves, they turned their collective attention back to the Explorer.

Sherry rubbed her hands together. “All right, so he’s been inside the building for, what, fifteen minutes total? Maybe twenty, at the most?”

Mr. Yang bobbed his head. “Right. I saw that SUV driving around the neighborhood earlier, and it just seemed…off. I’ve always been a night owl, and something in my gut told me to keep an eye out. I’m probably just paranoid from everything I’ve been hearing in the news.”

“It’s good to keep eyes and ears open,” Amelia assured him.

He sighed. “When the SUV showed back up a little bit ago, I saw someone go in the condo. They were carrying something with them, but I couldn’t quite tell what it was. It seemed a little weird, since it was one in the morning and I’ve never seen that car around here before. So I called the police nonemergency line. Honestly, I was surprised when the officers showed up so quickly. And now the FBI…” The man swallowed, his wary gaze fluttering to the condo building and back.

If the suspect had entered the building even as few as fifteen minutes ago, what did that mean for the residents? At all the previous scenes, there had clearly been a substantial amount of setup involved before the killer had lit the actual fires.

Was he targeting the whole condo building or just one family residing there? If it was the whole thing, Amelia wondered if he’d even be able to block all the exit points on the ground floor.

The Lao Tzu quote reminded her of a basic truth in battle. “There is no greater danger than underestimating your opponent.”

One thing was for sure. They needed to get inside. He might already be dousing the place with gasoline.

There was no time to waste. If they didn’t hurry, the killer could turn the entire building into an inferno in minutes.

35

Leaning back in her chair—the brand-new gaming chair her mom had given her as an early sweet sixteen present—Dawn Estrada stretched her arms above her head until her back popped. Though her eyes had grown tired of staring at the computer screen, she couldn’t find the willpower to pull herself away.

She’d had the game for more than six months, but the developers had just released a new patch the previous day, and Dawn was in love. The futuristic shooter had been one of her favorites ever since she’d picked it up, and she hadn’t expected to find a way to like it even more.

Yet here she was. It was the summer before her junior year of high school, and she was spending almost all of it in front of a computer screen, gaming her little heart out. Plenty of folks would consider it a less-than-ideal way to spend the next month and a half, but Dawn enjoyed it. She wasn’t exactly the outdoorsy type, and neither were her parents. They were a family of nerds.

Smiling at the thought, Dawn prepared to queue up for her next match. As her hand hovered over the mouse, a faint clatter sounded through her headphones.

Shit. Did I wake up Dad?

Dawn kept her door closed and did her best to remain quiet after her parents went to bed, but part of her always worried she’d wake her mom. Her dad? Not so much. The man could sleep through a tornado.

Since both her parents were also gamers, she was sure they’d understand and wouldn’t be upset, but Dawn didn’t want to be inconsiderate. Her parents had raised her better than that. And they worked hard to provide a nice life for her.

Gritting her teeth, she pulled off the headphones, spun away from her desk, and paused to listen to the quiet house. Her mom had just left on a business trip, so it was just Dawn and her dad. As she strained her hearing, she caught the faint scuffle of footsteps headed away from her room.

Had her dad come to ask her to tone it down but changed his mind? That didn’t make any sense, but then again, half-asleep people made some strange decisions.

Oh, well. I need to refill my water anyway. If Dad’s awake, I’ll apologize.

Grabbing her water bottle, Dawn pushed to her feet. As she made her way to the door, a new, strange odor mingled with the mango scent of Dawn’s candle warmer.

Is that…gasoline?

Her grip on the water bottle tightened, and her mouth went dry. Falcon Point was typically a quiet area, but lately, there’d been a slew of news articles about the rampage of a serial arsonist. From what Dawn understood, the man targeted families who lived in houses, not apartments or condos.

But that could change.

She couldn’t say for sure what part of her brain compelled her to open the bedroom door, but the instant she did, the scent of gasoline rushed up to greet her like a linebacker. Her eyes hadn’t fully adjusted from the brightness of her computer monitor, but she didn’t need to see the hallway to know something was terribly wrong.

Spinning around, Dawn rushed back into her bedroom to where she’d left her cell on her computer desk.

She made it one step before a hand clamped around her long ponytail and jerked her backward into the hallway. As Dawn let out a yelp of surprise, some of the strands ripped away from her scalp with tiny lightning bolts of pain. Arms flailing, she slapped at the wall as she tried to regain her balance and wrench herself away from her attacker all at the same time.

The bottoms of her feet felt cold and wet, and even though her brain was in full fight-or-flight mode, she knew without a doubt she’d just stepped in gasoline.

As the hand jerked her backward again and again, yanking her down the hall outside her bedroom, Dawn’s foot squished in the puddle of gasoline on the carpet. The backward momentum caused her to crumple to the floor, ass first. Despite the adrenaline burning in her veins, she registered the painful blow to her tailbone and the gasoline soaking into her sweatpants.

Her mind was a jumble of panicked thoughts, none of which landed long enough to help her. She’d always wanted to learn self-defense, but she’d never expected to be thrust into a situation where she’d need the skill before she’d attained it.

Out of options, Dawn did the only thing she could.

She screamed.

36

Turning back to Mr. Yang, Amelia offered the witness a smile in spite of the tension building in her muscles. “We appreciate your diligence, Mr. Yang. You can head back inside your house now. We’ll take everything from here. Just to be safe, go ahead and lock your doors.”

Wariness was evident in the man’s expression. “Okay, I’ll do that. Thank you.”

Once he retreated to the safety of his home, Amelia turned back to the small group. “I think we have enough information to act like he’s in that building right now.”

“I agree.” Layton pulled out his cell. “Better safe than sorry. We also want to avoid tipping him off to our presence here. It’s doubtful he’s noticed us. He’d have to be looking out the windows of one of the condos facing this direction. But still, we should move quickly, before he gets a chance to do just that.”

Sergeant Hale rested both hands on his duty belt. “All right, what do you need from us?”

Considering that the unsub had free reign over the condo so far, there was no telling what he’d set up, blocked off, or even doused in gasoline. “Let’s play it safe. Sergeant, could you and some of your officers head to the upper floors of the condo building? It’s four stories, so we’ll want to evacuate from the top down. Make sure the groggy residents understand they need to take the exterior exits and not go down the stairs inside. They have to use the fire exits.”

Expression determined, Sergeant Hale tapped the radio on his shoulder. “We can do that. I’ll notify my team and make sure they go about it as quietly as they can.”

Dean brushed a few wayward strands of hair away from his forehead. “Then we need to get over there and try to find this guy. If he isn’t in any units we check on the ground level, we’ll advise the occupants to evacuate. We don’t know where he went, but his M.O. seems to focus on the ground floor, so that’s the best place to start.”

“Sounds right.” Layton pulled his cell from one of the pockets of his dark FBI jacket. “I’ll get ahold of the fire department while we head over. Have them arrive with no sirens or lights, just like the officers.”

Unease curled in Amelia’s stomach, though the hastily concocted plan was no doubt their best option. If they were all in the building and the killer noticed them, what would he do? Had he spread gasoline in one of the units, several of them, or had he stuck to the hallways?

It was possible his favored target was a family who lived on the third or fourth story. Was he here to take out the entire condominium building, or did he have a specific resident in mind? Dean’s plan was solid, so they’d check the ground floor first.

As Amelia fell in line next to Dean, they took off across the street at a trot. Aside from the distant hum of interstate traffic, the night was still.

The faint glow of a television screen flickered in a window on the third floor, and lights glowed in a couple windows on the second. Otherwise, all the other condos facing the parking lot were dark, the residents likely fast asleep at the late hour. They were woefully unprepared for the threat that had crept into their midst. For those sleeping, there was no telling if they’d have enough of a warning to escape if Tyler Bernard started a fire.

Service weapon in hand, Amelia paused behind Dean as he pushed open the glass door. Dean’s head was on a swivel as he stepped over the threshold. After he’d hesitated in the doorway for a moment, he beckoned Amelia and the others forward. “Clear.” His voice was a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes darting back and forth.

Squinting against the sudden change from darkness to light, Amelia glanced around the area. The entrance to the building led to a set of stairs and a hallway that ran from left to right. Judging by the few doors visible from the entryway, there were four condos on each floor. That meant sixteen families might be in danger.

Amelia turned back to her colleagues to ask who wanted to investigate which floor, but the faint scent of gasoline stopped her short. “You guys smell that?”

“Gasoline.” Sherry took a few steps down the hall and sniffed the air. “It’s stronger over here. I think it’s coming from this side of the building.”

“Shit.” Dean followed Sherry, his nose wrinkling. “Yeah, definitely stronger over this way.”

As Amelia’s shoulders tensed, she tightened her grasp on her service weapon. Perhaps her assessment of the killer’s desire to inflict as much damage on the condo building as possible wasn’t far off the mark.

So far, there was no indication Bernard had poured gasoline in the common areas of the building. But it certainly seemed as though he’d dumped a lot of gasoline somewhere…

If Bernard lit a fire on the first floor, and especially if the blaze was propelled by gasoline, then the residents upstairs would have few options to escape.

The Falcon Point PD will clear the upper floors. They’ve got this.

Like a twisted trail of breadcrumbs, the smell led them straight to the door of condo number 103.

“It’s fairly obvious this place has been saturated, since we can smell the gasoline through the door.” Layton’s hushed voice drew Amelia’s attention as he gestured back the way they’d come. “I’ll update the fire department and Falcon Point PD so they know about the gasoline. I’ll check the other⁠—”

His action plan was cut short by a muffled thump and a shriek from inside condo 103.

“Help!”

The woman’s voice died just as quickly as it had sounded out, but the brief vocalization gave Amelia and the others all the information they needed.

Their suspect was inside.

37

With the woman’s shriek echoing in her ears, the little hairs on the back of Amelia’s neck rose to attention. There was no question that whoever had screamed on the other side of the door to condo 103 was in danger. Based on the prominent scent of gasoline, she wasn’t the only one.

He may have already spread gasoline in other condos, but his location was no longer a mystery. They could let the proper department go through the place and clean up once they’d taken the suspect out of the picture.

“He’s in there. You check for shims up top. I’ll look at the bottom.”

Jammed under the door was a shim he’d used to trap the inhabitants. Lying on the floor to get better leverage, Amelia slid her fingers under the base and pushed. The thing was jammed in there good, and she wriggled it hard. A splinter came off in her thumb, reminding her of Glenda Marquez trying to claw her way out.

Finally, the shim gave way.

“The top’s clear. I think he’s in rush.”

“We need to get in there and help her before he decides to light the place up.”

“Right.” Sherry pointed to a glass door at the end of the hall. “That leads outside. I noticed that each of the units has sliding glass patio doors. If Bernard sticks to his M.O., he went in that way, and it’s possibly still clear of the two-by-two.” She took off down the hall.

“All right, Storm, you’re with me.” Dean glanced at Layton. “Redker, make sure the fire department and the Falcon Point PD know where we are, and where the suspect is. Focus on getting people out of here as quickly as possible.”

Layton raised his cell to one ear. “Already on it.”

As Layton spun around to make his way back to the entryway, Amelia turned to Dean and flattened her back against the wall beside the door.

Dean grasped the doorknob and turned. “It’s unlocked. We go in quiet, try to take the guy by surprise.”

“Got it.”

“On three.” Dean mouthed the words as much as said them. “One, two…three.”

With the slightest creak of hinges, the door swung inward, revealing a shadowy entryway. Amelia’s handgun led the way as she stepped into the condo, squinting into the darkness for any shape that might be a person. There was no movement, which came as both a relief and a source of concern.

So far, Bernard had stuck to his routine. The shim at the front door and the stench of gasoline were strong indicators of that.

Only, what came next? Kristen Russell had interrupted him, but they’d learned later from Siobahn that Bernard had painted a symbol in the Russells’ basement, which had to have been done prior to dousing the place and setting it aflame, because he jammed basement doors. There were no basements here, though.

Despite leaving the front door open so they’d have an unblocked escape route, the fumes from the gasoline were almost overwhelming. Amelia scanned the walls, knowing their suspect’s M.O. was to plant his symbol before spreading the accelerant. Seeing nothing in view, she wondered if he’d been in such a rush that he’d deviated from his normal ritual.

In the aftermath of each fire, one thing became painfully clear—this wasn’t just destruction. It felt like an ominous mark on the world, on everything Amelia—or anyone—cared about. It was as if each blaze carried with it a storm of its own, a personal Storm’s symbol she couldn’t escape.

Swallowing repeatedly to avoid coughing, Amelia felt as though the potent odor was sticking to her sinuses. She pushed past the unpleasant sensation as she and Dean took their first steps into the living area.

Amelia strained her hearing to its limits, struggling to pick out any disturbance that would point them in the direction of the killer and the woman he likely had hostage.

Though faint, a scuffle sounded out from beyond the living area, followed by sloshing liquid.

Amelia didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce the sound was gasoline being poured from a can.

Her and Dean’s footsteps were silent against the carpet of the minimally furnished room. In the center was a sectional couch and a coffee table. On one wall hung a large television between a pair of tall bookshelves. The other side of the living room was open to the kitchen with its tile floors.

Amelia’s observations halted when her gaze landed on the man standing in the dining area. Though his features were difficult to discern in the low light, especially since Amelia’s vision hadn’t completely adjusted, his bearded face was still familiar. At his feet, a figure whimpered and shifted on the ground.

A teenage girl.

In tandem, Amelia and Dean shifted their handguns to take aim at Bernard.

Apparently, having sensed the movement, the man jerked his head up from where he’d been focused on his crying captive.

As his gaze met Amelia’s, the unmistakable metallic flick of a silver Zippo snapping open echoed through the room.

A lighter.

The lunatic who’d burned nine people alive stood in a condominium doused with gasoline, letting the fumes build around them, held out a damn lighter. His thumb was pressed tight to the flint wheel.

During her time in both the military and the FBI, Amelia’d been thrust into some terrifying predicaments, but never had her own mortality been as clear as it was right now.

Amelia’s mind raced as she thought about the gasoline filling the room. It wasn’t the liquid itself that was so dangerous. It was the fumes. In an enclosed space like this, those alone were enough to turn the room into a fireball.

If he lit up, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the fire would sweep over them before they had a chance to react.

One little flame, that was all it would take.

“Tyler Bernard.” Despite the storm raging in Amelia’s head, her voice was clear and commanding. “Don’t. Move.”

Shadows shrouded parts of his face, but she caught his lips curving into a smile. “Or what? You’ll shoot me? If your bullet doesn’t kill me instantly, I can still ignite the lighter.” He grinned wider. “Miss Dawn Estrada will be engulfed in a fireball when these fumes ignite. You two will be just as fucked as her. And you wouldn’t want Dawn to miss her sweet sixteen birthday coming up. She picked out the fucking centerpieces herself.”

Dawn’s eyes were wide with fear.

Bernard’s tone was laced with so much bitterness, Amelia felt certain the man had never celebrated one of his birthdays. But there was also an undertone in his voice that made her wonder if he was really ready to die.

As Sherry slipped unnoticed through the open sliding glass door behind Bernard, Amelia narrowed her eyes at the man to force all her attention to remain on him. She didn’t want to give any indication there was another FBI agent in their midst.

Amelia and Dean had to keep Bernard’s focus on them.

“Are you ready to die, Tyler?” Amelia kept her tone non-accusatory, even casual. Almost like she was asking someone if they were prepared for winter instead of questioning their dedication to a mass murder.

Distant murmuring from residents fleeing the complex reverberated through the front door they’d left open as a means of escape.

His bizarre smile faltered. “You might be evacuating the others from the building, but I’m not the only one who could die here.” He nudged the teenage girl on the ground with a foot. “Dawn Estrada. You two. Are you ready to die tonight?”

“That didn’t answer my question. Are you ready to die?” Amelia kept her tone even, her eyes trained on Tyler. “Because I’ve seen people who were ready to die for their cause. If you think this is my first encounter with someone like you, then you’re mistaken.”

His jaw tightened, his ire on full display. “People like me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Though Sherry’s pace was painstakingly slow, she was closing the gap as she maneuvered past the kitchen table.

It wouldn’t be long before she was directly at Bernard’s back, but then what? If he sensed her presence before she could wrest the lighter out of his grasp, they risked him igniting the thick fumes hanging in the air around them.

Amelia gritted her teeth. She trusted Sherry.

“We know about Lily.” Amelia’s voice cut through the still air like a bell. “Know about how your father burned her alive, and how neither of your parents ever seemed to stay sober. It sucks. I get it. There’s a reason I left home as soon as I turned eighteen.”

Bernard scoffed. “So what? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you now? Put down this lighter because I’ve realized you’re just like me, deep down? Yeah, right. Spare me the fake sympathy. You don’t have a damn clue what I’ve been through. No one understands suffering like I do. Not you, not your partner, not Miss Centerpiece! No one!”

“Ty—”

He pounded himself on the chest. “I’ll make them understand, just like I made all those other idiots understand. Dying in a fire is one of the worst ways to go. It’s the only way to grasp what I’ve gone through.”

Sensing the opportunity to keep Bernard talking, Amelia holstered her gun. If she could prompt him to rant about his cause, it might buy Sherry enough time to get into position. Plus, she couldn’t risk taking a shot. Just like the lighter, the flash from her weapon could have equally dire consequences. “I’d like to try to understand. Tell me how you’ve suffered, Tyler.”

“Because of people like her!” With a glower, he kicked the sniffling teenager at his feet. “People with their perfect lives and their perfect families. Most of the time, they don’t even realize I exist. But when they do, they look at me like they know, like…”

As he continued to ramble, Sherry inched closer to the hand that wielded the lighter. Meager light from the hallway illuminated her determined expression as she focused on Bernard’s hand clutching the device. A fleet of approaching firetrucks could be seen beyond the Estradas’ sliding glass door, no lights or sirens as instructed, but the rumble of the convoy was obvious.

Amelia’s stomach plummeted to the floor as Bernard turned to look and came face-to-face with Sherry. Time slowed to a crawl.

If he ignited the lighter, all of them would be consumed by flames within moments. Amelia knew she and her fellow agents were prepared to face the consequences, but Dawn Estrada’s life was their responsibility, and she didn’t want another person to die at Bernard’s hands.

Before her thoughts could wander too far down the doomsday scenario, Amelia closed the distance between her and Tyler. Movement in her periphery said Dean had mirrored her instincts.

During the scuffle, Tyler’s thumb had fallen off the flint wheel by a fraction of an inch. With a scream of rage, Tyler was moments away from repositioning it. In the long, slow-motion seconds before he could flick out the flame, she karate-chopped his hand. The clatter of the Zippo skittering across the floor registered in the back of her mind. Safety. Amelia’s momentum carried her into Tyler, and she rode him to the ground while trying to avoid kicking Dawn.

Sherry had ducked out of the way when Amelia charged Bernard, keeping her gun pointed at their suspect.

In one fluid motion, Amelia pulled herself up to her knees and wrenched one of Bernard’s arms behind his back. Seconds later, she slapped handcuffs around his wrist.

“Tyler Bernard, you’re under arrest for the murder of nine people…you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will⁠—”

“What the hell is going on here?” A sleepy and disoriented Mr. Estrada emerged from another room, causing Dean to spin on him as he was collecting the lighter.

Dawn crawled out from where she was being shielded by Sherry. “Dad!”

The drenched and beaten girl stood and ran into the arms of her father.

Amelia looked over just as they embraced, relief shuddering through her as she held onto Bernard’s cuffed wrist. They’d done their job, prevented more death, and caught their serial killer. The residents of Falcon Point and Highfield could sleep safely tonight, and hopefully into the future.

38

As Amelia pushed open the double doors to the Hungry Fiddler, the aroma of fried food made her stomach grumble. The blast of the air conditioner was a welcome reprieve from the near-record-high day, and she almost let out a sigh of contentment, like a cat who’d plopped down on the couch after their owner had left.

Two o’clock in the afternoon was a bit late for lunch, but she’d had her nose buried in digital paperwork for almost the entire day. She was more than relieved to finish her to-do list and leave the office early for a change.

Stepping to the side, she held the door open as Zane followed her over the threshold. With one of his trademark grins, he tipped an invisible hat to her. “You’re such a gentleman.”

She offered him a wink. “One of us has to be.”

His grin widened, and Amelia let the door fall closed as they made their way to the service counter. The restaurant was a not-so-hidden gem near the edge of downtown Chicago. Ten or twenty years ago, the place had been known primarily by those who lived near it, but with the advent of the internet and online social media platforms, word had spread.

The owner was a highly acclaimed chef, and all the cooks who trained under him had criminal records. By providing ex-cons with a decent paying job and high-quality training that would serve them well in the job market, the owner of the Hungry Fiddler was a beacon of hope to those who might’ve otherwise struggled to find work. People like Amelia’s sister, Lainey, for example.

With one of the widest smiles Amelia had ever seen her wear, Lainey all but skipped out of the kitchen and up to the counter. “Hi, Amelia! Hi, Zane! I’m so excited you’re here. Did you find the place okay?”

Lainey’s obvious joy, especially after all the hardships she’d endured throughout her life, was contagious. Witnessing her sister so happy and hopeful was something Amelia had resigned herself to never experiencing, and in that moment, her heart was full.

As Amelia and Zane worked out what to order for lunch, Lainey gleefully provided several helpful suggestions. By the time they finished, Amelia figured they might as well have ordered the entire menu. Not that she had a problem with it. Whatever they couldn’t finish at the restaurant, she would happily eat later.

Setting the plastic order number at the edge of their table, Amelia and Zane took their seats at a booth near the back corner of the restaurant.

Zane sipped at his water. “So did you finish all that paperwork on the Bernard case?”

“Almost, at least for now. Him confessing makes everything a lot easier.” She frowned at the memory of Tyler Bernard rambling on about the five houses he’d set ablaze. “Well, it wasn’t confessing so much as bragging. He even tried to claim he was the one who set those fires eight years ago. The ones Jamie Calhoun admitted to starting.”

Zane lifted his eyebrows. “He confessed to more than he actually did? Wow, serials really are a different breed.”

“Redker said it’s not that uncommon. A lot of them like to try to gas themselves up, and that means they’ll try to take credit for stuff they didn’t have anything to do with.” She waved a hand. “It’s weird, but as long as he stays behind bars for the rest of his life, I can live with it.”

Zane tipped his glass toward her. “A fair point.”

From there, their dialogue shifted to the money-laundering investigation Zane and Spencer had just finished, then to a discussion about what they needed to buy next time they went to the grocery store.

Shifting so quickly from a conversation about murder and money laundering to a grocery list might’ve seemed odd to an outside observer, but Amelia found contentment in the ease of it all. Her life and her relationships would never quite be normal, and that was fine by her.

Who wanted to be normal anyway?

39

With a sigh, Bogdan Kopeykin leaned back in the driver’s seat of his car. The heavy tint on the windows made it nearly impossible for passersby to peer inside the vehicle, lending him a sense of stealth. Besides, he’d much rather be in the air-conditioned car than the blistering July heat.

As a young woman emerged from the apartment building across the street, Bogdan perked up.

“There you are. Where are you off to now, my dear?” He laughed to himself. “Is your coffee addiction calling to you? I know you better than you do at this point. Soon enough, you will die. But not without first making that boyfriend of yours watch it all unfold.”

For nearly a week, he’d been doing his best to follow the routine of Agent Amelia Storm. Being an agent in the FBI, his audience would devour her demise. Perhaps he could even charge more for that particular spectacle. The trip from the middle of Russia to the United States had cost Bogdan a pretty penny, and though funds weren’t low yet, he wanted to recoup the expense as quickly as he could.

He’d been hired to kill the agent by the strange city cop and that money had helped with his expenses. The hit was all well and good. Bogdan was confident in his ability to pull off the kill, even if the target was a federal agent. However, acting as a contract killer was so…confining. There was no room for visionaries like him in the world of murder for hire.

But this was no ordinary hit. The woman he’d been hired to kill was the girlfriend of the man who was the reason he’d moved across the Pacific Ocean to find in the first place.

Mischa Bukov, better known as Zane Palmer.

Palmer was the undercover American agent who’d killed Bogdan’s brother more than a decade earlier. And the reason Bogdan had been ostracized from his and his brother’s Bratva.

A spike of anger jabbed at Bogdan’s heart.

As he watched Amelia cross the street and dart into a coffee shop, Bogdan didn’t lose sight of the big picture. His reason for being in the States at all. Mischa Bukov would die, and his end would be spectacular.

Stretching both legs in front of her, Amelia shook a peanut M&M free from its yellow package into her palm and popped the candy into her mouth. Two weeks after the confrontation with Tyler Bernard, and she had just completed the last of the paperwork from the case. The bulk of the tedious process had been finished for a while, but now that Bernard had officially been sentenced, she could wrap up the case with a neat little bow.

Dean’s chair creaked as he rolled away from his desk to face her. “What’re those? Peanut M&Ms?”

Amelia held up the package. “Sure are. You want some?”

His gaze lingered on the bag. “I do, but I’m wondering if it’d be best for me to go get my own, so I’m not tempted to eat all yours. Wait, hold on. My phone’s ringing.” Holding up one hand, he reached into his suit jacket for his cell with the other. “Agent Steelman.”

As a tinny voice replied, Dean’s expression changed little.

Amelia was about to go back to her computer but paused when Dean responded. “All right. What time? Yeah. Okay, we’ll be there. Thanks. Bye.”

Amelia tried to remind herself that Dean’s phone calls weren’t necessarily her business, but she had a difficult time keeping her curiosity at bay.

To her relief, he spoke before she was forced to pose an awkward question. “Okay, I’m going to go get those M&Ms, because it sounds like we have a new case.”

“We do?”

“Yeah. That was the SSA from Organized Crime. Palmer and another agent have been investigating a string of missing men and women, and they’re having trouble determining whether it’s the result of a trafficker or serial killer.”

“Zane, huh?” Amelia mulled over the prospect as Dean nodded.

Having spent nearly a year in the Chicago field office’s Organized Crime division before her move to Violent Crimes, Amelia was glad for the opportunity to work alongside her old friends. Depending on who oversaw the case, she could even have a chance to interact with her former boss as a fellow field agent.

And, of course, there was Zane. Being in separate departments at work was no doubt good for their relationship, but working with him once more would be nice…nostalgic.

Though the prospect of wading back into the world of human trafficking brought a sour taste to Amelia’s tongue, she went where her help was needed, and if that meant a mob-adjacent case, then that was where she would go.

The End

To be continued…

WHAT’S NEXT?

FREE BOOK OFFER

How did it all start for Amelia Storm?

I hope you enjoyed Storm’s Symbol as much as I enjoyed bringing these characters to life. Amy and I invite you to step back in time and join Amelia on the day she first moves back to Chicago, the city she ran from ten years ago. What brought her back? And what was the first case she had to solve? Storm’s Awakening is a short story that answers these questions and more. Best...it’s completely free. Interested?

Click HERE to get your free copy now

** Available Nowhere Else!**

You’ll also be the first to know when each book in the Amelia Storm series is available!

If you were captivated by Journey Russo’s pivotal role in rescuing her sister, Michelle, you’ll be intrigued to learn that her path to becoming an FBI special agent was forged long before—sparked by a tragic past that set her on a mission for justice. Want to learn more about Journey? Then I have wonderful news...she has her own series!

Journey's Call (Journey Russo Series: Book One)

Discover the depths of Journey’s resilience in Journey’s Call, the first installment of my new Journey Russo series. Dive into a story where Journey’s professional and personal worlds collide, challenging her like never before. As she uncovers clues that bring her face to face with her past, Journey must leverage all her skills and determination to navigate her most challenging case yet.

Dive into Journey’s Call and follow the evolution of a character who proves time and again that from the ashes of tragedy, a hero can emerge, ready to face the world with grit and grace.

Click HERE to download Journey's Call now!

SERIES READING ORDER

Storm’s Fury (Amelia Storm Series: Book One)

Storm’s Peril (Amelia Storm Series: Book Two)

Storm’s Cage (Amelia Storm Series: Book Three)

Storm’s Ruin (Amelia Storm Series: Book Four)

Storm’s Wrath (Amelia Storm Series: Book Five)

Storm’s Rite (Amelia Storm Series: Book Six)

Storm’s Justice (Amelia Storm Series: Book Seven)

Storm’s Nightmare (Amelia Storm Series: Book Eight)

Storm’s Revenge (Amelia Storm Series: Book Nine)

Storm’s Cut (Amelia Storm Series: Book Ten)

Storm’s Target (Amelia Storm Series: Book Eleven)

Storm’s Burn (Amelia Storm Series: Book Twelve)

Storm’s Symbol (Amelia Storm Series: Book Thirteen)

Coming soon

Storm's Endgame

HAVE YOU READ MY OTHER SERIES?

Latest Series:

Sky Stryker Series

Journey Russo Series

More Series:

Winter Black Series

Ellie Kline Series

Charli Cross Series

Shadow Island Series

Stella Knox Series

Kylie Hatfield Series

Emma Last Series

A Villain's Story Series

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

How does one adequately express gratitude to all those who have transformed a shared dream into a stunning reality? Let us attempt to do just that.

First and foremost, our families deserve our deepest thanks. Their unwavering support and encouragement have been our bedrock, allowing us the time and energy to translate our collective imagination into the words that fill these pages. Their belief in our vision has been a constant source of strength and inspiration.

As coauthors, our journey has been uniquely collaborative and rewarding. Now, with Mary also embracing the additional role of publisher, our adventure has taken on an exciting new dimension. This transition from solely writing to also publishing has been both a challenge and a joy, opening doors to share our work more directly with you, our readers.

We are immensely grateful to the entire team at Mary Stone Publishing — a group who believed in our potential from the very beginning. Their commitment extends beyond editing our words; it encompasses the tireless efforts of designers, marketers, and support staff, all dedicated to bringing our stories to life. Their expertise, creativity, and passion have been vital in capturing the essence of our tales and sharing them with the world.

However, our greatest appreciation is reserved for you, our beloved readers. You took a chance on our book, generously sharing your most precious asset—your time. It is our fervent hope that the pages of this book have rewarded that generosity, offering you a journey worth taking and memories that linger.

With all our love and heartfelt appreciation,

Mary & Amy

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mary Stone

Nestled in the serene Blue Ridge Mountains of East Tennessee, Mary Stone crafts her stories surrounded by the natural beauty that inspires her. What was once a home filled with the lively energy of her sons has now become a peaceful writer's retreat, shared with cherished pets and the vivid characters of her imagination.

As her sons grew and welcomed wonderful daughters-in-law into the family, Mary's life entered a quieter phase, rich with opportunities for deep creative focus. In this tranquil environment, she weaves tales of courage, resilience, and intrigue, each story a testament to her evolving journey as a writer.

From childhood fears of shadowy figures under the bed to a profound understanding of humanity's real-life villains, Mary's style has been shaped by the realization that the most complex antagonists often hide in plain sight. Her writing is characterized by strong, multifaceted heroines who defy traditional roles, standing as equals among their peers in a world of suspense and danger.

Mary's career has blossomed from being a solitary author to establishing her own publishing house—a significant milestone that marks her growth in the literary world. This expansion is not just a personal achievement but a reflection of her commitment to bring thrilling and thought-provoking stories to a wider audience. As an author and publisher, Mary continues to challenge the conventions of the thriller genre, inviting readers into gripping tales filled with serial killers, astute FBI agents, and intrepid heroines who confront peril with unflinching bravery.

Each new story from Mary's pen—or her publishing house—is a pledge to captivate, thrill, and inspire, continuing the legacy of the imaginative little girl who once found wonder and mystery in the shadows.

Discover more about Mary Stone on her website.

www.authormarystone.com

Amy Wilson

Having spent her adult life in the heart of Atlanta, her upbringing near the Great Lakes always seems to slip into her writing. After several years as a vet tech, she has dreams of going back to school to be a veterinarian but it seems another dream of hers has come true first. Writing a novel.

Animals and books have always been her favorite things, in addition to her husband, who wanted her to have it all. He’s the reason she has time to write. Their two teenage boys fill the rest of her time and help her take care of the mini zoo that now fills their home with laughter…and yes, the occasional poop.

Connect with Mary online