DARKWATER LANE

RACHEL CAINE

CARRIE RYAN

Copyright © 2025 by Rachel Caine, LLC. and Carrie Ryan

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.

Published by Rachel Caine, LLC

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For Rox

PROLOGUE

Most people have no idea how vulnerable they truly are. Even when they try to tuck themselves behind layers of security: locked doors, alarms, cameras, maybe even a firearm locked in the bedside table.

Those are fine as deterrents, the kinds of things that will stop a random criminal from choosing you over an easier target. But when someone wants to get at you? When it’s not just a simple case of picking a target by chance, but instead a case of I want you and no one else will do then no amount of security is going to protect you.

Not against someone like me. Someone practiced. Someone lethal. Someone with an agenda.

So, you’re welcome to set that alarm and scratch your balls on your way up the stairs to bed, but when you wake up in the middle of the night with my hand clamped over your mouth and my knife against your throat, you’re going to know what it feels like to be vulnerable.

You’re going to know what it feels like to be her. The woman you’ve been terrorizing. The woman you’ve been threatening. The woman I’m here to protect.

Gina Royal.

Gwen Proctor.

The woman I’m here to exact vengeance for.

It’s nearing midnight when I reach the target’s house. I don’t have to guess whether he’s home or not. His obnoxiously large truck is parked in his driveway. If that wasn’t a dead giveaway, the fact that every light is on in his house would tip me off.

I wonder if he realizes that the angle of his TV makes it so that the picture reflects off the back window of his family room so it’s blatantly obvious to everyone in the neighborhood that he’s watching porn.

And not good porn, either. The nasty stuff you have to troll the dark web for.

He deserves to die for that in and of itself.

I park the car down the street and take my time getting out. The key to this sort of thing is to blend in and make it look like you’re supposed to be here. I grab the leash from the passenger seat of the car I “borrowed” from the airport and yank off the tag. Then I clip it to the collar of the dog panting in the back seat—another thing I borrowed, this time from the yard of a house a few blocks away.

No one thinks twice about a stranger walking their dog in the neighborhood, even this late at night. Dogs can be assholes. If they want to go out, then you have to take them out. Everyone knows that, which is why if someone happens to see me, they’ll think, That poor soul must really love their dog, and that will be that.

It’s late fall, so I pull the hood of my windbreaker over my head, huddling a bit as though it’s cold, and shuffle my feet while I walk. The dog, some sort of fluffy black thing, happily trots along in front of me, gleefully sniffing at every bush we pass. Fine by me; the slower he goes, the more time I have for recon.

As we near the target’s house, I keep my senses on high alert. Casual as can be, I saunter down his driveway and let myself in to the back yard. Look like you belong and people will assume that you do. Once there, I drop the leash and pull on a pair of gloves. This close to the windows, I can hear the sounds from the porn he’s watching. Low, guttural moans and all too realistic-sounding whimpers of pain.

I risk a glance inside and find the guy snoring on his lounger, hand tucked into his unbuttoned pants. Well, I hope he was able to enjoy the last moments of his life.

I’ve already been through the house once before, though that was several weeks ago—the last time I was able to make it out to this area. He’s got a decent alarm system, though he’s not super smart about the placement of his keypad. Anyone with a halfway decent Wi-Fi camera strategically placed in the right spot could easily figure out the code.

He’s also got a firearm in his bedside table. Last time I was here I unloaded it. I wonder if he noticed. He won’t have time to get to it either way. Fat lot of good a gun does you if it’s out of reach when you need it.

I take a moment longer, listening and waiting, forcing myself to regulate my breathing.

I’m ready.

I pull the car escape tool from my pocket and crouch, pressing the spring-loaded spike against the bottom corner of one of the large sliding doors. Then, I turn my head, close my eyes to protect them, and click the release button. The entire window shatters, pebbles of tempered glass scattering across the ground.

In seconds, I’m through the door and on my target. I straddle him, pinning his arms to his sides. His eyes go wide with groggy confusion. He’s too slow to wake up and understand what’s going on. By the time he starts to figure it out, I’ve already taped his mouth shut.

He starts to fight against me, bucking on the lounger. He doesn’t have enough leverage. He’s already lost. He just doesn’t want to accept it.

That’s fine. He will, eventually.

He’s screams against the tape, trying to form words. I don’t have to hear him to know what he’s asking. It’s what they all ask.

Who are you?

Why are you doing this?

I lean in close. Force him to meet my eyes. Then I tell him. “You fucked with the wrong person.”

1

GWEN

Three Months Later

Sometimes, I think of the woman I used to be and laugh. Gina Royal was naïve, compliant, boring. She had dinner on the table by six, never talked back, and kept the house clean and in order. Except for the garage, of course, that was my ex-husband Melvin’s domain and strictly off-limits to me and our two kids.

Gina Royal was also afraid of guns. A fact that I find laughable now—especially given that shooting has become its own form of therapy over the years.

When I’m shooting, it commands my entire focus. I’m able to forget about everything but the feel of the grip against my palm, the balance of my feet on the floor, the shifting of my weight, the tension of the trigger under my finger, and the coiling explosion that ricochets through my body after the firing pin strikes the primer, igniting the powder and forcing the bullet out of the cartridge and toward the target downrange at a rate of twelve hundred feet per second.

It’s only after the last bullet is fired and the slide locks back that the rest of the world comes flooding in. I notice the slight draft of air across my skin from the negative pressure pulling gun smoke downrange. I hear the deep whump of someone shooting a 460 Magnum in another range bay, even through my ear protection.

My thoughts return as well, despite my best efforts to shut them out. The first episode of the Royal Murders dropped today—a new podcast about my serial killer ex-husband, Melvin Royal. I’ve been expecting it—they’ve been advertising it for weeks.

Against my better judgement, I listened to it the first chance I got.

Now, I regret that decision. Snippets keep playing through my head over and over as I secure a new target to the clips and send it downrange before methodically reloading the magazine.

The first episode focused on Melvin’s last victim: Callie Applegate, the woman I’d seen hanging mutilated in my garage. It was gutting. The co-hosts, Madison Westcott and Rowan Applegate, walked listeners through Callie’s early life, from being separated from her brother after their parents died, leaving them orphans, to Callie being adopted by the Applegate family and growing up with her sister, Rowan.

It’s the interview with Rowan that keeps repeating in my head. Madison had asked Rowan who she blamed for Callie’s murder. There’d been no hesitation before she said, “Melvin and Gina Royal.”

Madison: You blame Melvin’s wife, Gina, as well?

Rowan: Absolutely. There’s no question Gina Royal was involved in my sister’s murder.

Madison: Even though she’s been tried for it and acquitted?

Rowan: Juries can get things wrong. There was evidence the judge excluded. Had the jury been able to see everything, they would have convicted.

Madison: Evidence like what?

Rowan: Conversations she had with a therapist while she was in jail.

Madison: But you understand why those wouldn’t be admissible.

Rowan: I’m just saying, the jury didn’t have the full story.

Madison: You have a family connection to Gina Royal, don’t you?

Rowan: She’s not family. But yes, there’s a connection. Callie had a biological brother named Sam. They were separated as kids, but Callie found him as an adult and reached out to him. They were reestablishing their relationship when she was killed. Sam Cade is, in everything but name, married to Gina Royal and has adopted Melvin’s children, Brady and Lily. Though they’ve all changed their names. Gina goes by Gwen Proctor now. They’re all living in Knoxville like some normal, happy family.

Madison: How do you feel about that?

Rowan: It’s disgusting. It’s horrifically disrespectful to Callie and her memory. I mean, my God, he’s sleeping with the woman who murdered his sister! His own flesh and blood. She was found strung up in Gina’s garage for [bleep] sake. How can you even explain something like that?

With a sharp exhale, I lift the gun, adjust my grip, and line up my shot before pulling the trigger, finally silencing the podcast looping through my thoughts.

There’s a shift in air pressure when the door to the range opens, and I know without looking who it is. Everything about Sam Cade is as familiar to me as my own body. I keep pulling the trigger, my focus on the target but my situational awareness paying keen attention as Sam ambles to the shooting lane next to me and stops to wait while I continue. I make my way through the magazine, barely pausing between trigger pulls.

When the clip empties, I sigh as the world around me floods back in once again. I set the gun down, ejection port facing up and muzzle pointed downrange.

“I take it you listened to the podcast,” Sam says without preamble. He raises his voice to be heard through my ear protection.

“How did you find me?” I ask by way of answering.

“Where else would you be? This is where you go when you’re upset and need to work things out.”

Finally, I turn to face him. He’s still as handsome as the day I met him four years ago, though he’s accumulated more lines around his eyes, and his hair has grayed at the temples. “Am I really that easy?”

He snorts. “I don’t think anyone would describe you as easy.” His expression is gentle and loving, even though he has to be as enraged by the podcast as I am––if not more. After all, it’s his sister’s gruesome death the Lost Angels are exploiting as entertainment.

I want to fall against him and feel his arms around me, and while we’re the only ones in the bay right now, I’m keenly aware of the cameras in the corners giving the range master a clear view of everything we’re doing.

“I take it you’ve heard it?”

A muscle twitches along his jaw, and he nods.

I place a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

He looks genuinely surprised. “About what?”

“Rowan.”

At her name, sorrow flashes across his face. “I had no idea she felt that way. I met her at Callie’s funeral and tried reaching out to her afterward. We’d both lost a sister, and I figured we had that in common. I wanted to learn more about Callie, see old pictures, hear stories about her growing up. Rowan wasn’t interested. I thought maybe she needed time and space to heal, so I backed off. I stopped reaching out to her and checking in. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe if I’d kept trying to forge some sort of relationship, I could have prevented the podcast.”

“If it hadn’t been Rowan, it would have been someone else.” I hear the bitterness in my voice. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Lost Angels, it’s that they don’t listen to reason. Or reality. You can’t blame yourself.”

He doesn’t agree or disagree with me. We both know I can tell him not to blame himself until I’m blue in the face and it won’t matter. “Have the kids heard it?” he asks instead.

“I don’t see how we’re going to be able to keep it from them. Not with how fast it’s blowing up.” I press my fingers against my eyes. The thought of what this will mean for Lanny and Connor overwhelms me. Threats against us will rise, we’ll have to increase security, become more vigilant. Lose the hard-earned peace we’ve worked so hard to achieve. If this podcast grows as popular as some other true crime shows, it will be just like it was in the early days, right after Melvin was convicted and I was acquitted. Except now there will be a new generation of sickos to deal with.

Given how toxic the online world has become, how willing people are to resort to violence, to act first and ask questions later—or never—things could be even worse this time around.

“This needs to end,” I say. “I’m tired of it. All of it. I’m tired of running scared. Of letting the Lost Angels vilify me and the people I love. I need this to be over. We need to make that happen—we need to end it. End them. For good this time.”

Sam studies my expression and I know what he sees: resolve and fury. “Then let’s make that happen.”

If only it were that easy. “How? We’ve tried to talk reason into them. We’ve sent cease and desist letters. We’ve threatened litigation.” I hear a note of helplessness in my voice, which only fuels my rage. Gina Royal was helpless. Gwen Proctor isn’t.

I refuse to ever feel helpless again. It’s one of the reasons I started learning how to shoot in the first place, and why I keep training. It’s a reminder of my own agency.

Sam lifts a shoulder. “We’ll find a way. It may take getting a little creative and thinking outside the box, but we’ll figure out how to make the Lost Angels listen.”

With a sigh, I turn back to the counter, push the button to recall my target from downrange, and examine it critically as it nears. It’s riddled with precisely clustered holes, though a few shots went a bit wide to the right. I must have had too much of my finger on the trigger. I’ll have to correct for that next time.

“Every time the Lost Angels accuse me of being involved in Melvin’s murders, they’re putting a target on my back. On the kids’ backs, too. And yours.” I pull the target from the clips and hold it up, poking a finger at the cluster of holes near the center. “If they even had a taste of the kind of torment they’ve put me through—” I swallow the rest of the statement and shake my head.

The reality is, no matter how much I hate the Lost Angels, I wouldn’t wish that kind of persecution on anyone.

The door at the end of the bay opens again, and an older man nods in a silent hello before making his way to one of the other shooting lanes. With a glance, Sam and I agree to table our conversation. He helps me pack up my gear, and after we stop to wash with D-Lead soap, we head toward the parking lot.

Once outside, I draw in a deep breath of fresh air, though the lingering scent of gunpowder still clings to me. I pull my phone from my pocket and wince. As I’d expected, the screen is crowded with notifications about the podcast. I ignore them all, focusing instead on a slew of texts from Lanny. My stomach sinks as I read them.

Lanny

Done with class, headed to the barn to grab Connor.

Lanny

Did you hear about that true podcast crime on Melvin? I overheard some kids talking about it at lunch.

Lanny

Mom! I started listening to that podcast. WTF?

Lanny

OMG! The host is talking about me and Connor.

Lanny

Excuse me: Lily and Brady

Lanny

WTAF?!?

Lanny

Like seriously?

Lanny

I’m already getting notifications from kids at school.

Lanny

Does Connor know about this?

Lanny

I just got to the barn. Connor’s listened to it already.

Lanny

Duck, Mom, what are we going to do?

It’s already starting. Again.

2

GWEN

“How do they even think this is okay?” Lanny demands around a bite of pizza. A trail of cheese stretches from her mouth to the slice, and she uses her fingers to twist it free. “The crap the podcast is saying, it’s all bullshit. It has to be illegal or something. Can’t we just call the cops?”

I glance toward Connor to gauge his response. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since he got home. Usually, he’d be just as engaged as Lanny and equally enraged. However, ever since the school shooting several months ago and the subsequent events in Gardenia, North Carolina, he’s become a lot more introspective.

It makes sense; the whole ordeal put him through the wringer emotionally and physically. First, he had to deal with watching his best friend shoot two mutual friends at school and then implicate Connor in the shooting. Once the media realized who Connor’s father was, they had a field day with the information, speculating whether Connor would grow up to fill Melvin’s shoes. Which, of course, fed into Connor’s already existing fears that he might have somehow inherited his father’s depravity.

When I was offered a missing persons case in North Carolina, I figured it would be a good opportunity to give Connor some breathing room away from the media pressure. It did for a while, until two psychopathic teen girls started preying on him. He barely escaped after being shot and trapped in a house fire.

He’s been steadily working on both the physical and the emotional scars since. But the experience shook his fundamental belief in himself and the world around him.

I’ve spoken to both my therapist and Connor’s about his slow progress, and they both tell me the same thing: we all process grief in our own way, and I have to give him the space he needs. I get what they’re saying, and obviously, I’ll do what’s best for Connor and his recovery, but I still can’t help but miss my outspoken, energetic little boy. Though at fifteen, he’s not so little anymore.

“She can’t get away with it,” Lanny continues, her outrage growing. “Right? I mean, you can’t just lie like that. It’s illegal, isn’t it?”

“It’s not a crime to lie,” Connor says, not bothering to look up from his slice of pizza. “It’s a civil issue, not criminal.”

Lanny turns to face him. “How do you know?”

He shrugs. “I wrote a paper about it for school. We’re doing a unit on the Constitution, and I got assigned the First Amendment. I had to write about what kinds of speech are protected and why.”

Connor has been taking classes online for the past few months. Once he was out of the hospital in North Carolina and we could return home, he made it pretty clear that he wasn’t interested in returning to his previous school. Even though the feds exonerated him for any involvement in the shooting, the building itself held too many bad memories. I couldn’t blame him, and we set him up with distance learning.

Whenever I ask him how classes are going, he responds with “fine” or “okay,” and little else. This is the first time he’s voluntarily brought up anything related to his online school, and I perk up. “Oh, really? That sounds interesting,” I say, hoping to encourage him to share more.

He stabs at his salad, the tines of his fork scraping discordantly across his plate. “Not when the press can label you a school shooter without repercussions.”

I exchange a glance with Sam. Navigating the emotional fallout of the past few months hasn’t been easy, and I’m unsure what the best approach is here.

Lanny doesn’t hesitate. “For fucking real, Squirtle” she says with a decisive nod.

I know I should probably say something about her language, but when I notice Connor smiling, I decide to let it go. More than any of us, Lanny seems to have figured out what Connor needs at any given point. She was even the one to suggest he try equine therapy which has been an absolute godsend.

Lanny turns back to the conversation at hand. “So, if we can’t send those podcasting jerks to jail, can we at least sue the pants off them?”

“We’re looking into it,” Sam says. What he doesn’t tell her is that we sent cease and desist letters the moment we heard about the podcast––which they ignored. The next step is litigation, and the quotes we’ve gotten from lawyers to sue the Lost Angels have all been in the five figures, and that doesn’t include the potential cost of going to trial. That would push it well into the six figures––an amount the Lost Angels can afford, but we can’t.

Lanny slumps back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Maybe I should just embrace the notoriety.” She shoots a smirk at Connor. “We could get T-shirts made: Kid of a serial killer. Or My dad’s a serial killer. How about yours?”

Connor snorts. “My dad can kill your dad.”

She laughs. “Can you imagine if I wore that on our field trip to DC next weekend? Definite ice breaker, that’s for sure.”

At the mention of her upcoming field trip, I wince and exchange another look with Sam. “Yeah, about that⁠—”

Lanny jerks upright in her chair. “No. No way.” She shakes her head. “You’re not canceling my trip.”

Sam’s expression is sympathetic, but resolute. “Your mom and I talked about it, and in light of the podcast⁠—”

“No!” Lanny’s eyes fill with angry tears. “The weekend in DC is a rite of passage for seniors. I’ve been looking forward to it since we moved here.”

“I know, honey,” I start to say, but she isn’t interested.

“You’re the ones who said we can’t let this stuff interfere with our lives. ‘No more letting fear dictate our lives.’ That’s what you said, Mom. That’s what you promised!” She slams her hand on the table in emphasis.

She’s right. I remember sitting in the rehab facility with Lanny, Connor, and Sam and declaring that from then on, we would live our lives on our terms and no one else’s. More than anything else, I want to give that to her: a world where she can forge her own path without worrying about who her father was and what that means.

It’s so fucking unfair.

If I could change the world for her, I would. But I can’t.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s just too dangerous right now.”

She doesn’t back down. “If you’re that worried, can’t we just do what we did with Reyne U before? One of you come with me?”

Sam shifts in his chair. “The podcast puts a spotlight on all of us.”

“Seriously?” She looks between the two of us, trying to figure out if either of us will bend. She quickly recognizes we won’t. We don’t compromise when it comes to her security.

After that, we continue eating in silence. Lanny pushes her salad around her plate for a bit before asking, “The stuff about Callie, and you…you’ve never really talked much about your relationship with her.”

Sam considers this for a moment before saying, “That’s because there isn’t that much to tell, unfortunately. Callie and I were close as kids, but after our parents died in a car accident when I was eight and she was four, we were orphaned. She got adopted, and I didn’t. We lost touch. I never expected to see or talk to her again, but then she tracked me down while I was serving overseas. We video chatted often as we could, getting to know each other again. The thing about siblings is that even when time passes, no matter how much, it doesn’t matter. You’re still family. Your hearts and souls still recognize each other.”

Lanny and Connor exchange a glance, and I can see in both their eyes that they understand what Sam is saying. They definitely have their moments and get on each other’s nerves, but at the core of their relationship there is a deep sense of love, respect, and enduring dedication to one another.

I know that at the end of the day, they will always be there for each other. Theirs is a bond that will last their entire lives, even after I’m gone. It’s a thought that brings me comfort.

“We were supposed to meet up once I returned home, but…” He clears his throat. “She died before that could happen.”

I’m not the only one who notices his choice of words.

“Your sister was murdered by our biological father,” Connor points out. “You can say it. It’s not like it’s a secret.”

Sam shifts in his seat. Sometimes Connor’s bluntness can be uncomfortable, especially when it comes to Melvin.

“You’re right. When I learned about Callie’s murder, and the details of what happened, something in me broke. I was already dealing with PTSD from my tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, though I didn’t recognize it at that point. I was full of rage and pain and needed an outlet. I found that with the families of Melvin’s other victims. I didn’t see it at the time, but we were toxic for each other. That was the start of the Lost Angels.”

For a moment, I feel a familiar spark of anger at Sam for this. I know it’s not fair. I know he regrets what he did, but that still doesn’t erase the harm the Lost Angels have done over the years. The damage they continue to cause.

He leans forward, placing a hand on each of my kids’ arms. “The time I spent with you and Connor that summer…it’s what brought joy back into my life. Up until then, the only point I saw in waking up each morning was to get revenge. You three showed me another way to live. That I could actually have a future.

“I deeply regret that period of time in my life, and I’m sorry for my involvement in causing the three of you pain. But I’ll never regret moving to Stillhouse Lake because it brought you all into my life. And this family—my family—means everything to me. I love you guys.”

Lanny pretends to brush her bangs out of her face, but in actuality uses the opportunity to swipe tears from her eyes. “We love you too,” she tells him. Connor nods, agreeing with the sentiment.

In that moment, my heart is full—despite the podcast, despite the increase in threats that will inevitably follow, despite the turmoil being back in the public eye will bring. It amazes me how something as beautiful as this family could come from something so dark and twisted as Melvin’s murders.

It’s a reminder that we all have choices in life. We may not be able to control what happens to us, but we can control how we respond. Sam responded to the news of Callie’s murder by choosing hate and revenge. Even once he realized he was wrong about my involvement, he could have continued living in that shadow. Instead, he decided to choose happiness and possibility. He found a new family out of the loss of his sister.

The same is true about the podcast. It will upend everything, but it’s not like we haven’t been through that before. We’ve faced threats and survived. We can continue to do so.

Lanny was right. I shouldn’t give up on the promise to live on our own terms so easily.

I slap my hand on the table. “You know what?” I tell Lanny. “I’ve changed my mind. You should go on the field trip next weekend.”

Her eyes go wide with excitement. “Seriously?”

“We’ll work out the exact details as we get closer, but you’re right—the Lost Angels want to ruin our lives. We’re not going to let that happen.”

That night, I’m standing in the bathroom applying face lotion when Sam comes into the room. He stands behind me, his hands on my shoulders, gently kneading the tight muscles. I catch his eye in the mirror.

“Letting Lanny go to DC is the right call, isn’t it?” I ask.

He sighs. “There’s no right answer, unfortunately.”

He’s right, and we both know it. But I dislike uncertainty. I’m tired of the constant second-guessing, my brain always churning over threat levels, how to protect ourselves, trying to anticipate the unknowable. It’s exhausting.

I lean my head back, and he wraps his arms around my chest, resting his chin on my shoulder. We continue gazing at each other in the mirror.

“I’m never going to stop worrying about them, am I?”

He smiles softly. “Nope.”

“I just wish things could be normal. They deserve that after everything they’ve been through.”

Sam lifts a shoulder. “Normal is overrated.”

“I got an alert that the podcast released a teaser of their next episode. It’s about you and Leonard Varrus.”

A muscle twitches along his jaw. “You know what? Let’s not invite trouble from the future. We’ll worry about the second episode when it drops.”

“But what if they bring up all that crap about Leo’s blood being found in the Stillhouse Lake house and you being accused of his murder?”

He presses a kiss to my temple. “I have an idea, and it doesn’t involve discussing podcasts or murder––or anything else for that matter.”

I lift my eyebrows. “Oh?”

He pulls me back against him so that his front is flush with my back. Suddenly, I have a very, very good idea of what he’s suggesting. He flashes me a lazy smile, then drops his face toward the crook of my neck, instantly finding and nuzzling that sensitive spot that never fails to make my knees a little weak.

I wobble slightly, warmth flooding through me. His arms are tight around me, always there to support me. I decide he’s right. The podcast can wait. I have more important things to focus on instead.

3

GWEN

I’m up before sunrise the next morning. I can’t help it. Despite falling into a blissful, dreamless sleep in Sam’s arms, my brain refuses to turn off for long. Snippets from The Royal Murders podcast replay in my head, my heart rate spiking as my outrage and resentment grow.

I close my eyes, running through the exercises my therapist gave me to help me learn to let go. To accept that some things are beyond my control. To move on and let the past stay in the past.

It’s all bullshit. How am I supposed to leave the past behind when it’s an angry mob at my door, pitchforks gleaming, and torches burning?

With a snap of the sheets, I push out of bed and yank on clothes. My first stop is the kitchen to fortify myself with coffee. Steaming mug in hand, I tiptoe down the hallway to my office and close the door.

Even as I’m firing up my computer, I remember my promise to Lanny and the rest of my family. We agreed to no longer live in fear. We promised we’d move on. That promise included me abandoning Sicko Patrol.

Sicko Patrol had begun as an exercise in self-preservation. It was a way to sort through the vitriol against us online and find those threats that might actually be credible. Back then, we were still anonymous and on the run, and it was critical to keep tabs on whether any of the self-styled vigilantes were close to figuring out where we were. More than once some obsessed fan of Melvin’s had gotten too close and we’d had to pick up and run, leaving schools, friends, and even our names behind.

I tried to give up Sicko Patrol. I really, really did. It just wasn’t that easy. Knowing there are people out there targeting those I love is like having an itch under my skin that I can’t scratch.

Sicko Patrol scratched that itch. Even if it was an illusion of control, it gave me something.

I started to resume Sicko Patrol in secret. Early in the mornings when everyone was asleep or during the day when I was the only one home. The relief I felt that first time nearly made me ill. It was proof that somehow I’d become addicted to tracing these trolls on the internet.

I still didn’t stop. I hated lying to my family, but I assuaged my guilt by telling myself I was being vigilant.

It’s part of who I am now—who Melvin made me.

The moment I open my email, I almost choke on the number of messages. Usually, only the hardcore conspiracy theorists take the energy to connect Gina Royal to Gwen Proctor and track down my personal email address. But thanks to Rowan Applegate and Madison Westcott doxing me on The Royal Murders, they’ve made it easy.

It’s going to take hours to sort through. I check the clock, wondering how much I can get done before Sam or the kids wake up.

Swallowing a mouthful of coffee, not caring that it scorches the back of my throat, I click on the first message. It’s a fairly standard screed about what a terrible human being I am and how my kids are spawns of the devil. I barely bother skimming through it before deleting it. There are the usual threats and some truly disturbing photos clearly created using artificial intelligence. The rise of easily accessible AI has been a boon to the internet trolls. Before, you needed special skills to doctor torture porn to make it look like my kids were the victims. Now, anyone can do it.

With a sigh, I click on the most egregious threats and forward them on to Mike Lustig at the FBI. Mike’s an old friend of Sam’s who tolerates me because I’m Sam’s partner and the mother of Sam’s adopted kids. He knows I promised Sam I’d stop Sicko Patrol, and he obviously knows I haven’t since I still send him what I find. He only agreed to keep that fact a secret because he understands why I can’t give it up.

Not that there’s much Mike can do with what I send him. Still, it’s better than nothing.

The sun is just starting to brighten the sky outside the window in my office when my cell buzzes with an incoming call from a blocked number. Frowning, I check the time: not even 6:00 a.m. Way too early for a typical call.

I’m automatically on alert. My first thought is the kids: Something’s happened and it’s the authorities or the hospital reaching out.

For a moment, a familiar panic courses through me and I glance toward the alarm keypad mounted on the wall by the door. It’s showing all the doors and windows locked and armed. Still, that doesn’t mean one of my kids didn’t bypass the system and sneak out. Lanny’s been known to do that before.

Heart tripping, I swipe to answer the phone as I jolt from my chair and start down the hallway to check on my children.

I pull up short when I hear a familiar voice. “Gwen, hey, it’s Taylor. I know it’s early, but I saw your computer was online and active so I figured you’d be awake. Is now a bad time?”

I let out a relieved breath and sag against the doorjamb. It’s only a work colleague, not the cops or the hospital. Even so, I feel a compulsive need to see my kids and make sure they’re okay.

“Yeah, sure. Can you hold on a sec?” I ask Taylor.

I mute the call and slip down the hall. I look into Connor’s room first. He’s curled on his side in a tight little ball, his longish hair fanned around his face. Lanny is the opposite. She’s sprawled across the top of her bed, one foot hanging off the side and half the blankets shoved to the floor.

They’re both sleeping soundly. I close my eyes and take another deep breath, trying to clear the adrenaline coursing through me.

By the time I make it back to my office and close the door, my heart rate has almost returned to normal, but the buzz of anxiety still runs across my nerves. I take a seat at my computer and unmute my phone.

“Sorry about that. Just had to check on something. What’s up?”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” She sounds genuinely chagrined. “Like I said, I saw that your computer was online, so I thought I’d take the chance you were free.”

It shouldn’t surprise me that Taylor knows I’m online. She’s one of the best hackers in the business. I’m just lucky she works for the same private investigation firm I do. I’d hate to be on her bad side. The things she can do with time and access to the internet are scary.

It’s also useful.

“Now’s fine,” I tell her, glad it’s early enough that everyone else in the house is still asleep. “You find anything on Varrus?”

She hesitates a moment, and that’s all the answer I need. My stomach sinks.

Leonard Varrus was the head of the Lost Angels until he went missing under mysterious circumstances several months ago. Unfortunately, those mysterious circumstances involved my family and me. A massive amount of his blood was found sprayed across the living room of our house in Stillhouse Lake. Enough that the authorities presumed Varrus was dead—most likely murdered.

Their number-one suspect was Sam. He’d been with Lanny at Reyne U that weekend for a college visit, but his truck was captured on a speed camera on the road leading to Stillhouse Lake. He’d been asleep at the hotel at the time, but since Lanny was staying with a student on campus, no one could verify that.

Authorities had been on the cusp of arresting Sam and pressing charges when my close friend Kez suggested they retest the blood for any kind of preservatives or additives. They’d found an anticoagulant, which indicated the blood had not been fresh. While that didn’t erase all suspicion directed at Sam, it was enough reasonable doubt that the District Attorney didn’t feel comfortable moving forward.

Still, no one has heard from or seen Leo Varrus since. Except for Sam. Varrus has enjoyed calling Sam every now and again to taunt him.

So, I’d turned to Taylor, hoping she could use her skills to track Leo down. Not only was Taylor a technical whiz, but she also didn’t mind playing a little fast and loose with laws. She’s our best hope of finally finding Leo and exonerating Sam for good.

“I’m sorry, Gwen,” she says. “This guy is invisible, which should be impossible these days. It’s probably best I don’t go into too much detail, but I can’t find anything linking him to any airports or car rental agencies. Not even so much as a pop on a neighborhood Ring camera. He’s not touching any bank accounts, or other cash services—no Venmo, ApplePay, PayPal. Either this guy is one of the better hackers out there and knows how to truly live off-grid, he’s getting a substantial amount of help from someone, or he’s dead.”

“Or he’s just lucky,” I offer.

“In my experience, luck tends to run out.”

I press my fingers against my temples, already feeling a headache threatening. “Well, then, let’s hope his luck runs out sooner rather than later. So, those calls he’s been making to Sam—you haven’t been able to trace them?”

“Burner phones,” she says.

Another dead end. I’d had high hopes that Taylor could find us something to go off of. Now, we’re back to square one, which is basically nowhere.

“I appreciate your help on this,” I tell her. “Seriously, I know you have a lot on your plate.”

“Yeah, well, I hate that I wasn’t able to get you anything. You know me, I pride myself on finding the shit others can’t. I plan to keep an eye on this guy, though. He’s pissing me off, and now I’m personally invested.”

I laugh. “Welcome to the club. This guy’s been pissing me off for a while now.”

“In my experience, if someone’s still alive, they leave tracks somewhere. He’ll show up eventually. And when he does, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.”

After we hang up, I spend a few minutes staring at my computer screen, trying to figure out if there’s another angle I can use to track down Varrus. Maybe I need to look more into his associates and friends to see if one of them is helping him stay under the radar.

My thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock on the office door. I quickly minimize any screens as Lanny pops her head around the corner to say good-bye. “I’m off to school in a few minutes. Sam’s driving me since you won’t let me borrow your car. Unless you’ve changed your mind?” She shoots me a hopeful smile.

“Sorry, kiddo, I’ve got errands to run. Unless you want to drop by the grocery store on your way home?” I mimic the singsong cadence of her request.

She pulls a face. “No, thank you.”

“No complaining about what’s for dinner then,” I tell her.

“When has that ever stopped me?” She waves and retreats down the hallway to pack her bag for school.

“Good luck on your history test,” I call after her.

“With a brain like mine, I don’t need luck!” she shouts back.

I shake my head, admiring her confidence. It’s always so striking to me that I can be immersed in a world of online threats and hate one moment, and then jerked back into the ordinary life of a parent and their teen the next. It makes me appreciate the spots of normalcy in our lives even more.

Sam slips into my office then, a travel mug of coffee in his hand. He holds it out to me. “I figured you were due for a refill, given how early you were up this morning.”

I take it from him gratefully, the smell of dark roast already easing the tension in my shoulders. I swallow a sip and groan in pleasure.

He gestures at my computer screen. “Work?”

It’s obvious from his expression he knows what I’ve been up to. I shake my head, my cheeks flushing. I’m not ashamed to be protecting my family, but I shouldn’t have kept it from Sam. “Sicko Patrol,” I admit.

He nods, unsurprised. I wonder how long he’s known and kept silent.

“With the podcast, I was worried⁠—”

“I get it.” He blows on his coffee before taking a sip. “How bad is it?”

I shrug. “Nothing we haven’t seen before. It’s just the number that’s impressive. I fundamentally don’t understand how these people have so much free time and why they would spend it spewing such vile hate at someone they don’t know.”

“People like being outraged, unfortunately. It’s the one emotion that’s almost guaranteed to elicit a reaction. That’s what social media preys on: sparking outrage to increase engagement.”

“But what’s the point of it all?”

“Given that you’re talking to a guy with zero social media presence, I have no idea. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Speaking of, after I drop Lanny off at school, I’m headed to the airport for a bit to catch up on paperwork. I heard you mention the grocery store a second ago. If you want to send me the list, I’ll take care of it on my way home.”

I give him a grateful smile. He could have come down on me for resuming Sicko Patrol, but he didn’t. He understands that my need to protect my family is at the very core of my being.

Sam is a good man—a great partner and father to our kids. Which is why I hate that I’m about to give him bad news. “I heard from Taylor this morning.”

A muscle along his jaw twitches. He can already tell from my tone that it’s not good news.

“She hasn’t been able to find anything.”

He shoves a frustrated hand through his hair. “Even from the calls?”

“She’s just as surprised as we are. She’s going to keep looking, though. She’s pretty pissed she hasn’t been able to pick something up on him.”

Sam sags against the doorframe. Being falsely accused of murder has been a tremendous weight on his shoulders. I notice more lines around his eyes than he’s had in the past, and more gray hairs near his temples. Recently, he’s been having trouble sleeping too. More often than not, I feel him tossing and turning beside me late into the night.

I think what’s hardest for him is the uncertainty of it all. The DA chose not to press charges against him for Varrus’s disappearance, but that doesn’t mean he won’t change his mind in the future. The DA is certain Varrus is dead, that Sam killed him, and that the calls are a hoax to deter suspicion.

Each morning we wake up, there’s no guarantee Sam won’t be in jail by the end of the day. That kind of stress takes a toll.

“Maybe the podcast will flush Varrus out,” he offers. “Especially if the next episode focuses on blaming me for his disappearance. I’m sure he won’t be able to resist calling to gloat.” His voice is understandably bitter.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” I tell him. “I know how difficult all this has been on you.”

He gives me a tired smile. “You’ve been falsely accused of being Melvin’s accomplice for years.”

“We should start a club,” I joke.

“I’d be too afraid of who else might try to join,” he says with a laugh.

From down the hallway, I hear Lanny jangling the keys with an impatient, “Let’s go already!”

Sam pushes off the door. “Duty calls.” He nods toward the computer. “Don’t spend too long on that stuff. Remember our agreement: no more letting fear dictate our lives.”

“One more hour, then I’m done,” I tell him. I hope it’s a promise I can keep.

He comes around the desk, leaning over to press a kiss to my forehead, and then my lips. He lets it linger for a moment. I shiver, memories of the night before warming me from the inside.

“Seriously? Ugh!” It’s Lanny. Apparently, she got tired of waiting for Sam and came to investigate what was taking him so long. “Look, you give me the keys and let me drive myself, and you can keep doing whatever this is,” she says, waving a hand at us.

Sam grins, catching my eye with a wink. He straightens and turns back to Lanny. “Nice try. Let’s go.”

Later that morning Connor brings his laptop into my office and takes his usual spot in the recliner under the window in the corner. I quickly click away from Sicko Patrol and check the clock, surprised at how late it’s gotten. I promised Sam I’d only spend another hour at most working on this, yet somehow I’ve lost most of the morning to it.

With a sigh, I mentally push Sicko Patrol aside and focus on my actual paying work. Since returning from North Carolina after solving the Juliette Larson case several months ago, I’ve been mostly working on background checks. My boss, J.B., has been incredibly understanding. She knows I’m one of her best investigators when it comes to missing persons, and that my reputation has, in turn, bolstered the agency’s reputation.

She also knows that missing persons cases are emotionally draining, and I need time to recover. Now, with the podcast, I’m guessing she’s happy to keep me working in the background. Not that she’s ever really cared about my history and connection to Melvin Royal, but it’ll just be easier if she doesn’t have clients asking questions about me.

Connor and I work silently—him with his headphones in as he listens to a lecture. I glance over at him every now and again. His hair is shaggier than he would normally wear it, though I think part of that is to cover the scar on his head from being shot several months ago. Sometimes, I notice the light on under his door in the middle of the night and know he’s up late reading, fighting against sleep and the nightmares that often come with it.

I remember when he was a baby and would hurt himself—a scraped knee or stubbed toe or knot on the head from walking into a table—and he would cry and hold out his arms for me. I would gather him close and feel his little body sag against mine with relief.

There was a time when I could fix my kids’ problems with a hug.

I miss those days.

It’s one of the hardest tasks as a parent: teaching your kids how to live without you. Taking this infant who knows nothing other than you—your scent, your heartbeat, your voice— and is completely dependent on you and, over time, teaching them to become their own being.

I’m not ready to let either of my kids go, though I know that eventually I won’t have a choice. Lanny turns eighteen soon. She’ll be a legal adult. She has plans to start community college. Connor will follow a few years later.

My throat tightens at the thought, emotions welling inside. I swallow them back. As Sam reminded me earlier, I shouldn’t borrow trouble from the future. Especially when the present has enough trouble. I can worry about all of that later.

I refocus on my job, diving into the background of a political candidate considering running for higher office. They’re curious about what opposition research would find and hired us to dig up anything we could.

A few hours later, I’m knee-deep in research when Connor’s phone pings. He pulls off his headphones and checks his messages. “Sweet!” he says with a fist pump.

I lift my eyebrows in question.

“A book I’ve been on the hold list for at the library finally came in. I’ve been waiting for it for months. Can I go pick it up?” He’s already standing and packing up his school things.

I glance down at my screen. I have a dozen tabs open, and searches currently running through two databases. It will be at least another two hours before I’m even close to finishing. “If you give me an hour or two, I can drive you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Come on, Mom, it’s just the library. I’ve been there a zillion times.”

Still, I hesitate.

He crosses his arms, settling in for an argument. “You’re letting Lanny go on a field trip to DC, but you won’t even let me bike to the library on my own? How is that fair?”

I want to tell him that Lanny wasn’t shot last year after meeting a young, pretty girl and falling for her. It wasn’t Lanny I found stumbling out of a burning house. It wasn’t Lanny’s hand I held in the hospital while she was in a medically induced coma.

Instead, I take a measured breath. As my therapist has pointed out to me multiple times, Connor’s troubles earlier this year came from his willingness to trust others. That’s a good trait for people to have. He shouldn’t be punished for it.

“Make sure to maintain your situational awareness at all times⁠—”

He breaks into a smile, knowing that means I plan to let him go. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

He starts to back out of my office, and I call after him, “And if you feel like someone is paying you more attention than they should⁠—”

“I know, Mom,” he shouts back.

“Make sure to take your phone!” I add. “Call me if you want a ride home!”

My answer is the sound of the front door slamming shut. I pull up the tracking app on my phone. The icon representing Connor is already moving away from the house, verifying that he remembered to take his phone.

I lean back in my chair, watching his icon on my screen wend its way toward the library. Maybe I should have pushed my work aside and gone with him. Except I know I can’t watch him all the time. If I tried to, he’d only chafe against the restrictions which might lead him to rebel.

It’s such a difficult balance—letting my kids grow older and allowing them to take on more responsibility, while also protecting them. Given everything they’ve been through, they have a good understanding of the threats that exist for them in the world. But they’re still teens—they believe they’re invincible.

The reality is, I can’t stop the future from coming. All I can do is give them the tools they need to face it.

The doorbell rings before I can spend too much time falling down the rabbit hole of anxiety over my kids. I switch over to the front door camera on my phone to find a man and woman standing on the front porch.

Both are on the early side of middle-aged, wearing dark suits, with sensible haircuts and neutral expressions. I immediately peg them as law enforcement and feel a spike of adrenaline, wondering if they’re here for Sam.

Our lawyer told us that if the Norton DA decided to move forward with charges against Sam, we’d get a heads-up. But that wasn’t a guarantee. Panicking won’t help anything, and I force a deep breath. Whatever this is, I’ll handle it. I always have.

I move to the closet in my office where I keep the lockbox containing my Sig Sauer. It pops open with the touch of my finger to the biometric sensor. Once I’ve loaded the clip and have it securely in hand, I click on the intercom button to the front door camera and ask, “Can I help you?”

The man looks toward the camera as he reaches for something in his front pocket. “Ms. Proctor? My name is Special Agent Amar Indiri. This is my colleague, Special Agent Lydia Wren. We’re with the FBI. Do you have a moment to answer some questions?”

4

GWEN

I stiffen, glad for the familiar comfort of my gun to ground me. They’re feds, so they’re not here to arrest Sam for Varrus’s murder. Still, I rack my brain, trying to figure out why two FBI agents would suddenly appear on my doorstep. If it had anything to do with the school shooting Connor witnessed, then Mike Lustig would have tipped us off.

“What’s this about?” I ask through the intercom.

“It would be easier to explain if you let us come inside,” the man says.

“I’m sure it would be,” I tell them.

They wait for me to say more or to open the door. When I don’t, they exchange a glance. The woman’s lips purse with frustration. “It involves your ex-husband, Melvin Royal.”

A bitter taste fills my mouth. Of course it does. Despite the man being dead, Melvin still finds a way to constantly interfere with my life. But they’re right; this isn’t a topic I want to discuss through my doorbell camera, where any of my neighbors can overhear us.

“Fine. You’ll forgive me if this comes off a bit paranoid, but could you both please hold your IDs up to the camera so I can see them? I’m going to have to verify your identities before I let you in.”

Given that my family and I have been attacked in our own home by men posing as law enforcement, I don’t take chances.

The two agents exchange another glance but do as I ask. I keep my firearm nearby as I call Mike. After several rings, the call rolls over to an assistant, who informs me that Special Agent Lustig is out of the office, and she can’t give me any information about when he’ll return. However, she is able to run the two agents’ badge numbers and confirm their identities.

I end the call, stash my gun in the safe, and then disarm the alarm before opening the front door. The woman holds out her hand first. “I’m Special Agent Wren. Thanks for taking the time to talk with us.” Face-to-face, she’s smaller than I anticipated, but strong, judging by her grip as we shake hands. The man is quite a bit taller and very narrow. I notice a speck of blood on his neck from where he nicked himself shaving this morning.

I invite them in and lead them toward the kitchen. From the moment they step inside, their eyes are everywhere, sweeping across the living room, down the hallway, taking in everything. There’s nothing exciting for them to find—Connor left some of his textbooks piled on the coffee table next to several bottles of Lanny’s nail polish. About what you’d expect from a normal family home.

In the kitchen, I gesture toward the table and offer them coffee. “Please, thanks,” Special Agent Wren says. Special Agent Indiri nods his head in agreement. Wren takes my usual seat, the one with the best view of the front door. Indiri takes the chair opposite her so he has a clear shot down the hallway in case anyone else happens to be home.

Once I’ve filled three mugs and set them on the table, I take the seat between them. “So, what’s this about?”

“Are you familiar with the name Cooper Kuntz?” Special Agent Indiri asks.

“Can you give me any context?”

“You might also know him as CuckSucker,” he says. “That’s the name he goes by online.”

I think for a moment, trying to place the name, but come up with nothing. “Sorry, it’s still not familiar.”

“He’s sent you threatening emails in the past,” Wren adds. “Does that help you remember?”

I look at her, waiting for her to crack a smile. She has to be joking. Her expression remains serious, and I laugh. “Do you have any idea how many threatening emails I’ve gotten over the years? More than a hundred today alone. Thousands all told—probably tens of thousands. So, you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t remember the screen names of the senders of every single one of them. After a while, they tend to blur together.”

“Well, this one apparently stood out to you enough that you felt it necessary to forward it to the FBI.” She leans over and pulls a manila folder from her bag. Taking the top sheet from inside, she slides it across the table toward me. “Does this help jog your memory?”

It’s a printout of an email sent to me the year before. I only have to glance at the first line before the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. She’s right, I absolutely do remember this guy. He liked to discuss—in detail—the many depraved things he wanted to do to my daughter while forcing me to watch. What made it stand out was the photo of Lanny he included. It was blurry like it had been taken quickly and surreptitiously, and it was of her school.

Which meant he’d been in Knoxville. He’d been at my daughter’s school. He’d been within striking distance. I’d immediately forwarded the email on to the FBI and hadn’t let Lanny drive anywhere on her own for weeks. The FBI had given me the same response they usually did: they would look into it, but in the meantime let them know if I received any additional threats from the guy.

In other words, they’d add it to the pile of other emails and consider doing something if his behavior escalated. I remember the outrage I’d felt at the time.

I’d even called Mike to see if he could do anything. He’d tried, but had run into the same roadblocks I had. There just weren’t enough resources to go after every asshole making threats online. At least he was as frustrated about the whole thing as I was. He’d promised to refer the matter up the chain. Apparently, that seems to have worked.

I shove the email back across the table. “You’re just now following up on this? I guess better late than never. So, were you able to track this asshole down? Can we press charges against him?”

“We were able to track him down,” Wren informs me. “Unfortunately, pressing charges is out of the question.”

“And why is that, exactly?” I bite out angrily.

I’m already wound up, ready to argue with her when she says, “Because he’s dead.”

I blink at her. That was not at all what I’d expected her to say. “Oh.”

“He was murdered a few weeks ago,” she continues. “Quite brutally.”

I notice both Wren and Indiri eyeing me closely, watching my reaction. I don’t typically take satisfaction in other people’s deaths, especially not their suffering, but I can’t say I’m sorry the guy is dead. It’s one less threat I have to worry about.

I clasp my fingers together on the table. “As much as I appreciate you two delivering the news in person, I assume that’s not what you’re here for.”

Indiri’s mouth twitches with the hint of a smile. Between the two of them, he’s definitely the good cop. “It isn’t. I’m afraid we have some questions for you, specifically about your whereabouts over the past several weeks.”

That surprises me. Mostly because if I’d wanted to kill the guy, I’d have done it after he sent that first email. “You think I had something to do with this guy’s murder?”

“Right now, we’re just gathering information,” Indiri says, his posture still relaxed. I glance toward Special Agent Wren. She’s wound so tight I’m shocked she hasn’t snapped. They’re clearly here out of more than mere curiosity. They could have assuaged that with a phone call.

“If you give me exact dates, I’ll check my calendar,” I tell them, pulling my phone from my pocket.

They give me a range of several days, which tells me they haven’t been able to pinpoint a time of death. I’m guessing that means they didn’t find the body immediately.

“Where was he found?” I ask.

“In his house,” Wren informs me. So, his body wasn’t disposed of or dumped.

“I meant, where in the country was he found,” I clarify.

She clears her throat. “Texas. A little town down near the border, close to New Mexico.”

I scroll through my calendar. “Let’s see. Two weeks ago. Tuesday morning, I took my car in for an oil change. That should be easy to verify. That afternoon, I picked my son up from equine therapy. I can give you the name and number of the barn if you need to verify that. I placed a FaceTime call to my friend Kez later that night. She’s a police detective over in Norton, so I leave it up to you whether you take her word on that.”

I flip over to my credit card app and scan the recent activity. “Wednesday morning, I got coffee at a shop around the corner—I’m a regular, so they’ll remember me. That evening, we went to Dolce Vida for dinner as a family—the server will remember us, and if not, we had to make a reservation. And Thursday, I ran several errands throughout the day and can find the receipts if need be.” I look up at the two of them. “Is that sufficient?”

They exchange glances. “And in between those times?” Wren presses.

I give her a polite smile. “I assume you’ve already checked flight manifests and didn’t find any trace of me, so I couldn’t have flown down to wherever this guy lived. Train service would have been time-consuming and I would have had to deal with finding a rental car or some other transportation once I arrived at the nearest city. You’ll have checked those databases too. Which leaves driving. I’m guessing it’s about a ten-hour trip, probably longer. But let’s assume half that—even then, we’re still talking a minimum of twelve hours round trip. So, no, I don’t have to fill in the gaps in my calendar. I only need to give you enough to prove that I didn’t have twelve hours to drive down and murder this asshole.”

Special Agent Indiri’s mouth twitches again in a suppressed smile. Wren looks like she’s about to press for more, but he says, “You’re right. That should be sufficient, and if it isn’t, we’ll let you know.”

Neither one of them makes any moves to stand, which means they have more questions. I can already guess what they are. “To save you the trouble, I can also tell you that Sam was flying cargo that week. The FAA will have records of all his flights. Though I’m sure you’re already aware of that or you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”

This time, Indiri actually smiles. “That is also true.”

I nod. “Now that we have the matter of my involvement—or lack thereof—settled, how about you fill me in on the real reason you’re here? If this were simply a murder investigation, the local cops would be handling it, not the FBI. Plus, you mentioned that Melvin Royal was involved. So far, I don’t see any connection, other than this Cooper Kuntz guy was obviously not a fan of his.”

“Right again,” Indiri says. “We found something of Melvin’s at the crime scene.”

I frown. Not long after he was found guilty, some of Melvin’s possessions ended up on the black market—items of clothing, letters he’d written, even strands of his hair at one point. Why anyone found value in that kind of thing, I had no idea. It disgusted me to even think about. “What was it?” I ask, not really sure I want to know.

“A shard of bone,” he says evenly.

“Bone?” I ask, not sure I heard him correctly. “Like human bones? His bone?”

Indiri gestures at Wren, who slides a photo out of the folder and passes it to me. It’s a forensic picture of a piece of bone lying on a blue cloth. The rulers beside it indicate it’s about an inch long and narrow.

“It’s the middle phalange of his index finger,” she tells me. “From his hand. Specifically, his left hand.”

I stare at it. Disgust roils in my stomach when I think about how this used to be a part of Melvin—that it was inside him. A part of his hand that he used to torture women before slipping into bed with me at night and sliding it down my body.

I shove the photo away, bile burning the back of my throat. “How the hell did this guy end up with one of Melvin’s bones?” It’s not like Melvin could have cut off his finger and sold it. If he had, I would have noticed when he kidnapped me with the intent to torture me on a live broadcast.

“That’s something we’re still trying to determine,” Wren says.

There’s suspicion in her voice. I can’t imagine they still think I had anything to do with this. “I can say with absolute certainty that when I shot and killed Melvin Royal, he was in possession of all of his fingers.”

Indiri almost smiles again. “I appreciate the confirmation, though it’s unnecessary. We know where the bone came from. Someone dug up his grave.”

The news lands like a punch in the gut. I sit back in my chair, head spinning. I’d heard of this happening before: people so obsessed with celebrities that they dig up their graves, then sell off the contents as souvenirs. It’s gruesome and sick, but it doesn’t surprise me. At the time of his death, Melvin had fans who were loyal enough to him that they’d do anything, including kidnap his kids and kill his ex-wife. They were more akin to acolytes than fans.

I’d worried one of them might try to track Melvin down and dig him up, which is why I’d gone to great lengths to prevent that from happening. He’d been buried in an anonymous grave, in a cemetery with zero connection to his life.

I have a photo of that grave hanging in my office. It’s nondescript. One more numbered headstone among a sea of others. A reminder that he’s dead and gone.

“How did they even find him?” I realize I’m angry. No one was ever supposed to find that grave. That someone did means I missed something—left some sort of clue to his whereabouts I was unaware of. Which makes me wonder: what else have I missed? What other vulnerabilities exist that I’m oblivious to?

“We’re trying to figure that out,” Indiri says.

I run a hand down my face. “When did it happen? Why wasn’t I notified earlier?” There’s a note on file with the cemetery that I’m to be contacted in the event anyone asks about the grave or anything happens to it.

“We don’t know.”

My eyes go wide. “What do you mean? How can you not know? You can’t just dig up a grave without anyone knowing.”

“Trust me, we’re as frustrated as you are,” Indiri says.

I snort in response. I know they’re just bones, and it shouldn’t matter to me that they’re missing, but I took comfort in knowing where Melvin was and that I was the one who put him there.

Wren takes out a few more photos from her folder. I recognize them instantly. Melvin’s gravesite. It looks the same as in the picture hanging in my office. “We spoke to the company that operates the cemetery and to all of the groundskeepers who have worked there over the past year. None of them reported anyone showing any interest in Melvin’s grave, nor do they recall any disturbances in the area. No tread tracks from a digger, no mounds of dirt. Nothing whatsoever to indicate something happening with his grave.”

“I’m assuming you dug it up to verify that his body wasn’t there?” I ask.

Indiri nods. “Earlier this week. The coffin was still there, but it was empty. We’ve sent what we could off to forensics, hoping we might be able to find trace fibers or fingerprints, but…”

He doesn’t have to say the rest. In those conditions, I know how unlikely it is they’ll find anything. Especially given that they don’t even know when the crime occurred. I drop my head into my hands. “I can’t believe this. What kind of sick monster robs a grave and then sells the bones off as memorabilia?”

Special Agent Indiri shifts in his chair. “We don’t think that’s what’s going on here.”

I lift my head and eye him. “Why not? How else do you explain Cooper Kuntz ending up with one of Melvin’s bones?”

“Because we found the bone lodged in his throat. According to the forensic pathologist, whoever killed him was the one who put it there.”

5

GWEN

A wave of revulsion rolls through me. I can’t stop myself from lifting a hand and cupping my palm around my neck. “One of Melvin’s bones was in his throat?” I nearly gag at the thought.

Indiri nods. “The pathologist thinks it may have contributed to his death.”

I shudder at the thought of choking to death on one of Melvin’s bones. Over the years I’ve been exposed to some horrible things. During my trial for being an accessory to Melvin’s murders, the prosecution trotted out photos from Melvin’s crime scenes and victims as often as possible. Less than a year ago, I was forced to watch a woman bleed out in horrific pain after a monster amputated her arms and legs. Again and again, I’ve borne witness to the worst of humanity, but somehow, this detail makes my stomach roil in revulsion.

“Why would someone do that?” I ask.

“We’re still trying to figure that out,” Special Agent Indiri says. “We have a profiler working on the case, and according to their initial report, it’s definitely an indicator that the murder was personal. That rules out the possibility that this was a random crime or a robbery gone wrong. Whoever killed Cooper Kuntz knew about his obsession with Melvin Royal.”

“And, by association, you,” Wren adds. She can’t quite hide the edge to her voice, and it’s obvious that she’s still suspicious of me, despite my alibi. If she’s hoping to intimidate me, she should have done a little more research. I’ve dealt with far worse than her over the years.

Special Agent Indiri ignores his partner’s comment. “You weren’t the only one Kuntz sent threatening emails to, but you were clearly his main target. Going through his computers, we’ve learned that he was also active on several message boards, including one dedicated to Melvin Royal. We’re looking into his interactions there to see if we can find any connections. It wouldn’t be the first time a feud online morphed into real-world consequences.”

My stomach sinks at his words. If they start digging into the Melvin Royal message boards, they’ll likely find the connection to Connor. For a while last year, he’d been one of the most prolific and popular posters on the largest board. The odds of him having interacted with Kuntz seem pretty high.

I consider keeping this information to myself, banking on the possibility that they may not put the pieces together. After all, Connor deleted his account and erased his posts. The only problem is that the FBI was the one to figure out that Connor was posting as Melvin’s Little Helper in the first place. Which means there’s already an internal record making that connection.

I lace my fingers together on the table and take a breath. “You should know something, then. My son, Connor, was active on the main Melvin Royal message board for several months. You should reach out to Mike Lustig—he’s a special agent as well. He can fill you in on the relevant details.”

This piques Wren’s interest. “Can we talk with your son?”

“Absolutely not.” I don’t even have to think about the question. In no way do I want Connor forced to rehash that time in his life.

Wren presses the point. “It would be really useful to know if he interacted with or has more info on⁠—”

“I said no.” I snap, my voice cutting. She glares at me, and for a moment I think she won’t back down. If that’s the case, she has no idea who she’s up against. I’ll stop at nothing to protect my children.

Indiri intervenes, his demeanor calm in an attempt to lower the tension. “Understandable. We’ll speak with Special Agent Lustig and get what we need from him. In the meantime, do you know if your son connected with other posters outside of the boards? Maybe to continue discussions in chat rooms or via text?”

I would love to tell him no, absolutely not, but I can’t be sure. Connor claimed that all he did was post messages—answering questions about Melvin and providing details he gleaned from the letters Melvin sent me over the years. At the time, he’d been having problems making friends at school and felt isolated. On the Melvin Royal boards, he was treated like a rock star. He was popular for once.

I want to believe Connor when he says all he did was post, but he lied about his involvement for so long that it’s been hard to rebuild my trust in him. So instead, I tell Indiri, “Authorities never found any indication that his involvement went beyond his public posts.”

It’s obvious the two special agents find the connection between my son and Cooper Kuntz intriguing. That makes me uneasy. It’s one thing for them to consider my involvement; it’s another thing entirely to bring Connor into this.

I stand and collect their mugs, making it clear our conversation is over. “If that’s all you have for me, I need to get back to work,” I tell them.

The two stand, and Wren reaches into her pocket for a card. She sets it on the table. “If you wouldn’t mind sending me photos of the receipts you mentioned earlier, along with your friend Kez’s contact information, I would appreciate it.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised by her request. It’s case management 101 to follow up on a suspect’s alibi. I just figured that I’d provided enough information to be removed from suspicion. That they still want to verify my alibi means that I’m still a suspect. Hopefully verifying my alibis will put an end to that.

I escort the two special agents to the front door and shake their hands before firmly closing it behind them. Out of habit, I immediately flip the lock and reset the alarm.

Once I’m back in my office, I try calling Sam to fill him in on the FBI’s visit, but it goes straight to voicemail. I glance at the clock. It’s only early afternoon, and I have more work to do, but there’s no way my brain will be able to focus on anything else right now.

Instead, I find myself staring at the photo of Melvin’s grave. Or former grave, I guess I should say. Someone went to great lengths to not only steal his body but also cover their tracks. If authorities hadn’t found the finger bone at Cooper Kuntz’s murder scene, Melvin’s missing body may have never been discovered.

Which means that whoever dug him up didn’t want anyone to know about the crime at the time, but now, they no longer care. So what changed?

The actual removal of Melvin’s bones would have required a monumental amount of effort. Modern cemeteries may only bury bodies four feet deep, but it would still take hours to dig up a coffin by hand. Plus, they’d be working at night with minimal lights to avoid being detected.

Once they uncovered the coffin, they’d have had to deal with Melvin’s body. Depending on how long after his burial they dug him up, he’d have already started to decompose. It’s not like they could just throw him over their shoulder and cart him away. They would have needed a method of transportation nearby. Then they’d have had to rebury the coffin, making sure to tamp down the dirt before replacing the sod and cleaning up and erasing any tracks.

I shake my head, trying to think through all the steps. It would make the most sense if they used a backhoe. That’s what most cemeteries use these days. But would the grave robber have been willing to use a machine that might attract attention?

I make a note to check into landscaping equipment rental companies in the area to see if anyone who’d rented a backhoe recently stood out to them. Though it would be easier if I could narrow down the window of time when this might have happened.

Maybe I can. I pull up the cemetery’s address on Google Maps and then switch to satellite view. I zoom in until I’m in the general area of Melvin’s grave. Then, I start clicking back through previous images of the same spot taken on earlier dates. Unfortunately, the images are too blurry at this resolution to be of much help.

I’m not ready to give up, though. Most people don’t realize that nearly every photo they take contains trackable metadata, including location information. When they post those photos online, that metadata gets uploaded as well. Even if the photo is behind a privacy block or has been deleted, the data is accessible with the right software.

I just happen to have access to that software through work. I jot down the coordinates of Melvin’s grave from Google Maps and enter them into the image search engine. Given the number of photos and videos uploaded to the internet on any given day, a search like this can take a while, so I let it run in the background while I turn to something else.

I click through several folders on my computer until I find one labeled Taxes-2019. After Connor found the USB key with the scans of Melvin’s letters I’d hidden, I decided it might be more effective if I tried hiding information I didn’t want him to access in plain sight. Hence, my finances folder. I figure no teenager is going to go clicking around in tax documents. So far, I’ve been right.

After entering a password to open the folder, I’m faced with a list of case files. This is where I keep the more egregious offenders from Sicko Patrol—the ones I forward to the FBI. The ones I refer to as SuperSickos. Early on, I tried tracking down the SuperSickos, hoping a real name or address might make the FBI more likely to act on the threat. Back then, however, my investigative skills weren’t that impressive.

I hadn’t been trained like I am now. Nor did I have access to the tools and databases I do today. I start with the first name: At0m1Cluck. He’d been a regular for a while, sending messages every month or so. I click on his folder, already bracing for what I know I’ll find. He was a fan of torture porn, and he especially liked photoshopping my face on the women involved and then sending me the results. The video begins to play automatically, and I practically jump out of my skin trying to get it to stop.

At the time, I’d been able to track his user name across several different sites. He’d posted enough personal details on each one that I eventually pieced together his real identity. His name was Salem Adams, and he worked as a forklift operator in a warehouse outside Boise. I’d considered collecting some of his messages and sending them to his boss, but this was early on in my post-Melvin life when I was still on the run and trying to keep a low profile.

I jot down his name and run it through one of the more powerful search engines I have access to through work, wondering if his online activity ever caught up to him. Instead of an article about him getting fired for any of his violent, racist posts, I find an obituary. I dig a little deeper and discover that he was murdered several months ago in what authorities determined was a home invasion gone wrong.

I can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone. That’s one less person in the world dedicating his life to spewing hate.

I move on to the next name on my SuperSicko list: QP1113d, aka Forrester Blakeny. Where Salem had been one of Melvin’s early acolytes, Blakeny didn’t start falling down the Melvin Royal rabbit hole until a year ago. However, once he decided that I was complicit in my ex-husband’s murders, he came after me pretty aggressively. Not only did he send me vile, threatening emails, he also reached out to my boss late last year to ask her if she knew she was employing a serial killer.

J.B. hadn’t appreciated his tip and responded by using her agency resources to track him down and burn every contact of his she could. She took great delight in forwarding me an article from his small-town newspaper, indicating he’d been fired from his sales job once his online activity came to light thanks to an anonymous community member.

I run an updated search on his name and frown when I find another obituary. It’s short on details, and when I try searching for more information, I come up empty. I check the date of his death and realize it wasn’t long after J.B. blew up his life. For a moment, I feel a slight pang of guilt, wondering if there’s a connection between the two.

For the next several names on my list I don’t turn up anything interesting. Then I come across another two who died, one in what was assumed to be a drug deal gone wrong, and the other a gang hit. I discover two more who seem to have gone missing, though it’s unclear whether foul play was involved.

I sit back in my chair, looking at my final tally. There are over fifty names on my SuperSicko list, and four are dead. Another two are missing and presumed dead. Plus, Cooper Kuntz, who the FBI asked me about earlier. That’s over a 10% mortality rate so far.

Given that the US murder rate is around seven and a half deaths per one hundred thousand people, having that same number of suspicious deaths out of a group of fifty is alarmingly high.

I think about Special Agent Wren’s card on my kitchen table and consider compiling the list to send to her. But she made it pretty clear she isn’t a fan of mine and the feeling is mutual. Besides, I’m not sure what she’d do with the information other than conclude that I’m the common link, which would only fuel her suspicion of me.

Instead, I go back to the article I found on Salem Adams’ death and find the name of the police officer it quoted. I track down his phone number and give him a call. I’m surprised when he picks up on the second ring. I expected to be redirected to an operator instead.

It takes me a second to find my footing, but then I give him my name and explain that I’m calling for information about the Salem Adams case.

He hesitates for a moment before responding. “Do you mind if I ask what your interest is in the case?”

Over the years, I’ve learned that the best lies skew as much toward the truth as possible. “Of course. I’m a private investigator,” I give him the name of my company and my PI license number. “Mr. Adams’ name came up while I was doing some work for a client.”

“Unfortunately, ma’am, given that this is an open and ongoing investigation, I’m not at liberty to give out any details.”

I shouldn’t be surprised by the answer. I knew it was a long shot that he’d speak to me, but I’d still hoped he might. “I understand.” I pause for a moment, wondering if I should ask if there were any human bones at the scene, but then realize if the answer is yes, it will only complicate things. If that’s a piece of information that hasn’t been released to the public, it would look very suspicious for me to call out of the blue and ask about it.

Instead, I thank the officer for his time and end the call. I sit for another moment, tapping my pen on the desk. It’s a waste of time to call any of the law enforcement involved in the other cases; they’ll all give me similar answers. However, there’s someone I know who they might be willing to talk to.

When Kez answers the phone, her breathing is labored, and her voice is strained. Alarm bells go off in my head.

“What’s wrong?” I immediately ask.

“I’m fine,” she tells me. “I’m just in labor.”

6

GWEN

I jump out of my chair and start down the hallway toward my bedroom. “What? Kez! Why didn’t you call me earlier? I’m on my way.”

She laughs, but it comes out strained. “No, it’s just prodromal labor, which is a thing no one warned me about. It’s like real labor, except nothing happens. Javi, of course, panicked and took me to the ER where they informed me that, according to my cervix, I’m not even close to having this baby, and the contractions should go away ‘at some point’ on their own, which may be anywhere from an hour to several days. I’m in hell.”

Her frustration and discomfort are evident over the phone. I hate that I’m not there to help her, especially since the only family she has nearby is her elderly father. He’s a wonderful man but perhaps not the most helpful when it comes to supporting her through labor. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask her.

“Tell Javi to stop hovering. He’s terrified the doctors are wrong and that at any minute he’s going to be catching this baby. I’m not sure he totally understands how long labor usually takes. Especially the first time around.”

I smile. Knowing Javi, I’m not at all surprised he’s so concerned. He adores Kez and will make an amazing father. “Tell him you’re craving ice cream. Pick some sort of ridiculous flavor that will be difficult to find. It will give him something to do and make him feel useful.”

“Ooh! Good idea.” I hear her muffle the phone and convey the order to Javi. There’s a bit of a back-and-forth before she’s back on the line. “You are a genius. He’s off to town to get a pint of Earl Grey honeycomb, which they only carry at that specialty shop on Main Street. Not only will I have some time for myself, but I’ll also get ice cream at the end of it.”

“How is the little bean doing? Have you picked a name yet?”

She groans. “We’ve picked out several. The issue is settling on one. We keep changing our minds. I’m hoping we’ll just know which one is right when we meet them for the first time.”

I smile as I remember Lanny’s birth. She’d come out red-faced and squalling until the minute they placed her on my chest. Her eyes had been dark and she’d stared up at me with the fiercest frown. I’d known right then I would do anything to protect her.

“You’ll know,” I tell her. “You’ll be surprised how everything just tends to fall into place.”

My voice catches slightly, and I clear my throat. “And, of course, you can always change your mind later. My kids have had several names.” I try to keep my tone light, but the ache is still there. Yet another thing Melvin stole from us.

Kez hesitates, and I can feel her weighing how to respond.

“It will all work out,” I tell her. “I promise.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Every time one of these contractions hits, I ask myself what the hell I signed up for. Then I remember that this baby has to come out of me one way or another.” She laughs. “But as much as I love telling you my woes, I’m guessing that’s not why you called. What’s up?”

“It’s nothing,” I tell her. “I was hoping you might be able to give me some insight on a case, but there’s no way I’m asking a thing of you right now.”

“Oh, come on. It’s called false labor for a reason! I can’t go in to work, and I’ve been bored out of my mind sitting here all day. I would love nothing more than a project to take my mind off all this. So, what have you got?”

“Kez, you’re going to have a baby soon. You should be focused on nesting.”

She snorts. “When have you ever known me to be into anything as domestic as nesting? I’d rather be out in the field serving a search warrant than washing another batch of baby clothes. You called for my help. Please, let me help.”

I hesitate for another moment before letting out a breath. “It really only involves making some phone calls, and if at any point, you’re not feeling like doing⁠—”

“Gwen, seriously. Stop treating me like I’m fragile. I get enough of that from Javi. I’m a whole grown-ass woman and I’m absolutely capable of saying no when I need to. I’m not saying it now.”

One of the things I’ve always loved about Kez is that she’s a woman who isn’t afraid to speak her mind. “Okay, then. Here’s what I’ve got.” I tell her about the FBI visit this morning and Cooper Kuntz’s murder.

She’s just as horrified as I am. “What kind of person would do something like that? Go through all that effort to dig up Melvin’s body and then use his bones as…what? Some kind of weapon? And what does it have to do with you? They can’t possibly think you had anything to do with it.”

“They asked for my alibi,” I inform her. “Sam’s as well.”

“Seriously? Just because this Cooper Kuntz guy once sent you threatening emails doesn’t mean you had anything to do with his murder.”

“That’s the thing. It wasn’t just Cooper Kuntz.” I tell her about going through my files and what I discovered about several of the other guys who’d sent threatening emails. “Something about it doesn’t sit right with me. On the surface, their deaths aren’t necessarily that suspicious and there’s nothing tying them together.”

“Except for you,” Kez points out.

I let out a breath. “Except for me,” I echo. “It has to be a coincidence, right? I mean, a drug deal gone wrong in Louisiana and a missing person in Nevada—those are two different deaths with different MOs.”

“Your gut is telling you there’s something there. You should listen to it.”

She’s right. I’ve had a love-hate relationship with my gut over the past year. I used to rely on it without second thought, but my confidence got shaken after my interaction with Jonathan Watson at Salah Point. It has taken me a while to get used to listening to it again.

“I tried calling the investigating officer for one of the cases, hoping to learn more so I could see if the deaths are related at all. Unsurprisingly, he wasn’t interested in sharing any information. I was hoping that as a detective you might be able to get farther than I could if you asked?”

“I can give it a try. I’ve had success with that in the past when we were trying to track down Sheryl Lansdowne after she drowned her two kids. Email me the list of names and any other information you’ve got, and I’ll start making calls. Worst thing they can do is tell me no.”

I still feel a moment of hesitation. She’s so close to her due date. The last thing I need to do is involve her in my problems. “Are you sure, Kez?”

“Do you like it when other people tell you what you can and can’t do?” she asks with an edge to her voice.

She has a point. “You’re right.”

“I know I am.” I hear her grin through the phone.

I think about how long it’s been since I’ve seen her—almost four months. With Lanny’s school and Connor’s equine therapy, I haven’t had the time to leave town for a visit. I realize now that’s a terrible excuse. Sam is more than capable of handling the kids on his own.

Kez was there when I needed her the most, even risking her life to save mine in the lighthouse at Salah Point. I owe her everything. “Are you sure you don’t need me to come up there? Even for a day? I can take over laundry duty.”

“I appreciate the offer. I really do,” Kez says. “But save your time off for when the baby comes. Laundry, I know how to handle. A newborn will be trickier. It will be nice to have another mom around to help and answer questions. Deal?”

“Absolutely,” I tell her.

“I’ll start making these calls while Javi’s at work tomorrow and let you know what I find. We’ll get this figured out.”

I let out a relieved breath. “Thanks, Kez. I’m sorry my past keeps rearing its ugly head.”

“No apologies,” she says, cutting me off. “If it weren’t for your past, you’d never have moved to Stillhouse Lake, and we’d wouldn’t have become friends. It’s because of your past that I get to have you in my life. And for that, I’m grateful.”

My eyes burn as tears threaten. Kez isn’t one to wear her emotions on her sleeves, which makes her words even more meaningful. “You’re the best.”

She clears her throat. “Stupid pregnancy hormones, making me tear up all the damn time,” she grumbles. “I’ll be glad when that’s no longer an issue.”

I laugh. “Postpartum hormones are even worse.”

She groans. “I don’t want to hear about that,” she says. “Hanging up now. Bye.”

I smile as the call disconnects. Even so, I still feel unsettled. I check the location app on my phone: Lanny’s at school, Connor is at the library, and Sam is offline, which probably means he’s flying since he tends to turn his phone off before takeoff.

A familiar anxiety sits heavily in my stomach. I try to determine the source of it: the podcast, the FBI visit, spending so much time focused on Sicko Patrol. Sure, all of those things are contributors, but the feeling in my gut is more than that. It makes me antsy, like there’s something I should be doing that I forgot.

I rack my brain, scrolling back through my emails to figure out if maybe I scheduled an appointment and forgot to put it on my calendar. There’s nothing. It’s maddening, because if I can’t figure out the source of my unease, then I can’t address it. It just sits there, churning and weighing down my thoughts.

I decide to distract myself with laundry. I’ve often found that I get some of my best thinking done during the most mundane tasks. I’m sorting through my dirty clothes when I realize I haven’t seen my favorite Ramones T-shirt in a while. Which means it has once again fallen into the black hole of Lanny’s room.

I go hunt for it, and while I’m there, I figure I might as well start on her laundry as well. I’m excavating a trove of old clothes from under her bed when I come across a shoebox. It gets hooked on the hem of a Blondie T-shirt—also mine—and accidentally tips over, spilling its contents.

It’s nothing risqué, just a collection of envelopes. I wonder for a moment if perhaps I’ve come across her trove of love letters and consider taking a peek. But then I remind myself that Lanny’s room is her sanctuary, and I’m invading it. I should stop, shove the envelopes back into the shoebox, and slide it under her bed. To do anything else would be a violation of the deepest kind.

Then I think about Connor and how he spent last year secretly posting on a Melvin Royal message board. He’d created an entire online identity as Melvin’s Little Helper and posted details about Melvin and his crimes that he learned by snooping through old letters Melvin had sent me.

I’d had no idea about any of it: that he’d found the letters or was posting snippets online. I only learned about it when the FBI searched Connor’s computer after his best friend took a gun to school and shot two students, then claimed Connor had put him up to it.

The whole experience had shattered my trust and opened my eyes.

It’s not fair that Lanny should also suffer the consequences of Connor’s missteps, but that’s just the reality of our lives. We’re not like most families who don’t give the safety of their homes and their lives a second thought.

We’ve been hunted before. Both of my kids have been kidnapped. Each of us has a target on our back because of our relation to Melvin Royal.

I know the right thing to do would be to return the shoebox and walk away. But then I remember when Lanny was four and chased the neighbor’s dog out into the street without looking. I’d screamed in terror as I watched a car barrel toward her. Thankfully, it stopped with a squeal of brakes. When I was able to catch my breath, I explained to her that she couldn’t ever, ever, ever run out into the street like that again.

She’d looked at me, genuinely confused, and asked, “But why?” I’d told her she could be hit by a car. She still didn’t understand. Her brain couldn’t grasp the finality of that danger.

The conversation had left me shaking, because if she couldn’t recognize danger, how could I ever teach her to avoid it?

As adults, we recognize dangers kids don’t. That’s our job.

I’ve spent the last several years trying to instill that understanding in my kids. Sometimes, I think they get it. Sometimes, I know they don’t.

It’s the latter that keeps me up at night. It’s also what has me retrieving the first envelope from under Lanny’s bed. I freeze when I notice the return address. It’s from Stanford University. I read the first line: Congratulations! We would like to welcome you to the class of…

My eyes go wide, and I find myself smiling and laughing giddily. It’s an acceptance letter! To Stanford! My baby girl got into Stanford! I let out a whoop of excitement and immediately reach for my phone, wanting to congratulate her.

Then, I realize I can’t.

I’m not supposed to know about this. Maybe she’s waiting to surprise me with the news, I think. Then I glance at the date and feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. The letter is from months ago.

I sit back on my heels and reach for the next envelope. It’s another acceptance letter. This time from Berkeley. There’s another from Smith and one from Princeton. Another from Duke. I shake my head in wonder. I’ve always known Lanny is smart, but this blows my mind.

My chest swells with pride at what my daughter has accomplished.

But my pride is tempered by confusion. Why hasn’t she shared any of this? Why keep it a secret? How did I not notice all these letters coming in the mail?

That’s when I look closer at the top of the letters and notice that all were sent to a private mailbox and not home. Which makes all of this even more intentional. She had to have found a place that would rent a box to a minor and set it all up before she even started applying.

Keeping this news a secret took planning and effort. Why?

It reminds me of Connor all over again. Thinking that I knew him, that we had the kind of relationship where we didn’t keep big secrets. I’d been wrong.

It turns out I was wrong about Lanny as well.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I think of all the family dinners we’ve had over the past months when she could have brought this up. How many times had she been sitting there, excitement from a fresh acceptance letter bubbling through her, but she’d remained silent, hiding the news from us? We’d even talked about colleges dozens of times. She said her plan was to start out at the local community college and then decide if she wanted to apply elsewhere down the road.

I hadn’t challenged her on that plan because a part of me had been relieved she wanted to stay so close to home.

Did she just apply to these schools out of curiosity? To see if she could get in? Or is this more than that?

I don’t know whether I want this to be real or not. My heart nearly breaks at the thought of her moving away next year, but it shatters at the idea of her staying and giving up on the opportunities these letters present.

I bury my face in my hands. How am I supposed to bring this up with her? She’ll be furious if she finds out I went digging through her room. Any hope I have of a real, honest conversation would be instantly out the window. There’s no way she’ll open up or trust me again.

I curse under my breath, both mad at myself for snooping and at Lanny for keeping this a secret.

Because of course I can’t stop wondering what else she might be hiding. As much as I wish I could, I can’t let this go. With a sigh of resignation and a pit in my stomach, I scan the rest of her room. I’ll have to search it. Connor’s too. As violative as it feels, I don’t have an option.

This is one of those shitty aspects of being a parent. Because the reality is, I’m not my kids’ friend, I’m their parent. That means making the difficult choices to keep them safe, even when I know it might end up pissing them off or hurting their feelings.

Slowly, methodically, I make my way through her room. Checking the back of her closet, the pages of her books, coat pockets, beneath dresser drawers.

Thankfully, I find nothing of interest. That changes when I switch on her computer.

Of course, it’s password protected, but every time I give my kids any kind of electronic equipment, I make sure to install a master key that gives me access. I override the protections she’s put in place and start hunting through her files and checking her search history.

I note that she uses a VPN and a browser that dumps the cache whenever she closes a window. Smart girl. But no data is ever truly erased. Within five minutes, I find her private Instagram page.

My heart sinks. “Lanny, no,” I murmur to myself. I’ve told my kids again and again and again that they’re not allowed on social media. I know it’s hard for them, especially in today’s world, but the risks are too great.

I thought they listened. I thought they understood.

Apparently not.

7

GWEN

The sense of betrayal cuts deep. I scroll through Lanny’s Instagram feed with a pit in my stomach. At least she’s been smart about her posts. She uses a fake name and bio. None of the photos include identifiable images that could tie them to our family or even to Knoxville. In fact, most of what she posts are artistic shots of everyday objects. I have to admit, she’s pretty good.

How could I have not noticed her taking these pictures? How did I miss her talent?

I slump back in her desk chair. Several of her lipsticks and an eyebrow pencil are scattered next to the keyboard. A stick of deodorant sits next to them.

You could put me in a crowded room with my eyes covered, and I’d be able to find my daughter based on scent alone. The unmistakable mix of leave-in conditioner, body butter, lip gloss, and Sour Patch Kids.

I could recognize her voice out of thousands. I would know the slightest brush of her hand against mine.

There’s so much that I know about my daughter that’s imprinted in my very being. Her DNA still swims in my blood.

But there’s so much more that I don’t know. That I didn’t even realize I didn’t know.

The realization is crushing.

I open the Instagram menu and spend way too long navigating through the settings to find the option to delete the account. Then, I hesitate. The smart move would be to press the button. I forbade Lanny from being on social media. That, plus the fact that she’s still seventeen and not a legal adult, gives me the absolute right to terminate any account of hers I come across.

She’ll be furious. She’ll hate me. But I’ve dealt with her rage before. I faced it every time I told her it was time to pack up and pick a new name. If there’s one thing that animates Lanny, it’s a sense of injustice or unfairness.

The difference is, she’s not a kid anymore. As evidenced by the stack of college acceptance letters stashed under her bed, she’s perilously close to becoming an adult. If she decides to go away to college, I’ll no longer be there to monitor where she goes, who she talks to, or what she does.

I’ll no longer be able to keep her safe. That will become her responsibility.

I lean forward in her chair, my breathing suddenly shallow and my head woozy. I thought I had more time.

I hear my therapist’s voice in my head, telling me to focus on my breathing. To ground myself in my surroundings. Remember that control is an illusion. I don’t keep Lanny safe by shielding her from the world. I keep her safe by teaching her how to exist in the world safely.

Maybe that means letting her keep the account.

That doesn’t mean I don’t plan to keep an eye on it, though.

Before I can spend too much time thinking about it, I scroll through her followers until I find one with a fairly generic-looking account and not much activity. I double-check to make sure the person hasn’t engaged with Lanny’s posts anytime recently.

Then, I pull out my phone and quickly create an Instagram account that mirrors it, with only a slight variation in the spelling. I copy over the profile picture and all the posts. Unless someone was looking very closely, they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the two accounts.

Once I have that all set, I send a friend request to Lanny. Since I’m logged into her account on her computer, I immediately accept the request, then have her unfriend the account I mirrored. Basically, I’ve replaced it with my nearly identical one. And with that, I’ve officially snuck my way onto my daughter’s Instagram page.

I sit for a moment longer with this decision, wondering if I’ve crossed a line.

If I have, it’s for her benefit.

I’m still sitting at Lanny’s computer when my phone alarm goes off, letting me know it’s time for Connor to get ready for his afternoon shift at the barn where he works several times a week. I barely shut everything down and make it out of Lanny’s room before the front door swings open. Connor races in, shouting hello before disarming and re-arming the security system.

Even though I’m standing awkwardly in the hallway, and definitely feel like my expression screams guilt, Connor barely gives me a second glance as he heads to his bedroom. “I’ll be ready in five minutes,” he calls out.

With a sigh of relief, I grab my laptop from my office and head to the kitchen to refill my water bottle. Moments later, Connor emerges wearing old jeans, well-worn work boots, and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

He brushes his bangs from his eyes, and something about the gesture makes him look so young. I’m suddenly flooded with memories of all the times I’ve run my fingers through his hair to comfort him over the years.

He grabs his jacket from the hook by the door and lifts his eyebrows impatiently. “Mom? You ready?”

And, just like that, he’s my fifteen-year-old again.

“How was the library?” I ask once we’re in the car and on our way to the barn.

He shrugs and continues looking out the side window. “Fine.”

I purse my lips, trying to decide whether to push for more details. It’s been difficult to identify where the line is between typical teenager behavior and avoidance that might be indicative of underlying issues that need addressing.

As if he can sense my train of thought, he rolls his head on the headrest until he faces me. “It’s a library, Mom. There were books. There were old people. There were some little kids there for story hour. It was fine. Stop overthinking it.”

I flash him a smile. A mother’s job is to overthink. Otherwise, things won’t get done.

“Tell me about the book you’re reading?” I try instead.

For a moment, I think he’ll shrug the question off. Instead, he launches into a recap of a complicated fantasy plot that’s way too convoluted to follow. But he’s talking, and engaged—even animated—and that makes my heart happy.

He’s explaining one of the magic systems in the book when we turn into the entrance to the large farm that hosts the equine therapy program. We drive past multiple paddocks before pulling into a gravel lot near several barns. Connor hops out and waves as he takes off toward the office to check in for work.

In addition to the barns, there are indoor and outdoor rings set up with jumps, cones, and other obstacles. Dotted throughout the property are picnic tables and Adirondack chairs so parents can watch their kids practice or just enjoy the peace and tranquility of being outside in nature.

Even though it’s winter, and the air is crisp, the sun is warm enough that I decide to sit outside. I pull on my jacket and a wool hat and carry my bag to a chair by a leafless oak. Once seated, I set up my laptop to try and get some work done.

But my thoughts return to Leonard Varrus and my conversation with Taylor earlier this morning. How is it possible for a man like Varrus to disappear? In the profile I’d put together while doing my own investigation into his background, I hadn’t come across anything to suggest that he was particularly tech-savvy. He was a man in his seventies, who’d worked low-level finance jobs for most of his life. He’d only had one kid, a daughter, who went missing one summer afternoon.

He and his wife were tireless in their search for her. It wasn’t until Melvin’s crimes were uncovered and the watery graveyard where he’d disposed of the bodies was found, that they learned she’d been one of his victims. Leonard’s wife died soon after the discovery, the strain of grief too much.

Leo turned to the Lost Angels, looking for support and understanding from others who’d also lost loved ones at Melvin’s hand. According to Sam, Leo hadn’t initially been interested in revenge or going after me and my family.

All of that changed when he began dating Miranda Tidewell, one of the original founders of the Lost Angels. Her daughter, Vivian, had been Melvin’s second victim.

Miranda had been the female equivalent of Sam: bitter, angry, resentful, and bent on retribution. She and Sam had fed off each other, encouraging their worst impulses. She’d supported him in his quest to track me and the kids down, even going so far as to fund the cost of his rental in Stillhouse Lake.

But whereas Sam found a way out of the pain and rage, Miranda never did. When she learned that Sam not only believed in my innocence, but had also fallen in love with me, she went ballistic and vowed to take us down.

She got murdered in the process.

Not before converting Leo to her beliefs, unfortunately. By the time she passed away, he’d become a true believer in my guilt and despised Sam for sleeping with the enemy.

At her death, Miranda left her rather sizable estate to Leo with the understanding that he would take over running the organization and fulfill her mission. He’d been the one to fund The Royal Murders podcast.

Then, he disappeared, leaving behind a fake crime scene and a false trail of evidence leading directly to Sam.

The problem was, it didn’t make sense. It all seemed too sophisticated for a man like him to pull off, which meant someone else had to be involved, helping him behind the scenes. I’d tried looking into the other Lost Angels, but none of them had backgrounds that seemed applicable.

Now, though, it occurs to me that there’s another connection I should look into: someone new on my radar with an axe to grind against me and my family. Rowan Applegate. Callie’s sister and the co-host of The Royal Murders.

Pulling my jacket tighter around me, I connect my laptop to my cellphone hotspot and type Rowan’s name into the search engine. The first few pages of hits are all related to the podcast. I skim through them until I come across a photo from a charity event raising money for families of missing kids. It’s a picture of the major donor sponsors for the event, and Rowan’s name is listed in the caption as: “Rowan Applegate: Vice President, Lost Angels.”

I let out a breath. I had no idea she was so involved with the Lost Angels beyond the podcast. Given that Leo was the president and is now MIA, that would make Rowan the de facto head of the organization.

I study the photo, trying to figure out which of the dozen people pictured she might be. Eventually, I give up and continue my search, coming across something else: a profile on one of those professional networking sites where you post your resume. There’s a picture at the top, from what’s clearly a professional photoshoot. She’s wearing a smart gray suit with a red silk blouse, her dark hair tucked behind her ears. Her eyes are a stunning light blue, and there’s a studied seriousness to her expression as she stares down the lens of the camera.

I glance at her most recent job: Cybersecurity Lead Consultant at DevTech. I sit back, tucking my chilly fingers into my sleeves as I skim her list of qualifications and skills: extensive experience with ethical hacking, expertise in penetration testing frameworks, familiarity with vulnerability assessment tools.

Basically, she’s a hacker, but the kind companies hire to test their own security defenses. Which makes her an expert in technology. As in the kind of skills that might come in handy when trying to help someone disappear online.

Dopamine floods my system, causing my fingertips to tingle and my stomach to soar. I love this feeling. It’s one of the best parts of being a private investigator: the physical reward of finding a clue or fitting a piece to the puzzle. My gut knows this is important. I’m on to something that will get me closer to the truth.

Pulse pounding with anticipation, I pull up the encrypted messaging app on my phone Taylor always insists I use to contact her. I copy the link to Rowan’s profile and send it to her, along with a message. She has a connection to Varrus. Any chance she may be involved?

Taylor responds within seconds. If she is, I’ll find out. Talk soon.

I give myself a few minutes to bask in this feeling. It’s the closest I’ve felt to success in a while, and if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s to enjoy the wins when and where you can.

Unfortunately, it’s short-lived. Less than a minute later, my phone buzzes with an alert. I check the screen, and my heart stutters. It’s from my podcast app. The second episode of The Royal Murders just dropped.

I check the time. It will be at least an hour before Connor’s done with his shift. A part of me thinks I should maybe wait to listen to it with Sam this evening, but what if Lanny gets a chance to listen before then?

My stomach churns with dread as I slide my laptop into my bag and pull out my headphones. I put them on and tug my hat down over my ears before taking a deep breath and pressing play. There are a few ads before the intro music, and then I’m met with the sound of my ex-husband’s voice.

“I’m going to get you!” he calls in a taunting, sing-song voice. “You can run, but I’ll run faster!”

I gasp, my fight-or-flight instincts kicking in, freezing me to the spot. I jam my finger against the screen, desperate to end the assault. When that doesn’t work, I rip the earphones free and fling them to the ground. The podcast continues to play through the phone’s speaker, Melvin’s voice now tinny and distant. I turn the volume all the way down, finally silencing him.

I’m panting by this point, sweat beading on my forehead and trailing down the back of my neck despite the cold weather. I close my eyes, drawing deep breaths to ground myself. But I can’t stop my mind from spinning back to the last time I heard that voice.

We’d been in an old, abandoned plantation house in the Louisiana bayou. He’d just finished beating a woman’s head against the doorjamb before driving a screwdriver through her skull, killing her. Then, he’d turned to me, his face smeared with blood. He’d looked at me hungrily, ready to torture and kill me.

“Gina, I’m sorry, but this is how it has to⁠—”

To be.

That’s what I always assumed he meant to say. Not that it matters. They were the last words he ever spoke before I shot him dead.

I’m about to throw up. I press the back of my hand against my mouth, rifling through my purse with my free hand for my water bottle. I take several swallows, focusing on the feel of the cold water flowing down my throat.

I’m okay, I tell myself. I’m safe. I force myself to look around, to ground myself in my present reality. I’m at a horse farm in Tennessee. Melvin is dead and buried.

Though his bones are no longer there, a small voice reminds me. He’s still out there, pieces of him being used for some unknown, sick purpose.

“Enough!” I don’t realize I shout the word until a horse in a nearby field lifts its head, its ears twitching as I glance around, hoping no one is near enough to have heard or noticed my distress.

Everything seems to be continuing as normal: an instructor giving pointers during a lesson in a distant ring. Music filtering from the barn as Connor and a few other kids his age work through their chores. Hooves pounding as a woman steers her horse through an obstacle course.

I blow out a trembling breath that clouds the cold air and sit back in the chair. My fingers grip the arms, nails digging through the paint and into the wood. I force myself to release my grasp. I focus on box breathing: inhale for four beats, hold for four beats, exhale for four, then pause for four before starting again.

Already it’s affecting my parasympathetic nervous system, slowing my heart rate and easing the panic churning my muscles. After several more minutes I feel my body returning to a somewhat normal state. At least enough that my legs don’t tremble when I stand to hunt for the earphones that I threw into the dead grass.

When I’m finally settled again, I stare at the podcast’s cover art on my phone. It’s of a playing card, the king of hearts looking toward the left on top and the queen of hearts mirrored below. Their throats are slit, with blood dripping from the wounds.

It’s pretty obvious the king is meant to represent Melvin and I’m the queen. That both our necks are cut, presumably killing blows, isn’t particularly subtle. I stare at the words written in smaller font above the title: The Lost Angels Presents.

A familiar rage rises inside me, coupled with a newer exhaustion. First, Sam came for me, then Miranda Tidewell, then Leonard Varrus. Now that Leo has disappeared, it looks like Rowan Applegate is taking his place as the head of the Lost Angels to continue their crusade against me and my family.

The problem is that it’s difficult to hate them. They lost loved ones in horrific and brutal ways. For some of them, that kind of pain is too overwhelming to face, and it’s easier to manage it if they turn it into anger and blame.

Even though I wasn’t involved in their loved ones’ deaths, I still understand why they find me complicit. Melvin was kidnapping and torturing women in our garage, practically under my own nose. He claimed to be woodworking, and I never asked questions—never wondered why he came in from the garage without the telltale smell of sawdust on him. Never asked what happened to all the furniture he claimed to be building.

If I’d been more curious, more suspicious, less milquetoast and deferential, maybe I would have discovered the truth earlier. Perhaps I could have turned him in to the authorities before he killed so many women. Before he killed Callie.

The truth was, there were moments I was scared of him, but I pushed those fears aside because I didn’t know what to do with them. I had the life I wanted: two wonderful children, a house in a safe neighborhood with good schools, and a husband who supported us financially. I didn’t want to do anything to rock that boat.

I accept the responsibility of my ignorance. But that doesn’t mean I deserve to be hunted. I don’t deserve to have my family targeted so publicly.

For a moment, I consider deleting the podcast—deleting all of it, actually: the SuperSicko folder, the Sicko Patrol files, the programs I use to access the Melvin Royal message boards on the dark web. I think about recommitting to my promise to move on from all of it. I know it’s what Lanny wants. After visiting Reyne U and getting a taste of what a normal, anonymous life would look like, she’s craved more of it.

She doesn’t understand why I spend so much time and energy surrounding myself with negativity instead of just letting it all go.

What she doesn’t understand is that ignorance isn’t bliss. Ignorance is dangerous. Ignorance doesn’t stop the threat from existing, it just ensures you’re not prepared for it when it comes.

That’s why I can’t let it go. Why I can’t move on.

With that in mind, I slide the earphones back in and brace myself for Melvin’s voice. This time, at least, I know it’s coming.

8

GWEN

When Connor gets into the car after finishing work at the barn, he’s quiet and reserved. I ask him how it went, and he shrugs and says, “Fine.” This time, I know to read more into his silence. He’s usually full of energy after leaving the barn, and spends most of the ride home chatting about the other kids, what’s new with the horses, etcetera.

After listening to the second episode of The Royal Murders, I was really looking forward to a bit of normalcy—something to take my mind off the rage coursing through my system after hearing the vile innuendos the podcast hosts made about Sam.

They may as well have called him a murderer. Which they essentially did. They just tucked the word alleged in there every time they said it so they could avoid any potential civil liability.

I decided I’d worry about the podcast later. Now, I needed to focus on Connor.

“Was Noreen there?” I ask, hoping to draw him out. “Any update on how things went with her parents?” Noreen is a girl his age who also works at the barn. She’s high drama and almost always facing some sort of manufactured crisis or another, which makes her good conversation fodder.

“She didn’t really say.” He leans his head against the window and stares out at the scenery passing by.

That he isn’t even interested in discussing Noreen surprises me and makes me a little worried. I remember my therapist’s advice: address issues head-on, but with empathy, using I-feel statements and without putting any pressure on him. I give it a go. “I feel like you might be upset about something. Care to talk about it?”

He blows out a frustrated breath. “No, Mom, I really don’t.”

As much as I want to push back and press for more information, I force myself to say, “Just remember I’m here if you do.”

“I know.” I don’t have to look at him to see the eye roll; it’s in his tone.

I navigate Knoxville rush hour with my hands gripped so tightly around the wheel my palms start to ache. We sit in silence, neither of us reaching for the radio. Finally, when we’re about five minutes from home, Connor says, “One of the kids in the barn was listening to the podcast.”

My insides deflate. That explains his silence on the ride home. Damnit. I’d been hoping for more time before I had to address it with the kids.

Before I can figure out how best to respond, he adds, “It was weird to hear Dad’s voice after all these years. He sounded so…normal.” He continues staring out the window at the familiar houses of our neighborhood passing by.

One of the most difficult aspects of dealing with the fallout of Melvin’s murders has been reconciling Melvin the serial killer with Melvin the father. The truth is, he wasn’t a terrible dad at times. For the kids especially, there are good memories tucked amid the bad. It’s hard to know what to do with those. Forgetting them means forgetting their childhood, erasing the love they felt from one of their parents, getting rid of all the ways in which that parent supported and encouraged them.

“It was weird for me too,” I tell him. Traumatic would be the word I would use, but weird fits. Connor glances my way, surprised.

“I remember where that video’s from,” he says. “It was a school fundraiser, and Dad volunteered to be one of the targets for the pie-throwing contest.”

The memories flood me. Looking back, it’s inconceivable that Melvin would volunteer for such a thing, given how important control was to him. But the PTO president had begged him when one of the other parents had failed to show and he’d readily agreed. He liked the idea of stepping in as the savior. He’d spent half an hour sitting on a stool letting kids throw tins of whipped cream at him.

He’d ended the shift covered in a gooey mess and chased Connor and Lanny, threatening to hug them both. I can still hear their squeals of laughter as they ran from him; Melvin saying, “I’m going to get you!” in a singsong voice.

That was the clip the podcast played: Melvin calling over and over again, “I’m going to get you!” Taken out of context, it had sounded creepy and out of place, even more so when you could hear Lanny’s screeches in the background.

The snippet had been part of a longer video the school had put together and posted online to advertise how successful the fundraiser had been. When I’d first seen it, I remember smiling, happy to have had the memory preserved. Proud that my family had been included. I’d completely forgotten about it afterward. Never would it have occurred to me that it would be unearthed and used against us.

The Royal Murders podcast had taken one of our family’s core, happy memories and twisted it into something dark and ugly. Or maybe it had just shown that even the good moments had been interlaced with Melvin’s desire for violence. That everything in our lives had been tainted by him.

“That was a good afternoon,” I tell Connor, partly because it’s the truth and partly because I sense that’s what he needs to hear.

We’ve pulled into the driveway at this point and are sitting in the car, idling. “Do you want to talk about the rest of the podcast?” I don’t have to explain that I mean the parts about Sam. The episode touched on Leonard Varrus’s rise in the Lost Angels organization and his drive to uncover the so-called truth and present it in some sort of documentary or podcast.

Mostly, though, it had focused on his disappearance and the allegations against Sam. I hated to admit how compelling Rowan and Madison made it sound. Anyone listening would think Sam murdered Leo and, at least so far, had gotten away with it.

Of course, as always, the podcast brought it back around to me: what was it about me that attracted murderers? How could it be a coincidence that the two loves of my life were both violent, vicious men?

Was it them, or was it me?

I’d found that point particularly galling because I would never refer to Melvin as a “love of my life.” It pissed me off that the podcast claimed he was.

Connor looks at me curiously. “You don’t think I believe the bullshit those podcasters were saying, do you?”

“No, but it still couldn’t have been easy to hear.”

He shrugs. “It’s not like I’m not super-aware of how the media makes shit up. That’s basically been my life since Kevin.”

It’s true. Even though Kevin eventually retracted his statement implicating Connor as part of his plea deal, that hasn’t stopped news outlets from suggesting Connor was still somehow involved.

I start to respond, but Connor holds up a hand. “Before you get all therapist-Mom on me and ask if I want to talk about it, I don’t. I just brought it up to say that, yeah, it sucks. But the people who know you won’t believe that crap, and everyone else isn’t worth knowing.”

He pushes open the car door and starts toward the house. I’m left sitting there, thinking that my fifteen-year-old son is far too young to have been forced to learn such truths the hard way. He’s also right.

If only it were that easy.

We manage to make it through the evening without discussing the podcast. It helps that Vee drops by unannounced for dinner. She’s been in our lives as a quasi-adopted member of our family ever since her mother, Marlene, called me from Wolfhunter, Tennessee, asking for help. When I arrived, it was to find Marlene dead and Vee holding the literal smoking gun. I was able to keep Vee from being charged with a murder she didn’t commit, and she was supposed to go live with some family in another state.

But Vee’s never been great at doing what she’s supposed to do. Eventually, she ended up back at our house in Stillhouse Lake and has been attached to our family ever since—even though recently she’s been living in her own apartment not too far away. She was with Connor late last year when he ran afoul of those two psychopathic girls in Gardenia, North Carolina and, like him, she barely survived the encounter.

Something about the experience lit a fire under her ass, though. Before that trip, she’d been a bit aimless and noncommittal when it came to her future. Once she left the hospital, however, she decided to pursue her passion and started apprenticing for a tattoo artist in town the day she turned eighteen and was finally eligible to do so.

I’m pretty damn proud of the woman she’s becoming and love how her eyes light up when she tells stories about work and some of their more eccentric clients and the various art they’ve requested.

We’ve barely finished eating when she pulls out her sketchpad to show us her latest ideas for how to incorporate the bullet wound and surgical scars on her abdomen into a unique design.

“Torrence even said he’d let me do the ink myself once I’m trained up,” she says, full of energy and excitement. “This afternoon he let me work the outline for a Gordian knot someone wanted on their arm. It was super cool. He said I could borrow one of the tattoo guns if I wanted to practice on myself using water.” She turns to Lanny. “I could practice on you too, if you want. It doesn’t hurt all that much. Mostly.”

“No tattoos until you’re eighteen,” I remind Lanny.

“It’s just water, Ms. P,” Vee says. “Nothing permanent.”

I’m still not sure I want Lanny going down that road, but I decide that maybe now isn’t the time to have that argument—not when everyone seems to be in a good mood. It’s unclear whether Vee knows the podcast even exists, and it’s nice to have a night of quasi-normalcy.

After dinner, she and Lanny disappear into Lanny’s room and Connor heads to his to work on homework. Sam retreats to our home office with his laptop. Even though he leaves the door cracked, it’s pretty clear he wants to be left alone, so I take a long shower and fall into bed. I try to wait up for him, but I drift off at some point, waking again in the early morning hours.

The first thing I do is check the house alarm. Vee isn’t always the best about arming it when she leaves. I note the telltale flash of red, indicating it’s active. Of course, that would be the case if she didn’t leave… I grab my phone and pull up the tracking app. Her icon is parked at her apartment complex, which means she made it home safely last night.

Lanny’s and Connor’s phones indicate they’re here, and I resist the urge to slip down the hallway and crack open their doors just to be sure. Instead, I start a pot of coffee and carry a steaming mug to my office.

Sam’s laptop is charging on the table in the corner, and I can’t help but glance around my desk to see if he left any indication of what he was working on. I’ve noticed he’s been spending more and more time online lately, and while it could easily be re-certifications or trainings for work, my gut says it’s something else.

He’s been obsessed with tracking down Leo in order to definitively prove his innocence, but as far as I know, he hasn’t had any better luck than I have. I worry that Sam’s hunt for exoneration may lead him into some pretty dark corners of the internet, but ultimately, I have to trust him.

I’m behind on my work for J.B., so I decide to start on that instead of Sicko Patrol. I finish up the report I’ve been drafting and am compiling the supporting docs to go along with it when Lanny pops her head around the doorjamb. Her expression is comically hopeful.

“No, you can’t borrow the car,” I tell her before she can even ask.

She lets out that sigh-slash-groan that only teenagers can master. “Seriously Mom? How long are you going to punish me?”

“It’s not a punishment,” I tell her. “It’s a precaution.”

She crosses her arms and scowls. “It might as well be a punishment,” she grumbles. “You let me drive to school last week just fine. I don’t see why that has to change because of some stupid podcast.”

We’ve had this debate so many times, I don’t even have to say anything. I just look at her with one eyebrow raised.

“Fine,” she says with a huff before turning and retreating to her room to finish getting ready.

Sam’s next, bearing a refill of coffee. I take it gratefully and inhale deeply before swallowing a long sip. I don’t care that it burns my throat. It’s heaven. I let out a contented sigh.

“You know the sounds you make are borderline indecent,” he says.

“Is that the reason you bring me a fresh mug every morning?” I ask.

He gives me a sly smile. “That might be part of it.”

Normally he would punctuate a statement like that with a kiss, but instead he moves toward the chair in the corner of the office and takes a seat. It’s only then that I notice he closed the door behind him when he came in. He must have something on his mind that he doesn’t want the kids to overhear us discussing.

My grip around the mug tightens. “What’s up?”

“I spoke with Rowan Applegate last night.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “What?”

“She’s Callie’s sister. In some weird way, that makes us family. I thought maybe if we talked, I could change her mind about us. You know, like me getting to know you changed my opinion of you.”

I think back to the summer I first met Sam. At the time, I hadn’t known about his connections to the Lost Angels or that he held me responsible for his sister’s death. I had no idea that he was trying to get close to me so he could exact his revenge.

He makes a good point. It’s easy to demonize and victimize others when you don’t see them as actual human beings—as people with families and dreams and fears, just like you.

“Since she’s the de facto head of the Lost Angels now and a co-host of the podcast, I was hoping she might be willing to take down the show once she understood how it was affecting us.”

“Did it work?”

He lets out a snort. “No. If anything, I’m afraid I may have made her angrier.” He shifts in his seat, looking frustrated. “I tried to tell her that Callie wouldn’t want this—she wouldn’t want people demonizing me and threatening my family.”

From everything Sam has told me about his sister, that sounds like her.

Sam shakes his head. “Rowan was apoplectic. She screamed that I had no idea what Callie wanted because I didn’t know her. She said I didn’t grow up with her, didn’t comfort her after she had nightmares in the middle of the night, or help her pick out her prom dress, or dry her tears after her first boyfriend broke up with her. I wasn’t there for her then, and I wasn’t there for her when she died.”

Sam’s voice catches, and I know Rowan’s words struck him deep. I move around the desk and crouch in front of him, my hands on his knees. “Your sister was taken from you when you were kids. It wasn’t your decision to grow up apart from her. You can’t blame yourself for that. You’d have been there for all of those things, if you’d been allowed to stay together as a family.”

“I should have tried harder to find her. I shouldn’t have waited for her to find me.” There’s genuine guilt and regret in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. I wish there was something I could say to relieve his pain, but there isn’t.

He takes a deep breath, pressing his fingers against his eyes to stem any tears. “I told Rowan we were both Callie’s siblings and we both loved her. We were the only two people in the world who could claim Callie as a sister, and we should try to get along to honor her memory.”

“That’s a beautiful thought,” I tell him.

“Rowan didn’t think so. She told me she would take out a restraining order against me if I ever contacted her again.”

I knew Rowan had her issues with us, but I didn’t realize they were that extreme.

“Then she said something about natural consequences and that the Lost Angels weren’t backing down and we deserved everything coming our way.”

I rock back on my heels. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

He shakes his head ruefully. “It certainly doesn’t.”

“Do you think she’s planning more than the podcast?”

“She was angry, Gwen. As angry and bitter as I felt in the months after Callie died.”

He’s talking about the months when he hated me so much he wanted to see me dead. It sounds as though Rowan feels the same.

She should get in line. I have a whole folder on my computer dedicated to the legion of folks who would like to see me dead.

“I also asked her if she knew Leo Varrus was still alive.”

This surprises me. “Really? What did she say?”

His mouth twists. “That I was unhinged to ask her about a man I killed.”

“Great,” I groan. I stand, returning to my seat at the desk. “So, that confirms she thinks you’re a murderer.”

“Looks that way. It sounded like she viewed Leo as a father figure, even more so after her dad passed away a couple of years ago. They grew close while working on the podcast together. She said she viewed it as a legacy to continue his mission.”

“His mission to ruin our lives,” I clarify.

He nods. “She more or less took over the Lost Angels when he disappeared.”

I look down at my coffee mug, processing that information. I think about what I’d discovered about Rowan earlier—that she worked in cybersecurity and likely had the kind of skills necessary to help someone like Leo to live off-grid. “Do you think there’s any chance she helped Leo set you up? Maybe she’s in it with him?”

He shrugs. “If she did, she’s a hell of an actor. Her grief was pretty intense when I brought up Leo. I think she genuinely believes he’s dead and that I had something to do with it. But I’ve been wrong about people in the past.”

“I already asked Taylor from work to look into her. I guess we’ll see what she comes back with and go from there.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam says.

I’m just turning back to my computer when he adds, “That’s not all. I heard from work. They shifted the schedule around. I’m no longer on deck to fly to Syracuse later this week.”

I’d been expecting more bad news, but this is a pleasant surprise. Not that I mind Sam’s job taking him away for days at a time, but I always prefer having him home. Unlike many couples our age, we actually like each other and enjoy spending time together. “Maybe we should set up a date night for Friday?” I suggest.

“They’ve taken me off the schedule completely,” he clarifies. “I’m effectively grounded. Indefinitely.”

I let out a breath like I’ve been socked in the gut. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

We’re both silent for a moment as the news sinks in. “Did they say why?”

“Not really. They gave some bullshit HR spiel about reviewing policies, but I think it’s pretty obvious it’s because of the podcast. All my lessons have also been canceled. They’ve given my students to other instructors.”

Anger begins running through me, hot and fierce. “They can’t do that. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Apparently they’ve already had students call in concerned about being alone with me. No one wants to fly with a murderer.”

“You’re not a murderer.”

“Fine. Alleged murderer.”

“That’s ridiculous! Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

He gives me a pointed look. “You of all people should know how that goes.”

Fair enough. “Fine, so they cancel your lessons for a while. But that shouldn’t affect your cargo flights.”

He spreads his hands wide. “I guess they’re worried about bad press from being associated with me.”

I ball my hands into fists. Whatever happened to companies standing by their employees? “Did they fire you?”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Not officially. If they did, they know I could make trouble over wrongful termination. They claim they’re just suspending me until they complete their review. And they’re still paying my base salary, which I suspect is to keep me from complaining too loudly.”

Any relief I feel that he’s still getting paid is overshadowed by how wrong this whole thing is. Sam loves to fly—he always has. Grounding him has to be crushing. Especially since he’s done nothing wrong.

“What are you going to do?”

“First, I’m going to take Lanny to school. Then I’m headed out to the airfield. Apparently HR has some paperwork for me to review. Conveniently, they’ve also packed up everything from my locker for me to bring home.”

“They cleaned out your locker?” Any hope I had that this might be temporary evaporates. Sam nods at my sudden understanding. To anyone else, he might look relaxed and casual, but I can see the tension in the way he holds his body, the stress lines radiating from his eyes, and the twitch in the muscle along his jaw. It’s the expression in his eyes that hurts, though. He’s devastated.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

He places his hands on his knees and pushes up from the chair. “Just like everything else, we’ll get through it,” he says with a heavy sigh.

“What can I do to help?” I ask.

A smile drifts across his face. “Don’t lose your job,” he says, trying to inject some levity into the situation.

That gives me an idea. “You know, J.B. is always looking for folks who can help out on cases on a contract basis. I can reach out to see if she has anything. Might at least give you something to do.”

“I appreciate it,” he says, bending to drop a kiss on my cheek. “I really do. I’ll think about it.”

Lanny calls impatiently for Sam from down the hall, and he rolls his eyes. “Or maybe I’ll just expand my current hobby as family chauffeur.”

“I hear it doesn’t pay very well,” I tell him in a deadpan voice.

That gets a chuckle out of him, and I enjoy the sound as he retreats from my office.

Once Sam and Lanny are gone, I sit and stare at my computer screen, lost in thought. Sam has been through much worse in his life, and I know he’ll land on his feet. This is just another setback among many. Still, he’s being punished for something he didn’t do. That isn’t fair.

Indignation begins churning in my gut. Injustice has always enraged me, and this time is no different. Flying isn’t just a job for Sam, it’s a passion. And now he’s lost that because of the fucking podcast.

Before I can think twice about it, I search my email for Madison Westcott, the name of the other host of The Royal Murders. She’d reached out to me nearly a year ago to introduce herself and ask me if I would be willing to be interviewed. I’d barely glanced at her email and ignored her request the same way I ignored all the others.

At the time, her email hadn’t stood out in any way. She hadn’t been the first journalist—or person claiming to be a journalist—to email, nor would she be the last.

Sure enough, her phone number is listed at the bottom of her email. As I tap the number into my phone, I stand and move around my desk, hesitating at my office door as I listen for the sound of Connor stirring. When I’m confident he’s still asleep, I close the door and press the green call button.

Sam couldn’t convince Rowan to stand down, but perhaps I can talk sense into Madison. It’s a long shot, but I have to try. Doing nothing isn’t an option anymore.

She answers on the third ring.

9

GWEN

Even though Madison is a complete stranger, her voice is instantly familiar from hearing her on the podcast. It’s disorienting enough that it takes a moment after she answers for me to find my own voice.

“Hello, Madison,” I say, trying to sound as calm and collected as possible. “It’s Gwen Proctor.”

I can tell she’s stunned and I enjoy the brief silence that follows, knowing I’ve caught her off guard. “Oh, hi. Hi,” she says, flustered. “Um, I... I wasn’t expecting⁠—”

I cut off her stammering. “I assume now is a good time to talk?” I don’t give her an option. In fact, I’m somewhat hopeful I’m interrupting something important because I know there’s no way she’s not taking my call.

“No, of course not.” There’s rustling in the background and the sound of something falling over. “It’s just... is it okay if I record this?”

“No.” I practically bite the word out.

“Oh.” She sounds disappointed. There’s more scrambling—I assume as she hunts for a pen and some paper. That she isn’t aware Tennessee is a one-party consent state, meaning she doesn’t need my permission to record the call, tells me she’s not much of a journalist. It confirms what I already guessed, given the caliber of reporting on the podcast so far.

She clears her throat, still a little breathless. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“I wasn’t expecting to call,” I tell her truthfully.

“So, Mrs. Royal, what⁠—”

I stop her right there. “It’s Proctor,” I tell her, my voice edged with steel. “Gwen Proctor. And you know it. So you’re either being intentionally obtuse or intentionally rude.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” she immediately says, nearly stumbling over herself to get the apology out before I hang up on her. “It’s just, with the podcast, I’m so used to using your former name and I wasn’t thinking. I really do apologize.” She sounds sincere and also very, very young. On the podcast, she comes across so polished, which is the benefit of writing a script and being able to do multiple takes with lots of editing.

She waits for me to accept her apology; when I don’t, she audibly inhales before saying, “Why are you calling?” I can practically hear her wince at her directness before she adds, “I mean, what can I do for you?”

“You can take down your podcast and issue an apology for defaming me and my family.”

There’s another long pause. “I can’t. I understand why what you’ve heard so far might have upset you, but⁠—”

“Upset me? Are you kidding me? I’m not upset; I’m incandescent with rage. Do you have any idea what your lies do to me and my family? Are you even aware that the reason I changed my name is because my ex-husband stalked me and my kids across the country for years? That when he escaped from prison, he hunted me, intending to rape and torture me in front of a live audience?”

I’m standing now, pacing around my office as my voice rises. I can’t stem my anger at the fact that this podcast has brought this all back to the surface. Especially after I’ve been working so hard to move past it. I’m so fucking tired of this shit, and I unleash it all on Madison.

“I did nothing to deserve any of this. I was a housewife, and I was naive and maybe I didn’t see the warning signs because I didn’t want to. I ignored the fact that my husband liked to choke me to near unconsciousness during sex because... what was I supposed to do with that information? Who was I supposed to go to? How was I supposed to leave him? With what money? With what resources?”

I’ve kept so much bottled up for so long that I find myself unable to stop. “I am not responsible for my ex-husband’s crimes. Me staying with him may have made me naïve, but I’m hardly the first woman who stayed in an abusive relationship because she either didn’t understand what abuse truly was or didn’t realize she deserved any different. Why do you think I dedicate so much of my time as a private investigator to helping women?”

I realize that by this point I’m shouting, and as much as I’d love to continue unloading on this woman, I’m afraid of waking Connor. I clamp my lips together, swallowing back the rest of my diatribe.

Madison says nothing, then lets out a breath. “Wow. That was so powerful and raw. Are you sure there’s no chance you’ll repeat that and let me record you?”

I roll my eyes, the fury still simmering under the surface bubbling to the top. There’s no fucking way I’m going to help this woman peddle her damn podcast that vilifies me and my family. “I’m not interested,” I spit. “I want The Royal Murders taken down. Now. And if you’re not interested in pulling the podcast, then we’re done here.”

I pull the phone away, intending to hang up, when I hear her shout, “Wait. Please!”

Something about her desperation makes me hesitate.

“I’m on your side,” she says.

I scoff at her obvious pandering. “Fuck off. My husband lost his job because of you and your bullshit. You are very definitely not on my side.”

“I’m sorry!”

My finger hovers over the end call icon, and her voice comes out tinny and distant through the speaker.

“I’m sorry, I really am. This isn’t what I wanted to happen. I didn’t want you to get hurt. Please, just give me a chance to explain what happened.”

I press my lips together, telling myself to hang up. Something stops me. There’s a shift in her voice, a loss of bravado that reminds me of Lanny and the tone she takes when she’s arguing about something important to her. Maybe that’s why I stay on the line.

Madison senses the opening and talks quickly. “I was a student at Wichita State when the whole Melvin Royal thing went down. You couldn’t go anywhere without hearing about it. It was like a city-wide obsession. He was all anyone ever talked about. I was a senior when you went to trial and a journalism major. I decided to write about your trial for my honors thesis. I was in the courtroom for the whole thing.”

I blink, stunned by the revelation. I have absolutely no recollection of her being there. Which isn’t all that surprising. I spent my entire trial numb and in shock, barely aware of my surroundings.

My stomach roils as old memories from that time filter into my consciousness. I remember the smell of the holding cells in the courthouse basement: body odor, urine, cheap makeup, and desperation.

I’m not sure how to feel about this woman having such a direct connection to my past. To the very thing I’ve been trying so desperately to bury.

“I admired your fortitude, Gwen. Melvin Royal tried to take you down, but he couldn’t. The state couldn’t either.”

Her words don’t remotely match the crap she’s been spewing on the podcast. “You have a funny way of showing your admiration.”

“I’m just as upset about The Royal Murders as you are.”

I snort. “Doubtful.”

“I’m serious. The podcast wasn’t supposed to vilify you like that. When I heard the Lost Angels were looking for someone to help create a podcast about Melvin Royal, I applied for the job. I did all the legwork—the interviews, the scripts, the production and editing. I gave them a finished product—an entire season of recorded episodes—and figured that was that.

“I was just as surprised as you were when the first episode dropped. They re-edited what I gave them. Rowan Applegate was only ever the project manager for The Royal Murders; she was never supposed to be a co-host. That episode about Sam? I included all the evidence exonerating him in my version. Rowan cut it.”

“That’s a pretty convenient story.”

“I have proof. I was supposed to hand everything over to them when I was done, but I kept copies. I have the original episodes. I can give them to you. You can listen for yourself.”

As earnest as she sounds, I’m still not sure I believe her. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“They had me sign an NDA when I took the job. Even if they didn’t come after me legally, I was worried about them badmouthing me in the industry. Podcasting is a small world. I’m just starting out in my career. This was supposed to be my big break, and I didn’t want to ruin it.

“Plus, ultimately, they own the podcast. They funded it all. They own the recordings, everything. If they want to change things, they have a right to. That’s also why I can’t take it down. It’s not mine.”

I close my eyes and press my fingers against my temples. What she’s saying makes sense, but it’s still frustrating. I’m so tired of the Lost Angels’ relentless pursuit of me and my family.

“Well, I guess now you know not to trust the Lost Angels. Sorry you had to learn the hard way. Hopefully, they won’t try to ruin your life like they have mine. Best of luck, Madison.”

I start to hang up again when she blurts, “Wait! I want to help you.”

“I think you’ve helped enough.”

“Let me at least give you everything I compiled for the podcast. Like I said, I have copies of every interview and all the records I pulled. I also have the emails and texts between me and the Lost Angels. Plus, I copied other internal communications from their system before I left. You can have it all.”

That last bit gives me pause. Having a trove of internal documents would make bringing a defamation case against the Lost Angels much easier. Still, I’m suspicious. “Why?”

“Because they screwed me over, and karma’s a bitch.”

I appreciate her honesty. It makes me a little more inclined to take her up on the offer. “Okay. I can give you an address to mail it to.”

She hesitates. “It’s too much to send in the mail. I’d rather meet.”

I laugh. “No, thanks.” Even though she claims to have left the Lost Angels, she was still associated with them for long enough that I don’t trust her.

“Please, Gwen. I’m trying to do the right thing here. Let me apologize in person. Look, I’ve been living in Atlanta for the last month and have all the documents with me here. I can drive up this afternoon, and we can meet at a hotel bar this evening. I’ll give you everything then.”

I consider her offer. Normally, my internal alarm bells would be ringing like mad at this point. And while they’re definitely dinging, they’re not so loud that I automatically turn down her offer. Meeting with Madison may be a risk, but I’m willing to take it. Especially if it can help us take down the Lost Angels.

I press my fingers against my eyes. I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “Okay, I’ll meet with you. Call me when you get to town with the details.”

When I call Sam to tell him about the meeting with Madison, he’s unsurprisingly shocked. “You want to talk to the woman who’s actively screwing with our lives?”

“I know. I felt the same way, but I think she might be a victim in all of this too.”

He snorts. “Oh, really? Did she also lose her job? Does she also wonder which of her acquaintances now thinks of her as a murderer? Is she afraid of some whack job coming out of the woodwork to kill her and her family?”

His bitterness is justified.

“She left the Lost Angels on bad terms,” I tell him. “According to her, she recorded the entire podcast and handed it over per their contract. Apparently, the second episode originally included evidence exonerating you of Leo’s murder, and when Rowan listened to it she got pissed and fired Madison. After that, Rowan recut all the episodes and inserted herself as a co-host. So when Madison left, she took a bunch of files with her and is offering to hand them over.”

“Do you trust this woman?”

I laugh. “Of course not. I mean, I think she’s telling the truth about the files and her willingness to hand them over. I just don’t know if she has other motives as well.”

It’s obvious he’s skeptical. Even so, he says, “You know I’ll support any decision you make.”

I smile. “I do. And I appreciate it.”

“You also know I’m going with you to that meeting,” he adds.

This time I laugh. Of course he wouldn’t be comfortable with me meeting Madison on my own, though I’m not sure if he’s going in order to protect me or her. He’s well aware of my temper, and while I’m usually good at keeping a tight lid on it, there’s always a first time for everything. “I wouldn’t have expected anything else.”

Madison texts later in the day to let me know she booked a room at the Hyatt near the airport and suggests we meet at their bar for drinks. It seems as good a place as any, so we agree to meet at 5:00 p.m.

It takes a bit of shuffling our afternoon schedules, but Lanny is thrilled to take Connor to the barn because it means she has full use of the car. I remind her that he’s working late and they should grab dinner on the way home. She waves her calculus textbook at me and tells me not to worry; she has plenty of school work to occupy her time.

After they leave, I spend some time using my work resources to do a background check on Madison. It’s easy to verify the few things she told me. She was indeed a student at Wichita State during my trial, and I’m able to dig up a few articles she wrote about it in the school newspaper. Nothing exceptional, mostly basic reporting of the facts. I also unearth an old social media account she abandoned after college. It has the usual stuff: photos with friends, outfits of the day, angsty selfies taken in bathroom mirrors.

When I dig deeper, I learn that her parents were killed in a car accident when she was thirteen. It appears she shuffled around a lot after that, initially living with various distant relatives and eventually ending up in foster care. With that in mind, I flip back to her abandoned social media page and take a closer look. Not at her but at her surroundings.

You can learn a lot about a person by examining the background in their photos. A lot of people pay attention to what’s immediately behind them, but they fail to think about reflective surfaces. I zoom in on mirrors and windows, teasing out what lies outside the picture. I’m able to get a pretty good idea of the layout of her college apartment. I note the lack of family photos and the sparseness of her walls. Her furniture is a mix of Ikea and secondhand, with little touches here and there that scream someone influenced by social media: a fuzzy rug that was popular several years back, a collection of scented candles on the mantel, a fake fig tree in the corner.

It’s a stark contrast to the photos taken at her friends’ places: common areas cluttered with books and computers and shoes piled by the door. Her friends’ apartments look lived in, whereas Madison’s does not. It makes her life seem empty and lonely. Devoid of vibrancy.

Even in the photos with her friends, Madison is always the one on the edge of the crowd or at the end of the row of girls. Perilously close to being left out altogether.

I widen my search, looking for photos of Madison that others might have taken and posted. I come across one of her flung across an oversized chair in her apartment. She’s sideways, her legs curled over one arm and her back against the other. She’s holding her phone up at arm’s length, fingers caught mid-flight across the screen.

Something about the photo seems so familiar, and I struggle to understand why.

Then it hits me: she reminds me of Lanny. Of all the times I’ve wandered into our family room to find Lanny in the same position, thrown sideways across the chair, engrossed in her phone. It’s such a stereotypically teenage thing to do that I almost laugh.

Until I realize this could be Lanny next year. I check the date on the photo of Madison. It was posted by a college friend when they were freshmen, which would make Madison in the picture nearly the same age as my daughter now. I suddenly can’t stop imagining Lanny like that: in that beige chair, in that half-empty apartment with its white walls. Clinging to the edge of a friend group but never truly belonging.

There’s another picture posted by that same friend later in the year. It’s of Madison standing with her hands wrapped around a splintered deck railing. She’s staring out at a sky awash with the colors of sunset. The only way to describe her expression is hungry.

I’ve seen the same thing in Lanny. Looking to the horizon as if being pulled to it. Anxious, ready for what’s out there. Eager to conquer anything that stands in her way. They have the same drive and determination, that gleam in their eyes.

My chest squeezes. Now that I see the similarities, I can’t unsee them. I imagine Madison alone in the world without a mother, or father, or siblings—no safety net to catch her if she fails. I ache for her.

Which pisses me off. I don’t want to feel anything for her, especially not sympathy. Besides, she’s no longer that same girl she was in those photos. Since then, she’s graduated from college, gotten her degree, found jobs, moved around, and produced a podcast that fucked me and my family over.

Unless she’s telling the truth about Rowan re-editing what she created. Which still remains to be seen.

While I’m on Instagram and thinking of Lanny, I login to my secret account and navigate to her profile. She posted something new since the last time I visited. It’s a picture of a form with her hand covering most of it. I know it’s her because I recognize her hand instantly. I remember when she sat in the family room three nights ago painting her nails that particular shade of purple. And I remember noticing this morning that she’d chipped most of it off her index finger.

I can see enough of the form to recognize it’s an application for federal student loan aid. The caption below the picture reads, You can do big things with small steps.

There’s one comment:

SunshineStateofMind: One step closer!!!

I click on that profile, hoping to figure out who is behind the screen name, but the account is private. The photo is of an orange. Absolutely nothing to help me figure out who it is.

I navigate back to Lanny’s recent post and stare at it, trying to sort through my emotions. A part of me is worried this might be too much information out in the world. Anyone who sees this picture will know she’s college-age and college-bound. Her account is like a puzzle pointing to who she is and where she is, and this is another piece of that puzzle.

I recognize I’m focused on that because I don’t want to face the larger implications of this picture. She’s applying for financial aid. She’s already gotten a full ride to the local community college—her GPA was enough to secure that. So, if she’s applying for aid, it’s because she’s looking to go somewhere else. Which was already obvious from the stack of acceptance letters hidden in her room.

But another part of me hoped that maybe that was a whim, and she was only applying to see if she could get in. This is more serious.

I still don’t understand why she hasn’t talked to me about any of this.

There’s a soft knock at my door, and I glance up to find Sam standing on the threshold. With a sinking sense of guilt, I realize I haven’t told him about what I’ve discovered. In part because I don’t want to admit that I went sneaking around Lanny’s room, and in part because I don’t want to share this information until I have a better handle on how I feel about it.

So now Lanny is keeping this secret from me, and I’m keeping it secret from Sam. So many secrets in this family. Too many.

I close the browser and swivel my chair toward Sam. “Time to head out?”

“Yeah, about that⁠—”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Changed your mind already?”

He shakes his head without even a hint of a smile. I notice that he looks wound up, his shoulders tense. He drums his fingers against his leg—a habit of his when he’s nervous or preoccupied. I narrow my eyes, giving him my complete focus.

“What’s up?”

“Look, I know this isn’t the best timing, but I have to run out real quick. I’m not sure if I’m going to make it back in time to pick you up to meet that podcaster.”

I shift, uneasy. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just something’s come up I gotta take care of.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“Oh, okay. You want me to come with you? I just need to grab my bag and⁠—”

He’s already shaking his head. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“I can call her and reschedule for another day when you’re available,” I offer.

“There’s no need. I doubt I’ll even be that late, but just in case I think it makes more sense for you to take a rideshare.”

I’m surprised he’d suggest I go on my own. Then again, he knows I’m able to take care of myself. “No problem.”

He nods. “Thanks. I’ll fill you in later. I just have to run right now, and it’s too much to explain.”

It’s obvious that whatever he’s dealing with is important to him. As curious as I am, he’s more than earned my respect and trust over the years. “I’ll see you at the hotel. Good luck with”— I wave my hand—“whatever it is.”

He gives me a brief smile. “Thanks.” Then he’s gone.

Before ordering the car, I shut down my computer and get ready—not that it takes much. My shoulder holster hangs on a hook in the bedroom closet, and I slide it on. Then I grab my favorite gun from the safe built into my bedside table. Thankfully, it’s winter, so it won’t be difficult to conceal the weapon under bulky clothes. I pull on a sweater and jacket, then order my ride.

By the time the car arrives, and we make it through traffic to the hotel, I’m about five minutes late to meet Madison. Having spent so much time on her abandoned social media page, I’m familiar enough with what she looks like and know I’ll easily be able to recognize her. But I don’t see her anywhere in the bar or the lobby. Five minutes later, she still hasn’t shown, and irritation prickles along my spine.

I wasn’t the one to ask for this meeting and I’m starting to think the entire endeavor has been a waste of time. I’m about to bail when my phone rings. It’s Madison. “I’m at the bar and don’t see you. I understand if you changed your mind about wanting to meet, but I thought I would reach out in the hope that I might be able to convince you otherwise.”

I glance around again, wondering how I could have missed her. “I’m here,” I tell her. “I’m sitting in a corner booth. Where are you?”

“Booth? I don’t see any booths,” she says, sounding confused. “Hold on, let me ask the bartender if there’s another restaurant at the hotel that I’m not aware of.”

I hear a muffled conversation, and then she’s back. “You’re never going to believe this. There are two airport Hyatts on the same road. How in the world is that even possible? The bartender says this happens all the time: people showing up at the wrong one. I’m just down the road. Let me hop in my car. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

She hangs up before I even have a chance to respond. Her excuse sounds dubious, and I immediately pull up the Maps app on my phone to search for Hyatt hotels. Sure enough, two little red dots appear relatively close to each other. One is listed as being on Airport Road North, while the other is on Airport Road South. It seems ridiculously and unnecessarily confusing, but it means she was telling the truth.

I look toward the door, surprised Sam still isn’t here. I’m about to pull up my location app to check how far away he is when Madison arrives in a flurry of apologies.

She’s young, still in her mid-twenties, and she looks it, though it’s obvious she dressed to appear older. Her blond hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and her makeup is subtle and meant to appear effortless in a way that likely took a significant amount of time to achieve. She’s wearing tailored dark-wash jeans, a plain white silk shirt, and a bold turquoise statement necklace that matches the bow on her beige flats.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she says as she slides into the booth across from me. Her voice carries the slight Southern accent I recognize from the podcast, but now I find it odd, given that she grew up in California and went to school in the Midwest. “I can’t believe I made a mistake like that. Who would have thought there’d be two of the same hotel on the same road? What are the odds? Thank you for waiting. And thank you again for being willing to meet.”

Her words come out in a rush and there’s something about her that gives off a golden-retriever vibe. She comes across as eager and earnest in a way that emphasizes how young she still is.

No wonder Rowan and the Lost Angels were able to take advantage of her. You’d think losing her parents so young and bouncing through the foster system would have stripped away some of that naïveté. Then again, maybe it’s good that the harshness of the world hasn’t dulled her shininess.

“Sam will be joining us; he’s just running a little late.” I check my phone, noting that by this point he’s over twenty minutes late and hasn’t texted. I don’t know if that should make me concerned or frustrated or both. Given that I don’t know where he went, I don’t know whether his being late is worrisome.

I send a quick text: All okay?

It remains unread. I set my phone on my lap to make sure I’ll feel the vibration if he responds.

Madison’s eyes brighten. “Oh, great! I look forward to meeting him.”

My lips twist. “I’m not sure you should be. He’s not your biggest fan, given the most recent podcast episode.”

She ducks her head, her cheeks blazing with color. “Look, I⁠—”

She’s cut off by the appearance of our server. While we order drinks, Madison takes a moment to compose herself. When the server retreats to the bar, she takes a deep breath and presses her palms flat against the table.

“I want to formally apologize for my involvement in The Royal Murders. I went into it hoping to change the way the world looks at serial killers. I wanted to center the narrative around the victims rather than Melvin. I thought the Lost Angels were on board with that vision. And I think they were. At first. Or at least Rowan was…somewhat. Then Leo disappeared, and…”

She trails off, as if considering how much to share.

I say nothing. As usual, the tactic works, and the silence stretches long enough that Madison feels compelled to fill it. “Leo ran the Lost Angels after Miranda Tidewell died. The thing with Miranda is that she was super rich and she left her estate to Leo, which made him super rich. He’s the one who brought Rowan on board with the management team. And she was the one in charge of the podcast on their end, so she’s the one I worked with the most.”

This piques my interest, given my suspicions about Rowan. “Were you and Rowan close? Did you become friends?” I make the question sound innocent, just mere curiosity.

She shifts in her chair. “Rowan’s… I’m not sure what the best word to describe her is, but she’s not really the friend type. She’s prickly. Keeps to herself. Plus, she had a full-time job outside of the Lost Angels and she has kids, so I didn’t really see her a ton. We mostly communicated over email and texts. She isn’t really the kind of person you share memes with, if you know what I mean. That’s why it stood out that she and Leo got along so well.”

“She and Leo were friends?”

“They were close. I don’t know if I’d say friends as much as, like…family of sorts. I think she saw him like a father figure, and for him, I think Rowan reminded him of the daughter he lost. I think that’s why she went off the deep end when Leo disappeared. Everything changed.”

“Really? How so?”

Madison blows out a breath. “I mean, I was an outsider, so I don’t really know about all the internal politics, but Rowan took over the Lost Angels, even though she was fairly new to the management team. She also completely believed that Sam was involved in Leo’s death. She was absolutely convinced he’d murdered him. When the news came out about the preservative in the blood, she refused to believe it. I included an interview with one of the lab technicians who did the testing in the podcast, and she was livid. Demanded I take it out. I refused, and...” She sighs, her shoulders sagging. “That’s when we parted ways, and she took control of the podcast.”

I study her, trying to decide how much to believe. She seems to sense my hesitation. She rummages in her purse and holds out a USB drive. I take it.

“Like I said, I recorded the entire season and had all the episodes more or less ready to go. Then Rowen started making requests for edits and became super hands-on. Eventually, she took over completely and apparently rewrote and re-edited what I gave her.”

She nods at the flash drive in my hand. “Those are all the original episodes. You can listen for yourself. The rest of the files are in my car.”

I start to respond when my phone pings. I glance at the screen, expecting it to be Sam letting me know where he is since he’s running late. Instead, it’s a text from Lanny.

Lanny

911

10

GWEN

A wave of terror washes over me, and I’m on my feet before I even finish placing the call. I’ve been training my kids on what to do in an emergency for years. There’s no way Lanny would send me a text like that unless something is truly, terribly wrong.

Worst-case scenarios tear through my thoughts, causing my heart to nearly seize with panic as I stumble out of the bar and through the lobby, waiting for the call to connect. I never should have let them go on their own. This entire experiment to give them more space and autonomy was a mistake.

I should have known that something like this was coming. I should have been better prepared.

The minute I hear Lanny pick up, I ask, “Are you safe?”

“Connor and I are both fine. Not hurt. Not in danger,” she tells me immediately. Her voice is trembling, and I hear the car running in the background. “We’re up at the gas station on Central.” It’s where I’ve always told them to go in case of an emergency. Don’t wait or hesitate, just get in the car and drive.

I close my eyes, allowing myself to feel a second of relief that almost brings me to my knees. I blow out a shuddering breath. I’m outside now, the swish of the hotel doors sliding closed behind me. “Okay, what happened?”

“I don’t—hold on.” She says something to Connor that I can’t hear. He starts to protest, but it’s drowned out by the sound of the car dinging as she opens the door and steps outside. “I’m not sure how much Connor saw. I’m not even sure exactly what it was I saw either. We got home from the barn, and everything seemed normal. The front door was locked and the alarm was on. But when I stepped inside…” She pauses and audibly swallows.

She’s breathing fast and shallow, and I can hear how hard she’s struggling to control her panic. “Mom.” Her voice warbles, and it physically hurts to hear that word and know that my baby girl needs me and I’m not there. I curl my fingers tighter around the phone.

“I’m right here. Tell me what happened.” I try to keep my tone level and calm, knowing she needs that anchor right now.

She draws in another sharp breath. “There was blood. Everywhere. I didn’t know what it was at first, but then…I saw a body. It was a man. He was on the couch. Sitting, with his head back and his throat…it wasn’t even—” She gasps, her words trailing off into a whimper.

My chest squeezes tight. All I can think about is Sam. How he’s not here when he should be. How I haven’t heard from him. Oh, God. What if one of those sickos came after us? What if my worst nightmares are finally coming true?

My body floods with dread, emotions threatening to overwhelm my thoughts. I start to tremble and have to clench my teeth, needing to stay strong and focused for Lanny.

“Sam.” I croak the word.

“It wasn’t him,” she quickly clarifies. “I didn’t recognize whoever it was,” she adds. “He was old. Had gray hair. But I didn’t see much else. I just turned, and pushed Connor back toward the car, and ran.”

The relief I feel is so intense that I stumble toward the wall of the hotel, pressing a hand against it to keep from sliding to the ground. Not Sam, I think to myself. Not my kids.

We’re all safe. For now.

“But he was for sure dead,” she continues, unable to stop herself. “The blood, Mom. It was⁠—”

“But you and Connor are okay?” I press, trying to steer her away from focusing on the horrific scene she just saw.

“We are. We left and drove up here. Just like we practiced,” she confirms.

I feel a burst of pride. Despite the quaver in my daughter’s voice, I’m remarkably impressed by how well she’s holding herself together. She’s not screaming or crying or blubbering with panic. We’ve drilled emergency scenarios again and again, but it’s different than facing a true emergency with its unpredictability and messiness and fight-or-flight hormones coursing through you.

Despite how well she’s doing, I need to be there. I need to see and hold my kids and know they’re okay. It’s an urge so primal that it’s painful. Then I remember that I don’t have a car, and frustration surges through me. I need Sam. Now.

I text him:

Gwen

Where are you?

I don’t want to hang up on Lanny to call him, so I keep her on the line while I open the location app on my phone. At least that way, I can see how far away he is. I note that Lanny’s and Connor’s icons are at the gas station. It’s what I expected, but it’s still a relief to see. Vee’s icon is at the tattoo parlor where she works. She’ll be safe there.

Sam’s icon, however, is missing. I scroll down to the list of names on the account below the map. His is grayed out. I click on it and get an error message that the user location data is unavailable.

My knuckles burn white where I grip the phone and shake it, hoping that might somehow make a difference. Of course, it doesn’t.

A wave of helplessness rolls through me. Where the hell is he? What if something’s happened to him? What if he’s in danger? My stomach roils, nausea burning the back of my throat.

I don’t have time to worry about him. He’s a soldier, I remind myself. He knows how to take care of himself. Right now, my focus has to be on the kids. We agreed to that early on: Our kids come first, above all else.

Right now, my number-one priority is getting to Lanny and Connor.

I turn to the valet stand. “I need a taxi. Now!”

The young boy’s eyes go wide, and he nods and reaches for a phone, but he’s not moving fast enough. I’m about to snap at him that it’s an emergency when I notice a presence at my elbow. It’s Madison. I have no idea how long she’s been standing there. “I can drive you.” She already has her keys out and starts jogging toward the parking lot. “My car’s right over here.”

My thoughts erupt into war. Every ounce of my maternal self screams to follow her and get to my kids. Now. But the rational part of me refuses to move. This woman is still a stranger. She’s told me a pretty story about how she’s not really my enemy and doesn’t wish me or my family any harm, but what if it’s just that? A story.

The valet solves the problem for me. “It will be about fifteen to twenty minutes,” he says after hanging up the phone.

I can’t wait that long. Not when it involves my kids.

I feel the weight of my Sig Sauer under my arm. Carrying a firearm isn’t a substitute for making smart decisions, and just because I have a weapon doesn’t mean I should put myself in a compromising situation. Still, it at least gives me some comfort.

Under other circumstances, I would tell Madison no. But this is about my kids. “I’m on my way,” I tell Lanny.

I chase after Madison as she leads me to a small SUV parked under a light nearby. I slow as I approach the car, my hand under my jacket as I quickly scan the inside. Several bankers boxes are stacked in the back—presumably the files she promised me. But no one is crouched and waiting to ambush me, which is all I’m focused on.

Madison clearly understands that this is an emergency and already has the car started before I jump inside. She’s pulling out of the parking lot by the time I get my seatbelt buckled. “Where to?” she asks.

I rattle off the address, knowing that we’ll never use that safe spot again, and she types it into her phone with one hand while navigating traffic with the other.

“I’ll be there soon,” I tell Lanny. “Get back in the car and lock the doors. Go ahead and call the cops. Tell them what you saw. I’m going to try to reach Sam again.”

I hang up and brace my hand against the dash as Madison takes a left turn on a yellow light, causing several cars to blare their horns. I expect her to bombard me with questions, but she remains quiet. I appreciate her silence, but that doesn’t mean she’s not absorbing every second and won’t use it against me later. I hate that I’ve involved a journalist in my private business, but it was the lesser of two evils.

I guess I’ll see how sincere she was in her earlier apology by what she does when all is said and done. If she keeps this to herself, I might start believing her.

I call Sam, and it rolls to voicemail. Where the hell is he? I recheck the location app. His name is still grayed out. I text him.

Gwen

I need you to call me.

I stare at my phone, willing it to ring. Nothing. It’s not the first time his phone has dropped off the location app. Usually, though, it’s because he put his phone in airplane mode or turned it off while flying. Sometimes, he forgets to turn it back on. It’s never been an issue before, though. I rarely pay attention to his location—the app is really for me to keep an eye on the kids and Vee. Not that they haven’t figured out a way around the app in the past.

I’m incessantly reloading the map when the blare of a horn and screeching tires jolts me back to the present. Madison veers across oncoming traffic and into the gas station. Forgetting Sam for the moment, I point to the far corner where my SUV sits, idling under a bright streetlight. Madison heads in that direction, and I already have my seatbelt off and the door open before she pulls to a complete stop.

I leap out of the car and lunge toward my kids. The minute I have Lanny in my arms, her shoulders begin to heave with silent tears. “I’m here,” I tell her, holding her head against the crook of my neck. “You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

Connor comes around his side of the car, and I grab him too, wrapping my arm around him and holding them both tight. “I’m okay, Mom,” he grumbles against me, but I don’t care. I need this. I need the feel of my kids safe and sound and protected. For a moment, we stand there, the three of us.

“Mom, what’s going on?” Lanny’s voice is steady. I pull back and see that her tears have dried, leaving her eyes red and puffy. I’m so damn proud of how strong she’s been through this and how well she’s held it all together.

“I don’t know,” I tell her. It’s a feeling I despise. If I don’t know what the danger is, how can I protect my kids from it? “Have you heard from Sam?”

Her eyes go wide with worry, and she shakes her head. Connor does as well. “I thought he was with you?” His voice trembles.

Before I can think of what to tell him, my phone vibrates with a call. My knees go weak with relief when I see that it’s Sam. I press a hand against the hood of the SUV to steady myself as I answer. He’s already talking before I can even say hello. “I know I’m running late; I’m almost to the hotel and⁠—”

“Sam.” I cut him off. He goes silent instantly, the tone of my voice making it clear that something has happened. I can practically feel the shift in his energy through the phone—the fear taking hold.

“I’m okay,” I immediately tell him. “The kids are too. They’re with me right now. We’re at the gas station on Central.”

At the mention of our bug-out rendezvous spot, I hear a squeal of tires followed by a blaring horn. “I’m on my way. Ten minutes out.”

For so many years, I faced the threats against my family by myself. It was just me in charge of keeping Lanny and Connor safe and I lived in terror of something happening to me, thus leaving them alone with no one to act as their shield and protector.

Now, I have Sam. We have Sam. It’s hard to even describe the relief I feel knowing I’m not alone in this anymore.

However, as much as I want him by my side, I’m not sure that’s what’s best right now. I glance over my shoulder at Madison. She’s got the driver-side door open and she’s standing, watching me over the roof of the car.

“Do you mind giving us some privacy?” I ask pointedly.

Her cheeks flush with embarrassment at having been called out for so blatantly eavesdropping. “Of course. Sorry.” She drops back into the car and closes the door. Even so, I turn so she can’t see my face and lower my voice.

“Something happened at the house,” I tell him. “When Lanny and Connor got home from the barn, Lanny opened the door and—” The words get stuck in my throat. I can’t believe I’m about to say this out loud. “There was blood and a dead body.”

There’s a beat of silence where the only sound I can hear is the engine on his truck. “What?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “She said there was blood everywhere and a man was on the couch, clearly dead. She came straight here to the gas station and texted me.”

“What the fuck is going on here, Gwen?”

“I don’t know,” I say again. It’s such a useless phrase, but it’s all I have. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers, trying to think through the chaos in my brain.

“You should go to the house. Figure out what’s happening.” I check behind me to make sure Madison is still tucked in her car and can’t overhear before I add, “I’m going to call Kez and see if she’s okay with Connor and Lanny driving up there.”

“You’re going to let them drive out to Stillhouse Lake on their own?”

An hour ago, my answer would have been an unequivocal no. I wouldn’t have even entertained the thought of letting my daughter and son go that far on their own.

I look toward my daughter. She’s standing a few feet behind me, her arm protectively around Connor. She’s scared; I can see it in her eyes. I can also see from the set of her jaw and the shift in her stance that she’s determined.

Another rush of pride swells in me. I’ve spent so many years alternating between a desire to shield her from the worst of the world and the understanding that shielding her won’t protect her. Only preparing her will. Hence the drills, the training, the emergency planning.

Tonight, she showed me that she’s been paying attention. She’s been taking it seriously. As much as I want to be the one to bundle my kids into the car and whisk them off into the night, Lanny has proven that she’s capable of taking this task on.

As much as I’m not ready for it, sometimes we don’t get to choose the moments we have to learn to let go.

I meet my daughter’s eyes, making sure she hears me when I tell Sam, “I trust Lanny. She can handle it.”

I note the flash of satisfaction in her expression.

“Get to the house,” I add to Sam. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Then, I call Kez. My conversation with her is brief and to the point. The minute I explain what happened and that I need somewhere safe for the kids to go, she tells me to send them her way. I let out a sigh of relief. Kez and Javi love my kids and will protect them with their lives.

Once that’s taken care of I turn back to Lanny and Connor. “Kez and Javi are expecting you. Javi’s been fixing up the barn—turning it into a guesthouse. It’s not finished yet, but there’s space for you.”

Connor’s eyes go wide. “You’re sending us away?”

I nod. “It’s the best place for you right now.”

“What about our stuff?” he asks. “I don’t even have a change of clothes, and I smell like horses.”

“Javi will have something you can borrow for tonight. We’ll sort the rest out tomorrow.”

Uncertainty and fear war in his expression. I want to pull him against me again and rock him like I did when he was a child waking up scared from a nightmare. How many times back then did I tell him monsters weren’t real? How little I knew. The monster wasn’t in his closet, but rather down the hallway sleeping peacefully in our bed.

The truth is, the world is full of monsters.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. That he doesn’t pull a face at the gesture tells me more than anything else how worried he is. “I’ll touch base in the morning. Until then, keep your phones on and charged.”

He gives me a hug, holding on a little longer than usual, and then moves back around the car to climb into the passenger seat. Once his door is closed, I turn to Lanny, keeping my voice low. “My Glock is in the lockbox in the back. The code is 1452. It already has a full magazine loaded, and there are two more in there.”

She’s always known I carry a gun in the car, though I’ve never given her the code to the lockbox before. She’s never needed it. And even though she’s been taught and trained to respect firearms and use them appropriately, I haven’t been ready to give her one of her own.

Her face drains of color. “Are we in that kind of danger?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. I wish I could tell her no, but that wouldn’t be doing her any favors. “It’s just better to be prepared beforehand than be sorry after.”

She recognizes the responsibility and trust I’m placing in her with this information. “Remember to keep your eyes open and pay attention to your surroundings,” I add. “Don’t stop unless it’s somewhere crowded, and don’t hesitate to call for help if you need it.”

It’s a speech I’ve given her a thousand times. She usually rolls her eyes. This time, she doesn’t. Instead, she nods.

I think about Madison sitting in the car behind me. I don’t like the timing of all of this—that when I was meeting her for drinks, someone was potentially being murdered in my house. It may seem far-fetched and paranoid to think it was all some elaborate scheme to separate me from my kids, but I’ve learned not to discard a concern just because it seems improbable.

For a moment, I reconsider sending Lanny on her own. I could leave Sam to handle whatever happened at the house and drive the kids to Stillhouse Lake myself. But then I think about the box full of hidden college acceptance letters under her bed. She’ll be eighteen in a few months, a legal adult. Not long after that, she wants to move away to go to school.

A panicky kind of flutter takes up residence in my chest at the thought. Next fall, I’ll be forced to let go, whether I like it or not.

The only way to make sure she’s ready is to give her the chance to prove it.

So far, she has.

I swallow down the choking anxiety. “Keep an eye on your rearview mirror. If you see anything suspicious, find the nearest police station and go directly to it.”

“You think someone could try following us?”

“Always assume the worst,” I tell her. I hate that this is the advice I have to give her, but it’s the only way to stay safe.

She nods, and I pull her into a tight hug. “Take care of yourself and your brother,” I tell her.

“I will.”

I know she means it with her entire being, but it’s still hard to let go of her. It’s even harder to watch her get behind the wheel and give a brief wave before pulling out of the parking lot. I stand, tracking the car until her taillights disappear around the corner. I wait awhile longer, checking to see if any other cars pull out to follow her. None do, but that doesn’t ease my anxiety.

Behind me, a car door opens, and I turn to find Madison standing and watching me. “You okay?”

It’s such a ridiculous question that I don’t bother answering. “Thank you for your help.” As suspicious as I am of her, I say this sincerely.

“Do you need me to take you anywhere else?”

She’s a journalist. The last thing I need is to involve her any deeper in my business. “No, thank you. I’ll call a taxi.”

She purses her lips, then blows out a breath. “Look, Gwen, cards on the table? I know something’s going on at your house. While you were talking to your kids, I was checking local police scanners online and there’s been a whole lot of activity at your address. I’m going to go there to find out what it is. I can either drive you or not. It’s up to you.”

I bristle at the thought of her going to my house—of her even knowing where my house is. I deeply dislike how involved she’s suddenly become in all of this and would like nothing more than to put some distance between us. I glance at the taxi app on my phone and curse under my breath. The soonest they can get someone to me is twenty minutes.

As much as I hate to admit it, Madison is right. She can get me home faster. It would be stupid to turn her down when she’s headed that direction anyway.

I shift, feeling the familiar weight of my firearm under my jacket. Then I climb into Madison’s car. She already has my address in her GPS, which only heightens my discomfort at how much this woman knows about me.

“How do you know my address?”

She barely resists rolling her eyes. “I’m an investigative journalist,” she says. “I know a lot.”

I wonder if she realizes how creepy that sounds. I’m regretting accepting her offer of a ride and contemplating asking her to pull over when she says, “I’m not the enemy, Gwen.”

“That remains to be seen.”

She doesn’t respond. She must realize that nothing she can say will sway her case.

When we turn onto my street, the night is awash with flashing red and blue lights. I’m instantly thrown into the past, driving home with little Brady and Lily, seeing the cop cars crowding around the bend in the road by my house and having no idea how drastically my life was about to change.

Madison pulls to a stop on the side of the road. For a moment, I sit frozen, caught in the grip of the past. I’d seen my first dead body that day. Callie, broken and flayed, hanging from a hook in our garage.

And now, here I am, returning home to another dead body.

I briefly close my eyes.

Please don’t let it be starting again.

I notice Sam at the edge of the police barricade and am instantly out of the car, running toward him. He pulls me against his chest and I let myself sink into the warmth and security of his embrace. It doesn’t last nearly long enough.

“What’s going on?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “I have no idea. They won’t tell me anything or let me get any closer.”

I notice the uniformed officer nearby, his attention clearly on us rather than the house. He stands casually, but I don’t miss the fact that his hand rests on his hip next to his firearm. If needed, he could unclip his holster and have his gun pointed at us within seconds.

He watches us like we’re potential suspects. And I suddenly realize we are. The severity of the situation starts to sink in then. I flash back to what Lanny said she saw: a man on our couch, head back, throat slit, blood everywhere.

I close my eyes, imagining it from the cops’ point of view. That’s not the kind of wound that would likely be an accident, or self-inflicted.

Which means this man was murdered. In our house.

Of course, I already knew that. But being here, seeing the police and the ambulance and the flashing lights, suddenly makes it all too real. With that comes more questions: Who is in our house? Why? There’s no way his death is a coincidence. It has to be a message, but what it means I don’t yet know. I cross my arms, a shiver coursing through me.

Just then, a man steps from the house, speaking briefly with another officer, who points in our direction. He glances our way, eyes sweeping over Sam and me in a quick assessment before he heads toward us. Given that he’s wearing jeans and a collared shirt with a badge embroidered on the chest, I assume he’s a detective.

He holds out a hand as he approaches. “I’m Detective Gutierrez. Are you the homeowners?”

“Renters,” Sam tells him. “I’m Sam Cade,” he says, shaking the man’s hand.

Gutierrez looks my way expectantly. “Gwen Proctor,” I tell him.

“And it was your daughter who called this in?” he asks me.

“She’s our daughter,” I correct him. Sam legally adopted both Lanny and Connor the year before. “And yes, she found the body and called 911.”

“Is she here? I’d like to speak with her if that’s possible.”

There’s no way I’m letting anyone near Lanny at this point. At least not until I have a better idea of what’s going on. “She’s not,” I inform him. I don’t tell him where they’ve gone. He doesn’t need to know. “I didn’t want them exposed to all of this.” I wave my hand at the flashing lights and neighbors crowding their lawns.

“I understand. We’ll try to find a way to get a formal statement from her without too much disruption, if that’s okay.” He phrases it as a request, but there’s a steeliness to his voice that makes it clear that he intends to talk to Lanny no matter what it takes. And I plan to protect her no matter what it takes as well.

“In the meantime,” he continues, “I notice you have a pretty sophisticated alarm system.” Gutierrez points to the cameras at the corners of our house with his pen. “Any chance it was armed and recording earlier this evening?”

I nod. “It’s always running,” I tell him as I reach for my phone. “And we’re militant about keeping it armed.”

I open the app and pull up the feed from the first camera, scrolling back through the images from earlier this evening. I stop when I note Sam pulling out in his truck. Gutierrez moves next to me and watches as Sam leaves and then nothing until the rideshare pulls into the driveway. I step out of the house, pausing to verify the make and model of the car against what’s listed in the app and asking the driver’s name before getting in. We pull away.

My stomach twists in anticipation. I realize I’m holding my breath and let it out slowly. We watch, waiting for the killer to arrive. The clock on the screen clicks forward as nothing happens.

Then, the screen goes dark.

I frown. “What the hell?” I scroll forward, and the picture returns, but this time, it’s my SUV in the driveway and my kids making their way to the front door. Lanny says something to Connor that the camera doesn’t pick up, and he rolls his eyes. She puts her key in the lock, then disappears inside. Connor is just about to follow her in when she barrels back out. She shoves him, hard, and points toward the car, her mouth clearly forming the word, “Go!”

Connor doesn’t hesitate. He bolts for the car, Lanny on his heels. Within seconds, they’re peeling out of the driveway.

Exactly as I taught them. All those times we’d drilled bailing from the house had paid off. They performed perfectly. Connor didn’t push back or ask questions. The moment Lanny said to go, he went. They were out of there in seconds.

But that still doesn’t explain the blank spot in the recording. I switch to another camera with a different angle. Again, we watch Sam leave, then me. Then the screen goes dark.

“I don’t understand.” My pulse pounds hard enough that I hear it in my ears.

“Are those the only two cameras? The ones on each corner?” Gutierrez asks.

I shake my head, my forehead furrowed in concentration. “No, we have two more that are hidden in case someone decides to mess with the main cameras. They’re on a different system too.”

I switch to another app. We run through the same routine, but again…nothing. The recording goes blank soon after I leave, starting up again right as Lanny and Connor return home.

Pressure mounts in my skull, causing a throbbing ache. “This doesn’t make sense.” I click through the camera settings, trying to figure out what happened to the missing recording. Perhaps some sort of setting was changed or the recording saved somewhere else. “The cameras are set to run anytime the system is armed. Lanny said it was on when she got home…”

I trail off, clicking back to the first app to check the log again. We each have our own code so the system can track who arms and disarms the system. I trail my finger down the screen—Lanny and Sam leaving for school this morning, Connor going for a walk, Sam running errands. Lanny returning home from school and then leaving again to take Connor to the barn. Sam leaving. Then me, on my way to meet Madison at the hotel.

I should have been the last user to arm the system until Lanny and Connor got home. Except there’s one more name after mine: Sam Cade.

I note the time: He disarmed the system only a few minutes after I left, then rearmed it twenty minutes later. Right around the time I was at the hotel bar waiting to meet Madison.

What the actual fuck?

I quickly flick my finger across the screen, shifting to a different window. I’m hoping Gutierrez didn’t have a chance to see Sam’s name on the log as the last one to have accessed the system. I want a chance to ask Sam about it myself before handing that piece of information over to the authorities.

But when I glance over at the detective, I notice that his lips are pressed tight. Something in his demeanor has shifted, and I have a sinking feeling I wasn’t able to close the log before he noted Sam’s name.

“Can we get a copy of that?” he asks, nodding at my phone.

“I’ll have to figure out how to download the file first.” It’s a lie. I know how to use this system forward and backward, but something makes me hesitant about handing it over.

“My forensics team can take care of it if you’d like.”

I dodge the offer. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”

He considers us closely as if trying to determine how much to share. Then he asks, “Does the name Leonard Varrus mean anything to either of you?”

11

GWEN

It’s the last name I expect to hear, and it takes a moment for it to register. When it does, it feels as though the ground has dropped away beneath me. “Leo Varrus? That’s the dead man in my house?”

“We still have to wait for a formal identification, but we found his license and the photo appears to match.”

I turn to Sam. He’s frozen beside me, staring at the house. He shakes his head slowly. “Leo fucking Varrus,” he says softly, almost to himself. “And you’re sure he’s dead?”

“Quite sure,” Gutierrez confirms. “His throat was slit.”

There’s no way the detective misses how Sam nearly stumbles back a step, nor the fact that he mutters the word finally under his breath. Sam clearly appears relieved. It’s definitely not the response Gutierrez expected, and he’s suddenly way more interested in Sam than before.

“I take it you knew him?” Gutierrez asks.

I’m just as staggered as Sam is by the news that Leo Varrus was apparently murdered in our house, but I’m able to recover faster. I nod. “Yeah, we knew him.”

He waits for me to elaborate, but how in the world can I explain who Varrus is to us? My first instinct is to give as brief an answer as possible, but Gutierrez is obviously going to learn about the connection between us. And then what will he think?

Varrus was an enemy. He faked his own murder and tried to pin it on Sam. Now, he’s dead—murdered—in our house.

Which makes Sam and me pretty obvious suspects.

Sam was the last to use the alarm, I remind myself. At least, that’s what the records indicate.

Fuck.

“If you’re worried that either of us had anything to do with this, let me assure you that we did not,” I tell the detective. I realize the futility of the statement. Of course, we’d deny any involvement. The real murderer would too.

Gutierrez considers me for a moment before nodding. “In what capacity did you know Mr. Varrus?”

It’s a Catch-22. Normally, I would refuse to answer any questions until I’d spoken with my lawyer. But refusing to talk will make us look guilty. Exercising our constitutional right to counsel shouldn’t count against us, but it would. It would make us appear even more suspicious. Our best bet is to seem cooperative while trying to frame the narrative in the best possible light for us.

After all, Gutierrez is going to find out about our dealings with Varrus. It’s better if we’re the ones who tell him.

I blow out a breath. “Look, I’ll freely admit we have a past with Leonard Varrus. He despised both of us, to put it mildly. He went missing a few months ago and tried to make it look like Sam had something to do with his disappearance. I could go into more detail, but you probably wouldn’t believe me. I suggest you reach out to the Norton Police Department. They can fill you in.”

Gutierrez raises an eyebrow. “Any particular reason he didn’t like you?”

Because he thought I had something to do with his daughter’s murder. But I know that won’t go over well. Instead, I ask, “Have you heard of Melvin Royal?”

The detective grimaces. “Hard to be in my line of work and not know of him. Real piece of work, that guy.”

“He murdered Varrus’s daughter. He also killed Sam’s sister,” I say, nodding toward Sam. “The two of them started an organization called the Lost Angels—sort of a support group for those who lost loved ones to Melvin Royal. Ultimately, they had a disagreement that led to their falling out.”

Gutierrez glances toward Sam, scrutinizing him. “What was the disagreement about?”

He’s asking Sam, but I’m the one who answers. “Me.”

He frowns, not following. “Why’s that?”

“Melvin Royal was my ex-husband.”

His eyes go wide. This new piece of information clearly shifts his perception of me. “I thought your name sounded familiar.”

I give him a tight smile.

“You’re married to the woman whose husband murdered your sister?” Gutierrez asks Sam. If he’s trying to provoke him, to get some sort of reaction, it doesn’t work.

“We’re not married,” Sam says. “Yet,” he adds.

I try not to show any external reaction to that last bit. Sam proposed to me a few years ago, but I told him no. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to marry him, but more that it wasn’t the right time. The fallout from Melvin’s death still played an outsized role in our lives, and I wanted to make absolutely sure we were marrying each other because it was the right thing for us to do and not as a response to the trauma we’d endured together.

I know being turned down hurt Sam a lot, and he hasn’t asked again. Then again, marriage has never felt particularly necessary. Neither of us needs a ring to prove anything to the world. We know each other’s hearts. That’s all that matters.

I slip my hand into his and squeeze. He squeezes back, his fingers firm and warm around mine. A reminder that we’re a team and always will be.

“You dating Ms. Proctor led to your falling out with Mr. Varrus?” Gutierrez prods.

“Not initially,” Sam tells him. “But other members of the Lost Angels persuaded Leo to believe that Gwen was involved in her ex-husband’s crimes. Of course, she knew nothing about what Melvin was doing, and I tried to explain that to them, but they didn’t want to hear it. Leo thought I was a traitor for having anything to do with Gwen. He thought I betrayed the Lost Angels’ cause.”

Gutierrez takes a few notes and then says, “Anything else?”

Sam hesitates. “Leo blames me for the death of Miranda Tidewell. She was another founder of the Lost Angels and she was dating Leo. A band of kidnappers murdered her several years ago, and I was there when it happened.” Gutierrez’s eyes flare wide with interest, and Sam quickly adds, “If you want more details, you can reach out to Mike Lustig at the FBI. He was also there and can vouch for the fact that I had nothing to do with her death.”

“Have either of you had any contact with Leo Varrus recently?”

Again, this is information he’ll be able to glean from third parties, so there’s no reason to hold back. “I can’t say I’ve ever spoken to the man,” I tell him.

“And you, Mr. Cade?”

I wait for Sam to tell him about Varrus’s last call a couple of weeks ago. When he doesn’t, I glance his way. His face is pale.

Something’s happening, but I’m not sure what. I can feel some sort of momentum building. It’s the same sense as before a storm when the air is still and stale but charged, setting the hairs along your arms on end.

Gutierrez doesn’t press Sam for an answer. Instead, he asks, “Can you verify your cell phone number for me, Mr. Cade?”

Still, Sam says nothing, and a sort of dread begins to take root in my chest.

The detective reads a phone number off a page in his little notebook. It’s Sam’s.

Sam remains silent. I notice, then, how rigidly he’s holding himself. My dread starts morphing into panic.

I’m missing something, but I don’t know what it is. I give a nearly imperceptible tug on Sam’s hand, urging him to look at me and give me some sort of indication of what the hell is going on. Some reassurance. He doesn’t meet my eyes. My heart trips, thumping hard against my ribs.

“The victim still had his phone on him, and forensics was able to use his biometrics to unlock it,” Gutierrez continues. “We were able to gain access to his last several text messages. Are you aware that you were the last person in contact with the victim?” he asks Sam.

My breath catches in my throat, and sweat begins beading along the back of my neck despite the chill in the air. It’s everything I can do to keep the surprise from showing on my face. Other than the call several weeks ago, Sam hasn’t mentioned having any communication with Varrus.

“The last text he received was from your number about an hour ago,” he says, nodding at Sam. He holds up his notepad so he can recite the words verbatim. “You wrote, ‘If you come anywhere near me or my family, I will fucking gut you, understand?’”

The words land like a bomb. Sam’s eyes flutter shut for the briefest moment before he draws a deep breath and opens them again. His expression shifts, hardens. His entire demeanor morphs into what I mentally refer to as Soldier Mode. It’s how I imagine he looked out on the battlefield when his entire being was focused on defending himself and those he loved.

I’ve seen it before. Like when someone gunned us down in the cabin he was renting in Stillhouse Lake. Or when another cabin we were searching in the Georgia mountains caught on fire and exploded.

It’s confirmation of how serious this situation has become.

A thousand questions spiral through my head. I want to grab Sam’s arm and haul him somewhere private, where I can drill him with questions. But that’s not an option.

This is all happening way too fast, and I’m having difficulty wrapping my mind around what’s going on. I’ll take time later to sift through everything I’ve just heard. Now is the time to present a united front.

If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Sam didn’t do this. Even if he had the means, motive, and opportunity, he wouldn’t have killed Varrus—not in this manner. He never would have brought that kind of violence and death into our home—our living room, where we spend time together as a family.

“Sam didn’t do this,” I tell the detective.

He shifts his attention back to me. “Can you tell me your whereabouts earlier this evening?”

I cringe. He’s seen the camera footage. He knows I left the house. “I was meeting someone at a hotel bar near the airport. The rideshare driver can confirm picking me up and dropping me off. There were probably half a dozen people who saw me waiting at the bar. Plus, there’s the person I was meeting.” I give the detective Madison’s contact information. I don’t bother pointing out that she’s probably still here, one of the many onlookers in the growing crowd behind us. I don’t feel like dragging her into this situation more than she already is.

“And you, Mr. Cade? Can you account for your whereabouts after you left the house earlier this evening?”

Sam glances my way, and our eyes meet. I know immediately from his expression that he can’t. At least not in any verifiable way. I have no idea where he went or what he was doing.

The dread that’s been pooling in my gut continues to rise. I feel like we’re caught in some sort of trap, and it’s growing tighter and tighter around us.

When Sam says nothing, Gutierrez tries again. “Look, this will go much better for you if you start talking. The more difficult you make things…”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m not going to answer any more of your questions. Not without a lawyer.”

My stomach drops. It’s a smart move, but it also confirms my fears.

It clearly confirms Gutierrez’s suspicions as well. The detective sighs. “I understand. I’m not going to ask you any more questions. But let me explain to you how this looks. A man you’ve admitted to having issues with was murdered in your home within minutes of you physically threatening him. Not only can you not account for your whereabouts, but your alarm system shows that you disarmed the system and ensured the security cameras were nonoperational during the time period when the victim was murdered.”

Sam’s face is pale, but his expression is resolute. He says nothing.

The detective looks at him for a beat longer and then lets out another sigh. “So be it.” He gestures to the cop who’s been hovering nearby. He jumps into action, slipping his handcuffs off his belt as he approaches.

I know what’s coming, and I want to step between them and stop it from happening. This entire situation has spun out of control. It’s like Stillhouse Lake all over again, when the Norton police came for Sam, accusing him of murdering Varrus before.

Except back then Varrus hadn’t been dead. He’d only been setting Sam up.

Then who’s setting Sam up now? And why?

I think about the missing minutes on the camera footage and remember Rowan’s background in hacking. I remember the suspicion I felt earlier at the gas station when I realized that Madison was the reason I’d left the house in the first place.

“Wait,” I tell the detective. “Rowan Applegate. She’s also a Lost Angel. Sam’s sister Callie—the one Melvin murdered—was Rowan’s adopted sister. Rowan blames me. She’s been involved in The Royal Murders podcast with Madison Westcott, and she’s a hacker. She could have been responsible for whatever happened to our alarm system. And Madison was the woman I was meeting for drinks—she could have been working with Rowan to get me out of the house.”

Gutierrez frowns. “You think this woman—Rowan—could have killed Leo Varrus? Do you have anything to substantiate that? Madison too?”

I open my mouth, but I’m not sure how to respond. “Sam didn’t do this.”

For a moment, I think Gutierrez might reconsider. Instead, he turns to Sam and says, “Not only do we have your texts, but we also pulled your phone location data. Your mobile pinged off the closest tower to the house during the time we believe the victim was murdered.”

I take an involuntary step back at this piece of information. My eyes meet Sam’s. He shakes his head, his expression pleading with me not to believe them. I flash to the memory of pulling up my location app at the gas station earlier. His phone had been grayed out like he’d turned the tracking off because he didn’t want me to know where he was.

What if he was here at the house? a voice whispers in my head. What if he murdered Leo?

I clench my teeth, forcing the thoughts back. I know Sam. I trust him. He wasn’t involved. This is a mistake.

However, I’m still not surprised when Gutierrez nods to the officer, who steps forward with his handcuffs.

“Sam Cade, you’re under arrest for the murder of Leonard Varrus,” Gutierrez begins. He continues reciting the Miranda warning, but I don’t hear it. Instead, I feel the focus of the crowd shifting around us. I notice all the cell phones pointed in our direction, the news crews with their large cameras capturing every second of this moment. Madison will be one of them. I can’t stop wondering if she’s a part of this—if she and Rowan are somehow in it together.

All I can think about is Lanny and Connor, thanking God that neither is here right now to see this, but knowing it won’t be long before these images are everywhere online.

The cop moves to pat Sam down, and Sam mentions the firearm he has holstered against his back. Of course, he’s carrying, I think to myself. There’s no way he would go to a meeting with Leo unarmed.

But that only increases the surrounding officers’ suspicion. I can see it in how they shift, their hands moving closer to their own weapons. To me, it’s only more proof of his innocence. Why slit a man’s throat when you could shoot him in the head? I don’t say this out loud, though. Somehow, I don’t think Gutierrez would appreciate it.

The detective removes Sam’s gun and places it in an evidence bag. Then the cop finishes patting Sam down before pushing him into the back of a squad car. I catch Sam’s eyes. “It’s going to be okay,” he mouths, and I almost want to laugh. Right now feels a long, long way from okay, and I’m not sure I see the path between here and there.

The cop closes the door, and the siren blurts a few times, clearing a path through the crowd as the car pulls away. I watch them go, still in disbelief. I feel like everything is fracturing apart, and I don’t know how to put it right.

How is it possible this is happening again?

I feel Gutierrez beside me, studying me, waiting for me to say something. I want to scream in his face that this is all wrong. That Sam is being set up again. That we’re being targeted by someone who is trying to ruin our lives. That we are victims too.

But even I know how outlandish that sounds. I think about the lengths Varrus has gone to in the past to target Sam and can’t help but ask, “Is it possible that Varrus did this to himself?

He quirks an eyebrow. “You think the victim broke into your house so he could slit his own throat? Why? So he could set your partner up for murder? That’s pretty extreme, don’t you think?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time that someone’s set him up,” I tell him.

“No, I don’t think it’s possible he did this to himself. According to the medical examiner, the cut nearly severed his spinal cord, and there are no hesitation marks, which you would expect with a self-inflicted wound. There was an impressive amount of blood as well. He would have bled out quite quickly.”

I close my eyes, unable to stop myself from picturing it. Leo Varrus on our couch, head back and ragged throat exposed. Blood coating the walls, the ceiling, the floor.

I’ve seen a similar image before. It’s what our living room at Stillhouse Lake looked like several months ago, minus Leo’s body. Kez and Sam had shown me photos of the scene, and I remember thinking that it seemed like an impossible amount of blood.

I shudder to think that it’s the same thing all over again.

Except this time it’s real. This time there’s an actual dead body.

This time Leo Varrus really was murdered.

And they think Sam did it.

“You know, we’re both after the same thing here,” Gutierrez says softly. “Figuring out what happened inside your house. It would be easier if we worked together.”

If I truly thought he meant that, I might take him up on it. But I don’t trust law enforcement. I’ve known many great cops in my lifetime, but I’ve also had enough experience with the bad apples to know they’re out there. I’ve already told him to look into Rowan and Madison, and he didn’t seem interested. He’s decided that Sam did this, and there’s no need to look any further.

But if he’s not going to investigate them, then I will.

“No, thank you,” I tell him.

He seems genuinely disappointed. “It can’t be easy being Melvin Royal’s ex-wife. I know you were put on trial as an accessory to murder, and I know there are a lot of people out there who still think you had a hand in his dealings.”

I clench my jaw and turn to stare at him icily. “Let me guess, you’ve been listening to The Royal Murders, and because of that, you think I had something to do with this.” I wave my hand at the house and the crime scene inside.

He shakes his head. “Not necessarily. I believe in the justice system. There’s no such thing as a perfect crime, which means there’s always evidence. They had so much evidence on your ex-husband that if you’d been involved, they would have found evidence of that too. I think the jury got it right in your case.”

My shoulders relax slightly. It’s not the answer I expected. “Thank you.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Of course, that also means that if you or Sam were involved in this one, we’ll find the evidence of that too.”

“You won’t,” I tell him succinctly.

“If you’re so sure about that, why aren’t you willing to answer any of my questions?” He counters.

I have to give him credit for how neatly he’s made his point. I’m sure the tactic probably works on most suspects. Unfortunately for him, I’ve had enough involvement with the criminal justice system to know better.

“Like you, I also believe in the justice system, and under that system, I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“You will when you get a grand jury subpoena.”

“In which case, my lawyer and I will be happy to discuss the matter further.”

“I look forward to it.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you. My lawyer is an asshole.”

He laughs. “Is there any other kind?”

“None that I would be interested in having represent me.”

He gives me a genuine smile, and I find that a part of me likes the man. Despite the fact that he just arrested my partner, I get the sense that Gutierrez is one of the good ones: honest, scrupulous, and a straight shooter. But I also know that the best cops can make you think they’re on your side while setting you up for a knife in the back.

Either Gutierrez is a good guy, or he’s really good at making you think he is. Either way, I don’t plan to let down my guard around him.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a card, and holds it toward me. “If you change your mind, I’m happy to talk anytime.”

I take the card and slide it into my pocket without looking at it.

“Otherwise, we’ll be in touch about getting official statements from you and your daughter.” With a nod, he turns and returns to the house, huddling with the crime scene techs just inside the door.

Once again I’m struck with a strange sense of déjà vu. I’ve been here before: standing outside my house, surrounded by police officers, red and blue lights blazing. I’m a different person now, and it’s a different house in a different city, but the confusion and uncertainty are the same.

I think about who I was back then—Gina Royal, so naïve and trusting. I thought I was living a good life, and it turned out to be a lie.

A deep sense of foreboding begins to chill my bones. What if this time around is no different? What if the life I’ve scratched, scrabbled, and fought for, that I built out of the wreckage, is no different than before? What if this new life is also a lie?

What if I’m just like the woman I used to be: blind to the truth? It’s already clear that Sam’s been keeping secrets from me. Just like Melvin once did.

What if it’s all about to come crashing down around me, this time leaving me with nothing?

12

GWEN

Once the cops drive off with Sam, I don’t spend any more time at the house. The last thing I want to do is run into Madison. Thankfully, I have a set of spare keys to Sam’s truck in my purse and I’m able to drive myself to the police station. Once I’m there, they don’t show much interest in me. A cop asks me to write down the details of my alibi, which I do. Then, there’s nothing for me to do but wait.

Wait to find out what the fuck is going on. Wait for our lawyer to get Sam released. Wait to hear from Kez that my kids made it to their house safe and sound.

Through it all, I watch my kids’ icons on the location app moving closer and closer to Stillhouse Lake while I chug Styrofoam cupfuls of terrible coffee, trying to stay awake and keep my thoughts sharp. All it does is make me jittery and on edge.

The station was built sometime in the 1980s, and it doesn’t look like much has been done to it since. The floors are laminate with well-worn paths between the front doors and the reception desk. The chairs are molded plastic, arranged against the wall in a repeating pattern of blue, brown, and olive green. Most are empty, and the few that are occupied are filled with people hunched over their phones or sitting stiffly with their arms crossed. Except for the one couple arguing under their breaths. None of us makes eye contact.

An old TV hangs in the corner tuned to the local twenty-four-hour cable news station, but it’s muted, the closed captions scrolling lazily across the bottom. It doesn’t take long for the news cycle to repeat, and I find myself staring at an image of my own house. A young reporter stands in front, bathed in the light of the camera. She explains what is known so far, which isn’t much, but she makes sure to hit the most salacious point: a violent murder in the house belonging to the ex-wife of famed serial killer, Melvin Royal.

It’s when she mentions The Royal Murders podcast and flashes to an old photo of me that I close my eyes and sink deeper into my chair. I can feel the shift in the room, the other occupants making the connection between the image on the TV and the woman sitting in the corner. Someone clears their throat. The couple that had been arguing moments before drops their voices to a whisper, but I hear enough to know their focus is on me now.

Thankfully, my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen to find a text from Kez.

Kez

Lanny and Connor are here. Both rattled but safe and okay.

An immediate sense of relief washes through me. My kids are safe. That’s what matters most.

Gwen

Thank you, you have no idea how much I appreciate you taking them in on such short notice.

Kez

Lanny told me what happened. Someone was murdered in your house?? WTF?

It’s a good excuse to stretch my legs, so I head outside, keenly aware of the stares following me the entire way. Despite how late it is, the front of the station and the parking lot beyond are lit up almost as bright as day. The night is quiet, however, and I find a bench tucked in a nook down the walkway.

Gwen

They think it’s Leo Varrus.

I don’t have to explain more. Kez was the first officer on scene at our house in Stillhouse Lake when renters arrived to find the living room coated with blood—Leo Varrus’s blood, as we soon discovered, thanks to DNA testing.

Three dots appear by Kez’s name, but no response. She seems just as surprised and shocked as I was at the news. I start to type more but then think of Agent Gutierrez and his keen eyes. Everything I do from now on will be scrutinized. Any texts subject to a warrant. I have to be careful.

Gwen

I’ll call in the morning when I know more.

Given that she’s a detective who’s been on the other side of the table in these sorts of cases, she immediately gets the hint that it’s best not to put too much in writing.

Kez

What can I do?

Gwen

Just keep the kids safe.

Kez

You okay?

I want to tell her that I’m scared, but what good will that do? She may be my closest friend, but she’s over a hundred miles away and nearly nine months pregnant. I shouldn’t have even dragged her into this mess in the first place.

Suddenly, I feel wholly and achingly alone. I’m still reeling from the news that Sam had been intending to meet with Leo without telling me. I keep trying to tell myself he must have had a good reason, but that still doesn’t quell the uncertainty running through me.

Not that I have an unblemished record when it comes to sharing everything. I’ve been known to keep things to myself in the past. When Jonathan Watson was targeting me and my family, I set off to go meet him without telling Sam where I was going or why.

But after that, we promised to be open with each other. No more secrets. It sounds good in theory, but it has been much harder than it should be to put into practice.

I run a hand down my face, allowing myself a quiet moment to let the fear flow through me before taking a deep breath and typing a response.

Gwen

I will be.

I don’t add that I don’t have any other choice.

She’ll see through the false bravado—she knows me too well. But she also knows that pressing me on it won’t work.

Kez

We’re here when you need us.

Gwen

Get some rest. I’ll call in the morning once I know more.

She sends a thumbs-up emoji in response, followed by a heart. I lean my head on the back of the bench and stare up at the night sky. There’s way too much light pollution to see any stars, and I feel an ache of nostalgia for the nights I used to spend out on my porch at Stillhouse Lake. Despite everything that happened while I lived there, I still miss it.

Stillhouse Lake was the first place I felt truly safe after discovering Melvin’s crimes. Of course, in the end that sense of safety was an illusion, but it was enough to give me hope for the future. That I could stop running and build something meaningful.

For the last several months I’ve been trying to do more than just hope for the future. I’ve been actively trying to move past Melvin. Once I promised Lanny and my family that we’d no longer let fear dictate our lives, I realized just how much of my life was dedicated to that fear. The amount of time I spent calculating risks and odds and preparing for the worst.

It’s been a hard habit to break. Being vigilant has become such a core part of my identity that I’m struggling to move beyond it. And of course now I’m being dragged back into the thick of it all over again.

I press my fist against my chest, trying to ease the fluttering ache of anxiety I feel in my heart. It’s such a familiar feeling, the constant drip of adrenaline through my system. The sense that at any minute my life will spin out of control. That it maybe already has.

I hear footsteps nearing and lift my head, glancing down the walkway. I realize with a start that I recognize the approaching figure. It’s Madison, her clothes are more casual now—jeans and a fitted T-shirt—but her hair is still pulled tight into that perfect, polished blond ponytail.

I stiffen, my arm shifting in search of the familiar comfort of my shoulder holster. Except it isn’t there. I removed it and my gun when I got to the police station. They tend to frown on visitors carrying firearms.

I stand, shifting into a defensive stance. “What are you doing here?” My voice is sharp, cold.

She startles, spinning to face me. Her eyes are wide with terror, and I realize she had no idea I was sitting here. I marvel at her lack of situational awareness. What would it be like to walk through the world without constantly assessing your surroundings? Especially a young woman walking alone at night.

I imagine if it had been Lanny in Madison’s place, she would have clocked me instantly.

As soon as she realizes it’s me, Madison blows out a breath and presses a trembling hand over her heart. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“You should pay better attention to your surroundings.”

She winces slightly, chagrined. “You’re angry with me.”

I don’t take the bait. How I feel about her doesn’t matter. “Why are you here?”

“I got a call from a detective asking me to verify that I was with you earlier this evening. They wanted me to come down and give a formal statement. I was going to wait until morning, but I couldn’t sleep so…”

I’m not buying it. No one heads to the police station in the middle of the night out of boredom or because they don’t have anything better to do. “Let me guess, you figured I would likely be here as well given Sam’s arrest.”

Her cheeks flush, and she ducks her chin slightly, her expression evidencing her guilt. I wonder if she realizes what a terrible liar she is.

“I’m not the enemy, Gwen,” she says. She’s telling the truth. Or at least she thinks she is. “Believe it or not, I’m not out to get you. I’m not here to ambush you, I’m here to help you. A man was murdered in your house, and you’re a suspect. I’m your alibi. I’m the reason you’re not going to get in trouble. If I really wanted to mess up your life, I wouldn’t be here right now.” There’s an edge of exasperation to her voice.

“It’s a little convenient, though, isn’t it? That you set up a meeting that lured me away from home right when the murder occurred?”

She seems surprised by my accusation. “That’s what you think? That I had something to do with the murder? I don’t even know who was killed.”

“Leo Varrus.”

I watch her carefully to see how she responds. The cops haven’t released Leo’s name to the public yet, which means the only way Madison could know that he was the victim is if she were somehow involved.

Her eyes widen with shock, and her lips part on a sharp intake of air. “What?” The word is little more than breath. “Leo? How?” She stumbles back a step and then sits, pressing a trembling hand over her mouth. “Oh, God.”

Her reaction seems genuine. Still, my natural paranoia stops me from believing her completely.

“No wonder they arrested Sam.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, thanks to your podcast. Episode two blaming Sam for killing Leo at Stillhouse Lake really helped. Half the world already thought Sam murdered him.”

She flinches. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t help,” I snap.

She stares down at her lap. I cross my arms, acutely aware once again that I’m not carrying my firearm.

After a moment, she says, “I didn’t kill Leo. And I didn’t lure you out of your house so someone else could kill him. If you recall, you’re the one who reached out to me. Yes, I’m the one who suggested we meet, but how in the world could I have ever planned for this? Why would it ever occur to me that you would call me out of the blue like that?”

She has a point. The probability that she was involved in Leo’s death is low, but I’m used to ending up on the shit side of statistics. What’s the probability that you end up married to a serial killer? That he’s able to escape from jail and hunt you down?

“I get that you don’t think very highly of me,” she finally says.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I tell her.

“I’m not a bad person.”

I shrug. She’s still young. Maybe she hasn’t realized yet that there’s really no such thing as good people and bad people. We’re all capable of being both.

Madison shifts, looking up at me. Her face is cast in shadows from the police station, softening the edges of her features. “I can help you.”

I scoff. “I don’t need your kind of help.”

“You do, though,” she says.

I shake my head and turn to leave.

“Adnan Syed,” she says.

I start walking, and she jumps up and chases after me. “James Reyos. Curtis Flowers. Dennis Perry.”

I keep walking.

She scurries around me to block my path. “All men whose convictions were overturned because of the publicity generated by a podcast. I can do the same for Sam. Create a new podcast focused on you, him, and your family. Get people on his side. Make them believe he’s innocent.”

“Sam is innocent,” I say through clenched teeth.

“When has actual innocence mattered? Not in the court of public opinion. So, sure, let’s say he’s not convicted by a jury. So what? You were acquitted, and look how Melvin’s crimes still follow you. The same will happen to Sam. Everyone will just assume he did it and got off on some sort of technicality.”

“We’ll be fine,” I tell her dismissively.

“Yeah, but what about your kids?” she says to my back.

A flash of rage sears through me that she would bring up my kids. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

“What’s it going to be like for Lanny when she goes to college and everyone whispers behind her back? What’s parents’ weekend going to be like for her? And what about Connor?”

I turn and slice my hand through the air between us. “Do not bring my kids into this.”

“That’s not realistic, Gwen. You have to know that. You’re not going to be able to protect them from the fallout from this.”

A part of me recognizes the grain of truth in her statement, but I’m unwilling to acknowledge it. I can’t. Not right now.

“Look,” she says, her tone softening. “Publicity matters in high-profile cases. It shouldn’t, but it does. A podcast can frame how people see the case and think about Sam.”

That’s awfully rich, coming from her. “Even if I agreed with you, why in the world would I choose to work with you of all people?”

“Because listeners see me as an authority on Melvin Royal right now. And if I start telling your story, people will listen.”

I press my lips together, not certain whether I agree with that or not. It doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.

She must see that because she says, “It’s Sam’s best chance. You have to know that. We frame the narrative before the cops can. We point out the weaknesses in their case. We use public pressure to make it untenable for them to pin this on Sam.”

She pauses, letting her words sink in.

Just then, I hear the rattle of the police station doors and glance toward the entrance in time to see Sam step outside. My heart clenches.

I hadn’t realized until this moment how terrified I was that they might detain him.

“I can’t deal with this right now,” I tell Madison with a dismissive wave.

I turn and race toward Sam. I still have a million questions for him, and I’m mad as hell that he’s been hiding things from me, but all of that can wait. What matters now is that he’s not in jail. He pulls me into his arms, and I press my face against his shoulder. There was a part of me that wondered if I’d ever be able to do this again. If they would just charge him and ship him off to jail where I’d only be able to talk to him through a glass divider.

I inhale, letting his scent fill me. “I was worried,” I mumble into his neck.

He holds me tightly, and I can feel the way his breath catches. “I was too.”

Eventually, I step back from Sam’s embrace, but we keep our hands twined together. I’m not sure when I’ll feel ready to let him go. Claudia, our lawyer, waits at the base of the stairs, and we start toward her. “What’s the status of the investigation?” I ask.

“As of right now, they don’t have imminent plans to press charges, which is good news. The bad news is that Sam is still their main suspect, and they’re gunning hard to dig up as much as they can on him. The minute they think the case is solid enough, they’ll be taking it to the grand jury.”

The news is like a punch to the gut. I can’t believe this is happening.

“Gwen, they want to talk to you as well,” she adds.

I open my mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “Before you say anything, there’s something you need to consider. Technically, I can represent both of you, but only if you each sign a waiver acknowledging the potential conflict of interest.”

Sam frowns. “What conflict?”

She looks between us. “That you’re both potential suspects.”

“Neither one of us had anything to do with Varrus’s murder,” I remind her. “So, there’s no conflict.”

“Except that if they charge Sam, his best defense may be to blame you,” she points out.

“I would never do that,” Sam says.

There’s no doubt in my mind that he wouldn’t do anything to put me in harm’s way, even if it would keep him from going to jail.

Claudia looks at us each in turn, her expression calm but serious. “You’re paying me for my legal expertise, and I’m giving it to you. Having separate lawyers is in both of your best interests. Gwen, I have several very well-respected colleagues and I’m happy to give you a recommendation.”

I know we need to consider her advice, but it’s not something I want to think about right now. It’s late, and I’m exhausted. “I’ll think about it. When can we go back to our house?”

Claudia grimaces. “Unfortunately, it’ll be a while. Several days, at least, while they process the crime scene. I asked the detectives to allow you in to retrieve what you’d need to stay elsewhere, but they said that wasn’t possible.”

Which means we have nothing but the clothes on our backs. Not even toothbrushes and toothpaste. We’ve faced worse situations, but still, it’s not ideal.

Sam squeezes my hand. “We’re together, and the kids are safe. We’ll figure it out.”

The lawyer nods. “Give me a call tomorrow and we can discuss next steps,” she says to Sam.

“Claudia—” I hesitate, not sure I really want the answer to this question. But hiding from reality never works out. We need to know what we’re up against. “How worried do we need to be?”

She looks at both of us in turn and then lets out a long breath.

“I wish I could tell you I wasn’t worried but…” She holds her hands out to the sides and shrugs, leaving it to us to fill in the blank.

13

GWEN

We stop by a convenience store to pick up a few essentials, then find a relatively cheap but safe motel. The minute the door closes behind us, and I’ve thrown the lock, I turn to face Sam.

He stands waiting, knowing what’s coming. “I’m sorry,” he tells me, preempting my attack.

While I appreciate the apology, it’s not enough. “How could you arrange to meet up with Leo without telling me?”

“I had to, Gwen. It was the only way I was going to be able to clear my name. I needed proof that he was alive. Something I could take to the cops in Norton.”

“We swore we’d tell each other everything,” I remind him, struggling to keep my voice low and calm when what I really want to do is shout and rail. “Remember Salah Point?” I’d taken off with Kez to hunt down a killer without telling Sam. Eventually, he figured out where we were going and came after us, but he was too late. By the time he reached us, I’d already suffered serious injuries and nearly died.

After that, we promised we wouldn’t try to face challenges like that on our own.

At least Sam has the decency to act chastened. “I was afraid you’d try to talk me out of meeting with him if I told you.”

I shake my head. “I wouldn’t have.”

“Then you’d have demanded to go with me.”

“Damn straight I would have!” I realize my voice has grown too loud, so I lower it to a hiss. “And I would have been right. What if he tried to kill you? What if it was a setup? Jesus, Sam, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t trust Varrus, and I didn’t want to put you at risk.” His expression is earnest, and I know he’s telling the truth. But that doesn’t matter.

I jab a finger against his chest. “You don’t get to make that decision for me. Or for this family.”

“You’re right,” he says simply. “I’m sorry.”

His apology takes some of the wind out of my sails. It’s difficult to be mad at someone who agrees with you. Plus, anger won’t solve the very real-world problems we’re facing.

I sink onto the bed. There are so many questions spinning through my head that it’s difficult to know where to begin. “I want to know everything you haven’t told me. No holding anything back this time.”

He leans a hip against the desk on the wall opposite the bed. “Leo texted me earlier today. He said he wanted to meet but it had to just be the two of us. No one else could know.”

Another wave of anger surges through me at the risk Sam had been willing to take.

“I agreed and told him to name the time and place. He suggested our house. That’s when I told him that if he came near my home or my family, I would gut him. He sent back a laughing emoji. Then we agreed to meet at a park about half a mile away. He told me exactly where he’d be waiting. When I got there, he wasn’t there. I waited, but he never showed.”

“That’s it?” I ask.

He nods. “That’s it.”

The detective said the last text on Leo’s phone was the one of you threatening to gut him.”

“Cops lie, Gwen. It’s a common tactic to get people to confess.”

I grind my teeth at how unfair it is that the police can try to trap people by lying to them. But now isn’t the time for that discussion.

“What about the alarm?” I ask. “I took a closer look after you were arrested. Any recordings from after I left and the kids got home have been completely and permanently scrubbed. I sent the log to Taylor, hoping she can maybe pull something, but I’m not optimistic. It shows you were the one to shut off the system and then turn it back on.”

“It wasn’t me. I never turned the system off. Someone must have discovered my code.”

It’s the obvious answer. Except it doesn’t make sense. “But how?” I demand. “Unless you shared it with someone.” Which we both know didn’t happen. He would never compromise our personal safety that way.

“I don’t know, Gwen.” He sounds equally exasperated. “All I know is that I didn’t do this despite the evidence against me.” He lets his head fall back against the wall. “It’s fucking Stillhouse Lake all over again.” I can hear the exhaustion in his voice.

Being falsely accused was hard on him. There was a constant threat hanging over his head.

“Except this time, Leo is really dead,” I point out. “I asked the detective if there was any way it was self-inflicted, and he said no.”

“They showed me photos from the crime scene when they were trying to get me to talk,” Sam says solemnly. “He’s right. There’s no question Varrus was murdered.”

It just doesn’t make any sense. It’s obvious Sam is being targeted, but why? “Who hates you that much?”

His smile is rueful. “A few hours ago, that answer would have been easy: Leo Varrus. But now…?” He holds out his hands in surrender.

“What about Rowan?” It’s the next logical person, especially now that she’s head of the Lost Angels. We both know she’s committed to continuing Leo’s quest against Sam and me. She all but threatened us when Sam talked to her the other day. Plus, she was the one to re-edit the podcast to make Sam look guilty of killing Leo the first time around. “She works in IT. Maybe she hacked our alarm system.”

His expression turns pained. “I know she hates me, but still…murder? She’s Callie’s sister. They grew up together, and I know Callie thought the world of her. I just don’t want to believe Callie could be so wrong about her.”

I understand where he’s coming from and I appreciate the emotional complexity of their relationship. “Still, we should consider her.”

He blows out a breath. “I know. Just because I don’t want to believe she could be capable of this doesn’t mean she isn’t.”

We both sit with that for a moment, neither of us saying anything. The weight of the day’s events settles heavily around us.

“I’m worried, Gwen,” Sam eventually says. His voice is soft and low, almost defeated. “It’s already obvious the cops think I did this. They’ll be looking for evidence to confirm their suspicions instead of searching for the person who really did it.”

I take his hand in mine and squeeze it tightly. “If they won’t look for the killer, then we will,” I promise him.

“And if we can’t find them?”

I don’t want to consider that possibility, but that would only be burying my head in the sand. “Whoever is behind this is going to make mistakes,” I tell him. “Just like the preservatives in the blood at the Stillhouse Lake house.”

“Which we only figured out because it came up in Lanny’s biology class.”

“But we did figure it out, and we were able to clear your name because of it. We’ll do it again.”

I wake early, as usual, and for a moment, everything is unfamiliar: the scratchiness of the sheets, the smell of the room, the sound of the traffic outside. The only thing that grounds me is the warmth radiating from the other side of the bed, accompanied by deep, steady breaths.

It’s Sam. Always my anchor. I want to slide back under the sheets and curl against him, but I decide to let him sleep and take a moment to let my eyes travel over him. I realize it’s been a while since I’ve seen him like this, with his face relaxed, the tension around his mouth eased, and the wrinkles in his forehead smooth.

He’s aged since we met, and not just the normal kind of aging: the flecks of gray in his five o’clock shadow and the lines by his eyes. It’s also the kind that comes from the weight of stress. There’s a heaviness to him when he’s awake—a perennial sense of near exhaustion.

I wonder when that started or if it’s always been that way. I try to think back to a time when life might have been easier for him. Certainly not since he met me. Since we’ve been together, he’s been shot at, kidnapped twice, and nearly drowned. Though it’s not like life before then was much better. Those were the years after Callie was murdered, and he was roiling in grief and rage. Before that, he’d been a soldier in Afghanistan.

I thought earlier this year that we’d made a breakthrough of sorts. It felt like we’d turned a corner and come out of the tunnel and into the sunshine. I’d stopped Sicko Patrol (mostly) and drilling my kids on exit strategies every time we went someplace new. We’d started thinking about booking a family vacation. All the things that felt so out of reach while running from our past but suddenly felt possible.

Now, it feels like that’s crumbling. It just seems like we’re always lurching from one crisis to the next, with only brief bouts of peace in between. It’s exhausting. Eventually, the weight of it all will become too much.

“I promise we’ll find a way through this,” I whisper to his sleeping back. “We’ll figure out a way to end this cycle for good.”

I watch him for a while longer, appreciating the peace of the moment, until the screen of my cell phone flashes with a notice. It’s a text from Kez.

Kez

All good here. Both kids asleep. Not in labor. Call when you have a chance.

I let out a breath, some of the weight easing from my shoulders. I can handle almost anything as long as I know my kids are safe. Though that doesn’t erase the ache that takes root in my chest every time we’re separated. I know it’s something I need to get used to, especially with Lanny planning for college next year. My brain knows that, but my heart doesn’t tend to listen.

I decide that now is as good a time as any to call Kez and slip out of bed, quietly pulling on my clothes from the day before. I quickly splash water on my face and brush my teeth before grabbing my coat and sneaking out of the room.

We’re on the second floor, overlooking the parking lot, and the first thing I do is scan my surroundings. It’s early morning, the sky just morphing from black to gray with a stripe of color easing along the horizon. There are lights positioned next to each motel room door, casting little pools of illumination with pockets of darkness between them.

I shift into the shadows, making myself less visible to anyone who might be out there. I clock my exits—two staircases equal distances away—then I scan the parking lot for any cars that are occupied or that look out of place.

Once I’m satisfied everything is as it should be, I call Kez.

She answers immediately. “Damn, but you know how to find trouble,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “It’s trouble that tends to find us,” I clarify.

“Either way, you seem to be in some pretty deep trouble now.”

I run my fingers across my forehead, trying to ease the tension headache that’s already started to build. “It’s bad, Kez.” I fill her in on the details, including the text.

She blows out a breath, all levity gone from her voice. “What do you need from me?” The immediate offer makes my heart ache. Kezia comes across as tough as nails to anyone who meets her, but she’s the kindest, most loyal person I’ve ever met. I’m not sure how I got so lucky to call her my best friend.

“Just keep my kids safe.”

“Done. Boot has already taken up residence at the foot of Connor’s bed.”

I smile, thinking of how excited the large Rottweiler must have been when Connor and Lanny pulled up. He’s always had a soft spot in his doggy heart for my kids and protects them like they’re part of his pack.

“How does Lanny seem? Did she talk about what she saw?” When I met her at the gas station, she was still operating on pure adrenaline. I worry about what comes next once the shock wears off and she has time and space to absorb what she saw.

“She just gave me the basic details. Otherwise, she seems to be taking it in stride.”

“That’s the problem. No seventeen-year-old should be able to take seeing a dead body in stride. Especially a scene as gruesome as that one was.”

“From what she described, it sounds like the scene from your house out here,” Kez notes. “Think there’s a connection?”

“There has to be, right?”

Kez sighs. “You should know, the Knoxville PD already put in a request for our files on Leonard Varrus and Sam. I saw the email this morning.”

I knew it was coming. Still, I didn’t expect them to move that fast. “Already?”

“They’re buttoning up their case against him. They’ve already pulled the GPS on his phone. His cell pinged off the closest tower to your house when Varrus was murdered.”

I curse under my breath. “I’m worried, Kez.”

She hesitates for a moment. Then says, “You should be.”

When I slip back inside the motel room, Sam is already awake and dressed. He’s pacing the small space between the bed and the desk, scowling at his phone.

My stomach sinks, already bracing for more bad news. “What is it?”

“An email from our landlord,” Sam says, his voice tight with anger. “He’s canceling our lease effective today.” He turns his phone to show me the email.

I stare at him in shock. “What? Why? Can he even do that?” Not that I’m necessarily sure I want to go back to that house and live there again after what happened. I’m not sure I’d ever feel truly safe. But still, that should be our decision to make. Not his.

“Apparently, he can,” Sam spits. “The police reached out to him late last night since he’s the owner of the house. He’s pretty furious. Said once the police clear out, we have seventy-two hours to get our stuff, or he’ll put it all out at the street.”

“We had nothing to do with Varrus’s murder!”

“It’s not just that. He didn’t know who you were before. He heard about the podcast and made the connection. He said he doesn’t want a serial killer living in his house.”

My hands curl into fists. “I’m not a serial killer,” I growl. “That fucking podcast.”

I press my fingertips against my temples. The headache that threatened earlier makes good on its promise. Tight bands of pressure squeeze my skull, sending daggers of pain shooting through my brain. The weight of what this means becomes crushing.

We’ll have to find a new place to stay immediately. Then we’ll have to handle all the crap that comes with moving: hiring a truck, packing, setting up internet, power, water, gas. And all of that while dealing with the fact that a man was found murdered in our house less than twelve hours ago.

I let out a long breath. “Where are we going to go?” Except that I already know the answer. So does Sam.

Stillhouse Lake.

Despite everything that’s happened there, in all of the years since I learned the truth about my ex-husband, it’s the one place where I’ve felt truly settled. It’s where I dared to imagine a future for us—a path free of Melvin Royal.

We’ve had our ups and downs with Stillhouse Lake—there are certainly folks there who’d rather never see us again, and the sanctuary of our home was breached more than once. Even so, I’ve always felt safe there. Maybe that’s one reason the house never sold: it’s just been sitting there, waiting for us to return and finish our story.

Our only other option is to go into hiding again. Pick a new house in a new town, maybe even with new identities. It wouldn’t stop the authorities from coming for Sam, but it could at least keep the other sickos at bay. We wouldn’t be so easy to track down.

I imagine trying to sit Lanny and Connor down and explaining to them that we were starting all over again from scratch. They would understand, and Connor might even agree, but I’m not sure Lanny would. Her independent streak has been growing stronger and stronger. Going back to how things were before might break her.

I could never ask that of her.

So, that’s it then. We’re moving back to Stillhouse Lake.

“The Belldene’s are going to be pissed,” I mutter.

“The hillbilly mafia is the least of our worries,” Sam counters.

“You say that now…just wait until we’re back home and they start coming for us again.”

“Given everyone else coming for us, their feud feels somewhat quaint.”

“I’ll remind you of that the next time Jesse Belldene has his laser scope pointed at your head.”

14

GWEN

It’s an odd feeling, returning to Stillhouse Lake. I’ve been back several times since we moved, but this time, driving in with a trailer loaded down with all our belongings hastily packed in Knoxville is different. Even though this move is only meant to be temporary, there’s a sense of something permanent to it.

The gravel of the driveway crunches under the tires as Sam pulls up to the house. He’s already out of the truck, phone in hand as he texts Javi to let him know we’ve arrived and that it’s safe for the kids to come meet us and help unload the trailer.

I sit in the car, staring at the house as memories assail me. When we first moved here years ago, it had been with a sense of promise. It was the first house that had felt like a home. The first time since The Event that I’d felt a sense of possibility for a future free of Melvin Royal.

How little I’d known that he would find us, even here.

I slip out of the car and stretch, breathing in deep. It’s cold, and while there’s no snow on the ground, the clouds overhead threaten the possibility. The air stings a bit in my lungs, but the smell is comfortingly familiar: pine, lake water, and leaves left to mulch in the surrounding woods.

I’d forgotten how quiet it is here without traffic or Life Flight helicopters. Just the ticking of Sam’s truck engine as it cools and the whine of the trailer’s hinges as Sam unlocks it and pulls the doors open.

In the distance, a rusty truck stutters as it shifts gears, making its way slowly along the road that circles the lake. Instinct kicks in, and I watch it for a moment as it heads our way. Before reaching the turnoff to our house, it pulls off into a small gravel lot by a rickety dock that holds several small, weather-worn boats. An older man gets out, white hair tufting in the breeze. He rummages around in the bed of the truck, coming up with a long fishing pole and a tackle box. He fits a cap on his head and shuffles down the splintered planks to one of the rougher-looking boats at the end.

It takes him a few tries to get the engine going, but eventually I hear the muffled put-put-put as he pulls away from the dock, headed out toward deeper waters. A small wake cuts across the dark surface behind him, sending ripples through the reflection of the dull clouds overhead.

I shiver, thinking about what secrets those waters might hold.

When we first moved here, they’d pulled the bodies of two dead girls from the lake. The murders had been eerily similar to Melvin’s. He’d liked to flay his victims alive and then tie them to cinderblocks and drop them in a nearby lake, creating an underwater garden of rotting, mutilated bodies. Once local law enforcement learned of my true identity, it didn’t take long for me to fall under suspicion for the girls’ murders. In the end, it had been one of their own behind the killings. Officer Graham had been a neighbor, a father... and an acolyte of Melvin Royal’s. We’d been lucky to survive.

I’m pulled from my thoughts by the sound of another approaching car. This one I recognize: my SUV. Lanny pulls into the driveway and parks next to Sam’s truck. At the sight of my kids healthy and whole, I let out a long breath. Some of the constant strain of worry eases from my tense shoulders.

Connor is the first one out of the SUV. I pull him into an immediate hug, which he grudgingly reciprocates. I inhale the familiar scent of his head, a smell imprinted on my heart from the first moment I held him after birth. “You okay, honey?”

He shrugs his way out of my arms. “Fine.”

A frustratingly vague response. We’ve talked on the phone a few times since they left Knoxville, but it’s been hard to get a sense of how he’s really doing. I tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear. “You sure?”

“I never really liked Knoxville anyway,” he says, lifting a shoulder.

This is a surprise to me, even though it shouldn’t be. Before I can press the issue, he starts toward the trailer. “I’m going to help Sam unload.”

Behind him, Lanny slips from the driver’s side of the SUV. I note that she pockets the keys instead of handing them over. I’m sure she’s enjoyed having the car to herself the last few days, though I’m also pretty sure Javi and Kez kept a tight leash on where they allowed her to go.

“Hey, Mom,” she calls, as if it’s just an ordinary day. As if she hadn’t recently walked in on a gruesome murder scene in our own living room. As if our entire life hadn’t been upended in a matter of days.

I open my arms for a hug, and she obliges. I hold her tightly, wishing I could erase the burden of the last few days from her. “Thank you for taking care of your brother,” I tell her. “You did a good job getting away from the house. I’m proud of you.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like you haven’t drilled that into us a hundred million times.”

“And you complained for 99% of them,” I remind her.

“Yeah, well, apparently, I was paying attention.”

“You were,” I agree. I’ve started to realize that I’m so often looking for the gaps and lapses in our security that I fail to acknowledge the successes. It’s important for me to reinforce when my kids do things right.

She glances past me at the truck. “Where’s Vee? Did she decide not to come after all?”

As soon as we made the decision to leave, we asked Vee if she wanted to join us at Stillhouse Lake. Initially she said yes and even helped pack up the house. But then this morning she backed out. “She didn’t want to lose her apprenticeship at the shop,” I tell her. “I think she’s pretty happy where she is, but we told her she’s always welcome. I’m sure we’ll see her soon.”

Lanny frowns slightly. “And my field trip to DC? Is that still on?”

I wince. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“So Vee’s allowed to be an adult but I’m not?”

I start to protest but she waves a hand. “Never mind. It’s not like you were going to let me go anyway. We all knew you were going to change your mind.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she’s right. In fact, until she brought it up, I’d completely forgotten about the trip. It makes me feel like an absolutely shitty mom and is yet another reminder of how easy it has been to fall back into the same patterns as before: constantly vigilant, always awaiting the next threat, erring on the side of caution. All the things I promised Lanny I’d try to dial back so we could try to live a little more normally.

Except this time is different. A man was murdered in our house. Until we understand who did it and why, I don’t want my kids out of my sight.

She has to recognize the uniqueness of our situation. “I’m sorry, honey,” I tell her. I mean it. I hate that I’m asking her to make sacrifices. Again.

She lifts a shoulder. “I’m used to it by now.”

The way she says it is like a physical blow. These kids have had to give up too much of their lives. They’re being punished for their father’s crimes, and it isn’t fair.

It’s even more reason for me to find a way to make it stop. I have to figure out how to give my kids their lives back. They’ll never get to be normal, but they should at least be able to grow up without the shadow of Melvin Royal hanging over them constantly.

We spend the rest of the day unpacking the trailer and sorting boxes. Slowly, we start to make the house feel more like home. Connor tacks up a few posters on his bedroom wall, and Lanny fills her half of the bathroom counter with an eclectic collection of makeup tubes and bottles.

While we’d been renting out the house, we’d stored some of our belongings in the panic room located off the kitchen, using it as a quasi-utility closet. I push aside the bookshelf blocking the door and enter the code to unlock it. The room itself isn’t huge, and the walls are still covered in the zombie apocalypse posters we put up when we first moved into the house and Connor had dubbed this our Zombie Bugout Shelter.

Boxes are piled in one corner, while a few pieces of furniture we didn’t want to leave out for renters, including several wooden Adirondack chairs Sam and Connor built together, are stacked in another. I start hauling those out to the deck, already looking forward to spending time out there with a beer after dinner. Sam grabs a couple of the boxes marked kitchen and starts sorting through them, pulling out some of our nicer cooking equipment that we hadn’t wanted to leave out for renters. We don’t say much as we work. Lanny has connected her phone to speakers in her room and is blasting the soundtrack to Hamilton. Every now and again, I hear Sam singing along and smile.

The last few days have been rough for him. For all of us. I appreciate that even with all the pressure mounting, there are still pockets of normalcy in our lives. For now, we’re all okay: we’re healthy and whole and together.

I don’t ever take those things for granted.

We’re still unpacking when I hear tires crunching over gravel. My first thought is to wonder where the closest firearm is located, but then glance out the window to see a familiar truck pulling up behind my SUV. I immediately start for the door and key in the alarm code before stepping outside, just as Kez hefts her bulky frame from the passenger seat.

She’s wearing black leggings and a crisp white button-down that stretches tight across her large, pregnant belly. The sight of it—of her so healthy and glowing—brings tears to my eyes. There’s something about knowing the little life growing inside her, kicking and twisting and ready to take on the world, that fills my soul.

It’s a reminder that life continues. So does hope.

“Kez,” I say, clutching my hands to my heart. “Look at you!” I start toward her.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m massive and I waddle like a duck.”

I reach her and pull her into a hug. Her bump presses against me, unyielding. “I can’t believe how close you are to your due date. How are you feeling?”

“Doctor says I’ve still got a while before I have to worry about the little one making an appearance,” she tells me. “I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or bad thing. I feel like there’s still so much to do before he gets here.”

“Like what? Anything we can help with?”

“Last night, I caught her scrubbing the seals on the dishwasher,” Javi says.

I laugh. “When I was pregnant with Lanny, I steam-cleaned all the mattresses and mopped the walls. Hormones are no joke.”

Kez gets a thoughtful look on her face.

“No mopping the walls,” Javi says, dropping a kiss on her cheek.

She frowns and presses her lips together as if biting back a response. It won’t surprise me in the least if I find out tomorrow that she was up in the middle of the night with a bucket and rag attacking the baseboards.

“We brought dinner,” Javi says, changing the subject. “And picked up some groceries to tide you over for a bit.” He starts toward the truck bed, which is piled with bags. Kez moves to join him, and he playfully swats her away.

“No lifting,” he reminds her.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not an invalid,” she grumbles. “You know I hate feeling useless.”

He takes the bags from her. “You’re not useless; you’re growing our child. Now go and relax while you still can.”

“I could use a break,” I tell her. “Let’s go sit on the porch.”

After unloading the truck, Javi, Sam, and the kids get started on heating up dinner, and I smile at their chatter as Lanny and Connor fight over who’s in charge of chopping the vegetables for the salad. I grab a couple of drinks from the fridge and slip outside. Despite the chill in the air, Kez sits out on the deck, her feet up on the railing as she leans her head back, eyes closed for a brief rest.

I hand her a bottle of water and crack open a beer for myself.

“I got you a present.” Without opening her eyes, she reaches down next to her chair and grabs a gift bag. She lifts it in the air toward me. “Welcome home.”

“Kez, you shouldn’t have.”

She shrugs. “The minute I saw it, I thought of you.”

I pull out the tissue paper and find a box at the bottom of the bag. I open it to find a large folding utility knife. It’s pink, and the handle is carved with delicate flowers. I can’t help myself, I laugh.

“A girl can’t have too many defensive weapons,” she says.

“This is true,” I tell her. I tuck the knife into my pocket and then pull a seat around to sit next to her. She shifts, sharing her blanket with me. I sigh, my muscles aching from the frantic packing over the past seventy-two hours.

“So, how are you really feeling?” I ask.

“Terrified. I told Javi last night that I changed my mind about having kids.”

“And what did he say?”

“That it’s a little too late for that.”

I laugh. “He’s got a point.”

She sighs and looks out toward the lake. “I’m not ready to give birth. And it’s not just the physical aspect of having this child. But so long as they’re inside me, I can take care of them. Once they’re out in the world…” She absently runs a hand over her bump. “It’s just hard when you’ve seen the worst of people. Knowing that’s the world I’m introducing them to.”

She rolls her head to look at me. “Does it ever get easier? Does that terror ever go away?”

I think about how many times I check the app that tracks my children’s locations. How my heart jumps any time my phone rings and my kids aren’t home. I remember the panic attack I felt when I saw Lanny’s college acceptance letters and realized she might be leaving home sooner than I expected. “I wish I could tell you yes.”

“Thanks for making me feel better,” she grumbles.

“You can’t always protect your kids, but you can be their safe space. You’re the first person they turn to for comfort. When they’re young, your smell, your touch, your hugs—they can fix anything. It’s like magic.”

“And when they’re older?” Kez prods.

“At that point, you just have to hope you’ve given them the tools they need to survive.”

“Have you?”

Not enough, I think to myself. It will never feel like enough. But that’s the problem. I have to let them go, even if I’m not ready to. “I’ve taught them how to survive. I’ve drilled situational awareness and self-defense until it’s become second nature. I’m not so sure I’ve taught them how to actually live. How to be happy. I see my kids isolating themselves, not making friends, and I worry that I’ve spent so much time on keeping them alive that I haven’t taken the time to show them why.”

It’s a hard thing to admit, but it’s the truth.

She studies me. I keep my focus on the lake, watching as the water turns darker, reflecting back the last dregs of sunlight. I wonder at all the ways it can feel like you’ve failed your children, all the ways in which you love them more than life itself and you do anything and everything in your power for them, and yet sometimes that’s not enough.

You can’t make the world love them like you do. You can’t make the world want them the way you do. You can’t make the world appreciate them and understand them. It hurts to know that the world won’t always be kind to them. There will be days they’ll cry, and you won’t be there to hold them. Worse, they wouldn’t want you there anyway.

I want so much for my kids. I hate that I can’t give it to them.

But I can’t say any of this to Kez. Not when she’s at the beginning of her motherhood journey.

“You’re a good mom, Gwen.” She reaches out and takes my hand.

My throat tightens. I don’t trust myself to speak. She lets her words sit for a moment.

“And your kids are amazing. They’re thoughtful and loving. Connor noticed the paint chips I taped to the wall in what’s supposed to be the nursery and, without even asking, he got to work prepping the walls. Lanny drove him to town to get supplies, and the nursery was painted by the time I got home from work. They even sealed off the room and opened the windows to air it out so I wouldn’t worry about fumes.”

She squeezes my hand. “That’s because of you, Gwen. Because of how you raised them.”

My lips twitch in a smile. Neither Lanny nor Connor had mentioned doing that during any of our calls. Hearing about their thoughtfulness makes me proud.

“I just wish life was easier for them,” I admit.

Kez snorts. “Life isn’t easy. Anyone who tells you different is lying, selling something, or trying to get followers online.”

I look over at my friend. She understands what my family has been through—the havoc Melvin Royal and his legacy have wreaked. She almost lost her life because of it. She refused to let me face Jonathan Watson on my own, which resulted in her being kidnapped by the psychopath and held hostage at the top of a lighthouse. He threatened to kill her and her unborn baby more than once, and she stayed strong through it all. She’s the reason I survived that encounter. Had she not told me to jump from the metal stairs I’d been climbing, I would have been electrocuted.

“So, how does it feel to be back in Stillhouse Lake?”

I take a moment to ponder the question. I look up at the dark sky, feeling the fresh cold air on my cheeks as I gaze at the stars. I forgot how quiet the world could be. With that silence comes a sense of peace.

There’s a rightness to being here that I feel in my bones.

“I know there are a lot of dark memories attached to this place, but whenever I’m here, I think of all those nights I sat here and stared out at the lake, imagining a future for me and the kids. It was here that I found the courage to want more out of life. Being back here reminds me of the promises I made to myself back then. That we would find a way forward.

“This is where my journey really began, and I’ve always felt in my gut that this is where it would end. Stillhouse Lake is where I finally put Melvin Royal to rest for good.”

“Any idea how you’re going to make that happen?” Kez asks.

I laugh. “No clue whatsoever. But the motivation is strong.”

Kez smiles and lets out a long, contented sigh, her hand rubbing idle circles around her bump. “Well, selfishly, I’m glad you’re here. Not just for my sake, but for the baby’s.”

I’m touched by the comment. I really am. “You may regret saying that. Anywhere I go, trouble follows.”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” she says resolutely.

I just hope she’s right.

15

GWEN

For a while, life at Stillhouse Lake feels almost normal. Javi and Kez come to dinner again, this time bringing Kez’s father, Easy, with them. He regales us all with stories of his life, including a few incidents from Kez’s years as a teen that she probably wishes had stayed in the past.

As for our day-to-day lives, we settle into a rhythm remarkably easily. Or at least Sam, Lanny and I do.

My job is easy. I work remotely most of the time anyway, and J.B. has no issue with me continuing to do so from here.

As for Sam, even though my boss offered him contract work with her firm, he decided to take on a few freelance construction jobs instead. He’d been doing that when I met him after he moved to Stillhouse Lake. For him, sitting all day behind a desk makes him antsy. He prefers being outside when he can.

In the past, the Belldenes had interfered with Sam’s ability to get work as part of a grudge against him. They’re essentially the hillbilly mafia, and while they carry a lot of influence in the town, so do Kez and Javier. Sam’s also a veteran, which goes a long way with folks looking to hire someone they can trust to work inside their homes. Before long, he’s picked up several gigs. None of them are huge, but it’s enough to bring home good money.

We’re so close to the end of the school year that Lanny decides she’d rather study for her GED than enroll in the local school. Even though she knows several kids graduating from the local high school from when we lived here before, she isn’t interested in trying to rejoin her classmates.

I still haven’t confronted her about the college acceptance letters I found in her room. I’m worried about alienating her, especially with all the upheaval in our lives lately. The closest we’ve come to broaching the topic was when I told the kids we would be packing up the house in Knoxville to move everything to Stillhouse Lake.

Lanny was very insistent that she and Connor be allowed to return home to help pack. When I told her that wasn’t an option, she got upset, alternating between anger and tears. It took me longer than it should have to realize that she was worried about what I might find going through her room, i.e., the college acceptance letters.

The last thing I wanted to do at that point was try to have a conversation about college over the phone while we were still dealing with the police and trying to get out of town as quickly as possible. I hadn’t even raised the issue with Sam for the same reason.

I assured Lanny that I was planning to dump everything from her room into several large boxes without a second glance, and it would be up to her to sort through it on this end.

She’d known it was the best offer she was going to get and ultimately she’d accepted.

It’s Connor I’m most worried about given the turmoil over the last year. When I broach the subject of what he’d like to do for school, he’s sitting on the couch reading a book. He shrugs. “I can take my classes here as well as I could in Knoxville. I don’t really see a difference.”

I’m surprised by how stoic he sounds. “I know. I’m just worried that you’d finally found a good groove and now you’re having to start over again. I hate that you have to deal with yet another disruption.”

Connor puts his finger in the book to hold his place and laughs. “Mom, you do realize I haven’t completed a single year in the same school since Dad was arrested, right? The first four years, we were packing up and moving every few months. Then we came here, and I got to finish spring semester and start again in the fall, then I homeschooled and then we moved to Knoxville. But of course after that was the shooting last fall, so I started homeschooling again.” He says it all in one breath, finishing with, “I’m used to the disruption.”

“You’re used to it, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

“I don’t know any better.” He shrugs. “We’ve always moved around.”

“You spent the first seven years of your life living in the same house,” I point out.

“I spent the first seven years of my life living with a serial killer,” he says dryly. “I’m not sure I would call that normal.”

“Good point.”

He smiles. There’s an unexpected lightness to him that I’m not accustomed to. I slide onto the sofa next to him and decide to put my cards on the table. “I worry about you.”

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.” There’s a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I worry you’re still hiding things from me.”

He considers that for a moment, which I appreciate. It means he’s taking my concern seriously.

“I am hiding things from you, Mom,” he says bluntly.

My shoulders stiffen with alarm.

He rolls his eyes. “Nothing big. It’s just that I’m fifteen. I’m not supposed to tell you everything.”

I don’t like how blasé he sounds, as if it’s fine that he’s been keeping things from me. “If it’s important, you are.”

“And who gets to decide what’s important?”

“If it’s something that affects your safety and well-being⁠—”

He draws in an exaggerated breath. “I know this, Mom. I know you can’t help it, and I know what happened last fall and me being in the hospital freaked you out. But do you know how exhausting it is to have someone worry about you all the time? I’m constantly aware that you’re watching my every move, trying to calculate my mood, and what I’m thinking, and how I’m feeling. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t have room to even breathe, much less figure out who I am or make mistakes without you finding out and pouncing all over them. You have to just let me be sometimes.”

I’m taken aback by his words. His tone isn’t mean or malicious. He’s simply stating a fact. I had no idea he felt this way. Sure, I’ve always known that both Connor and Lanny chafed under my protectiveness—or overprotectiveness as they may consider it—but I always assumed they understood and, therefore, accepted it.

“Connor—” I start to say.

He cuts me off. “I know what you’re going to say, Mom. You’re going to explain how I don’t understand, how our family is different, and we’re not normal. And yeah, I get that. But at a certain point, you’re going to have to figure out a way to trust me. Lanny too.”

My eyes go wide at the mention of his sister. “You two have talked about this?”

“Of course we have.”

I look out the window at the gray-steel sky. The weather report called for snow, but none has fallen yet. Still, the clouds are low, shrouding the hills around us. I think about what he’s telling me and wonder how long he’s been waiting to have this conversation.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I didn’t know you felt this way.”

“Yes, you did,” he says simply.

The comment strikes deep but true. He’s right. I’ve known that my kids felt constrained by all these rules, but I never considered that my attentiveness might feel suffocating.

I never considered that the biggest problem in my kids’ lives might be me.

“I want to get my driver’s license,” he tells me.

My instinct is to tell him no, but I stop myself. The thought of him driving on his own nearly gives me hives, but maybe it’s not a bad idea. Knowing how to drive is a valuable skill. If something happens and he needs to bail, he’ll be able to. “We can discuss it. It’s probably a good idea for you to know how to drive. That way, if there’s trouble, you can⁠—”

“No, Mom, you’re not hearing me. I don’t want my license because it’s a good defensive skill. I want my license because I’m about to be sixteen, and every other kid my age already knows how to drive. I want to be able to go places on my own. To the grocery store, or to a hobby store, or the movies.”

“You know I’m always happy to drive you.”

He groans, starting to become exasperated. “It’s not about going to those places; it’s about the freedom, Mom. It’s about me growing up and you accepting that and letting go.”

Only a parent could understand how much those words hurt. My throat aches, and I take a moment to look out the window, trying to keep my tears at bay. Anytime I try to think about letting either of my children go, I remember the moment I held them in my arms for the first time. I remember how desperately fragile and needy they were. The understanding was instant: Who I was before—woman, wife, friend—that all still existed, but it all became secondary to this one driving purpose: being their mother.

There’s a comfort in being needed by them and providing for them in turn. As infants, when they were hungry, I could feed them. When they were cold, I could hold them closer. When they were tired, I could rock them. When they cried, I could soothe them.

But that’s the terrible truth about your kids growing up: if you do it right, they need you less and less. They become their own people, with their own desires and thoughts, and their life will always be about them and rarely about you. At least until they have their own kids, and the cycle continues.

Connor’s right. I know he’s right. I’ve known it since I found the college acceptance letters in Lanny’s room. I just haven’t wanted to face it. And that’s not fair to my kids. I can’t prioritize my own comfort at their expense.

As if sensing my internal struggle, Connor leans toward me, his arm pressed to mine. He nudges me with his elbow. “I’m not planning to run away from home and join the circus. I just want to sign up for driving lessons. It’s okay, Mom.”

“I only want what’s best for you,” I tell him. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“I know. Lanny and I both know that. You just have to give us some space. Give us a chance to show you that you can trust us.”

I don’t think he understands how big an ask he’s making. “Honey, with the podcast and everything else, it’s just not the right time.”

He shakes his head, clearly disappointed, and pushes up from the couch. “There’s always going to be something. There always is,” he says before turning and retreating to his room.

I stand, intending to go after him, but I change my mind. Any response I give him is going to be borne out of my usual instincts to protect him and his sister. He’s heard it all. He knows the arguments and understands the reasoning, but that’s not enough anymore.

What he needs is for me to listen to what he’s saying and think about it. To truly consider his point of view.

But the dangers are still out there, my mind screams. The number of threats online has multiplied exponentially. The hate against our family is relentless.

And it’s never going to go away. That’s the point Connor was trying to make. He’s tired of letting that fear drive him. Or rather, he’s tired of letting that fear drive me, and me in turn driving him.

I think about what it must have taken for him to confront me about all of this. To stand up for himself. If anything, it’s proof that the thousands of dollars a year in therapy has been money well spent. It’s remarkable how self-aware Connor is and how well he knows himself and his needs.

There was a time when I knew his every need. It’s time for me to admit that’s no longer the case. He’s told me what he needs. I have to listen.

With uneasiness churning in my stomach, I retreat to my office. It still isn’t fully set up—just a desk with my laptop plugged in and a lamp. We haven’t decided how long we’ll be staying, so we haven’t figured out how much unpacking and rearranging we should do.

The first thing I do when I sit at my desk is send out feelers to try to find out if there are any good barns nearby that we can check out for Connor. He’s loved riding so much that I hate to see him have to let it go. While there don’t seem to be any equine therapy programs in the area, his regular therapist from home agreed to continue meeting with him via Zoom so at least he’ll have that consistency.

After sending those emails, I do a quick internet search. Once I have the phone number, I call our car insurance company and inquire about how much it will cost to add Connor to our policy. Then I look for a drivers-ed course nearby and fill out an interest form.

Letting him get his license is something I can give him. I just have to figure out how far I’m willing to go without breaking myself.

Later, Taylor from work calls with an update.

“You want the good news or the bad news?” she asks.

Out of habit, I stand from my desk and push the office door closed. Not that it matters. Lanny is out on a long run while Sam and Connor have gone to the hardware store to pick up supplies for some upgrades they have planned for the kids’ bathroom.

Once I’m seated again, I force myself to take a deep breath. “Good news first. There hasn’t been enough of that lately.”

“Your podcaster, Madison Westcott, looks clean.”

Some of the tension leaves my shoulders. “Really?” I should have expected that, given I’d done my own background search on her, but Taylor has skills and access to databases that I don’t have.

“You sound surprised.”

She’s right. “I guess I don’t have much faith in most folks these days.”

“Smart,” Taylor agrees. “I can send you the receipts if you want them, but she has somewhat of an alibi for the night Varrus was murdered. Records show her checking in at 2:25 p.m. and her computer logged into the WiFi at 2:37. She watched YouTube videos until 4:43. Credit card receipt from a second hotel showed she purchased two beers at 5:31.”

“That second receipt is from drinks with me,” I note.

“I pulled her phone records too. Location data has her cell phone in the area of the hotel the whole time.”

“Which just means her cell phone was there. It doesn’t prove she was,” I point out.

“It’s not the most airtight alibi ever,” Taylor agrees.

I try to picture it: Madison checking into her hotel, setting up her computer, then sneaking out again to track down Leo, drag him to my house, and murder him. There was only a half-hour or so window between the time I left the house to meet her, and when she showed up at the bar. With traffic, that wouldn’t have left her much time to kill Leo and get cleaned up before meeting me.

“Okay. Thanks for looking into that. And the bad news?”

“Rowan is trouble. I mean, the kind of trouble you don’t want to mess with.”

I slump in my chair as an anxious tension squeezes my gut. “Tell me more.”

“As you noted on her LinkedIn profile, she’s worked in cyber security for years—decades at this point. Her specialty is as a white hat hacker, specifically a penetration tester. She’s one of those people you hire to try to break into your systems—digitally and physically—to find the flaws.”

“Yeah, I saw that she’s a hacker.”

“No, she’s not just a hacker. She’s next level. She’s someone people hire to outsmart other hackers,” Taylor says without hesitation.

My stomach drops. “Wonderful. We all know I’ve had such great luck with hackers in the past,” I say bitterly. Early on, when we were first on the run, I’d worked with a hacker named Absalom. He taught me how to reinvent myself, how to avoid getting doxed, and how to keep Melvin from finding us. Only to discover that he’d been working against me the entire time, leading me right into my ex-husband’s trap.

“This woman is good, Gwen. It wouldn’t surprise me if my digging around didn’t ping some sort of digital tripwire and alert her to the fact that she’s being looked into.”

I curse under my breath. “Would she be able to track it back to you?”

“I’d like to say no because I’m pretty damn good at what I do, but so is she. I give it 90-to-10 odds she doesn’t pin it on me.”

So, a 10% chance Rowan realizes she’s being investigated and tracks it back to Taylor and, by extension, me. Not bad, but not great either. “If she does pin it on you, it’s not even much of a leap to work out that I’m involved.” I run a hand down my face.

“If you want, I can stop looking. Cancel the searches on Madison as well. Tiptoe away and hope Rowan doesn’t catch sight of any digital footprints.”

I shake my head. “Maybe it’s not a bad thing if she realizes I’m digging into her past. Let her know what it’s like to be hunted for once.” I tap a pen on the desk in thought.

“Any indication she was working to help Varrus stay off-grid?”

“None that I could find. But, like I said, she’s pretty good. If anyone can cover their tracks, it’s her.”

“What about her working with Madison? Any evidence of them having a relationship outside of the podcast?”

“Negative on that as well. Though I did find something else. The executor of Leonard Varrus’s estate opened probate a few days ago and filed his will.”

I hold my breath, pretty sure I know what’s coming.

“Varrus left his entire estate to Rowan Applegate. She now controls everything involving the Lost Angels.”

“Given that Varrus was the beneficiary of Miranda Tidewell’s estate, he likely left behind a fair amount of assets. I’m guessing the Lost Angels aren’t hurting for money—not that they ever were.”

“She’s also vowed to continue his mission, which essentially means continuing what Miranda started a few years ago.”

“Let me guess, exposing me as the murdering woman I am and the mastermind behind Melvin Royal’s crimes?”

“Pretty much. Except they don’t refer to you as woman. They use a bit more colorful language when describing you.”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to stave off the headache I feel threatening. I knew this was the likely outcome of Taylor’s investigation, but I still hoped maybe things weren’t as bad as I thought. If Rowan is as rabid as Miranda and Leo, no amount of reason is going to stop her.

I suddenly feel exhausted. You knock down one, and another comes along. First Miranda, then Leo, now Rowan. If we find a way to get rid of her, someone else will just take her place. It seems the supply of Melvin’s victims is unending.

“Did you happen to find any weaknesses? Skeletons in the closet? Something I can use to defuse her anger?”

“She’s got two kids. She’s militant about keeping them offline—no social media accounts, no photos online anywhere.”

I snort. Good luck with that. I was the same way with Lanny and Connor when we were on the run from Melvin. They chafed at those rules for a long time, but now I can’t remember the last time Lanny asked me for permission to set up an account on whatever social media site was trending at the time.

Probably because she already did.

“So, Rowan’s kids aren’t online. Know anything more about them?”

There’s a slight hesitation before Taylor answers the question. “They’re eighteen and fifteen. A girl and a boy.”

It’s like a punch to the gut. Almost exactly the same ages as Lanny and Connor. If we lived in the same neighborhood, our kids would go to the same school. Be in the same class. We’d have run into each other at PTA meetings and the after-school pickup line. We might have even become friends, grabbing coffee after drop-off and sending texts about the latest deals at the grocery store.

That is, if my ex-husband hadn’t murdered her sister.

Now, I understand the reason for Taylor’s hesitation. Realizing how much Rowan and I have in common hits a little too close to home. “Maybe I need to appeal to her mother to mother.”

“I’m not sure about that. If you bring up her kids, she might view that as a threat.”

Fuck, Taylor’s probably right. “Any chance you can check her whereabouts the night of Varrus’s murder?”

“Already done, my friend. The only activity I could find on any of her credit cards was a charge for $30.47 at a gas station in Soddy-Daisy, Tennessee.”

“You’re making that name up.”

“Promise you I’m not.”

“So, what’s the significance of her getting gas in Soddy-Daisy?”

“It’s about two hours north of Atlanta and two hours south of Knoxville.”

My heart skips a beat. “Rowan lives in Atlanta.”

I can hear the smile in Taylor’s voice when she says, “That she does.”

“That puts her on the road to Knoxville the night Varrus was murdered.” Which suddenly makes her a more viable suspect. “I’m going to reach out to the Knoxville PD and let them know.”

“I’ll email a copy of the receipt I pulled. That should help them out.”

“Thank you, Taylor. Seriously. You have no idea how much I appreciate you looking into all of this.”

“Of course. That’s what friends do—we have each other’s backs. I’ll keep looking into Madison, though it might take me a couple of days. One of my other cases blew up last night when a client in a rather sensitive position misplaced his phone during a date with a sex worker.”

I’d worked cases like that before and knew how time-sensitive they were. “Whenever you get the chance,” I tell her. “J.B.’s work comes first. I get that.”

“Thanks, Gwen. Don’t worry, we’ll figure this out.”

We say our goodbyes, and I immediately call Detective Gutierrez. He’s not at his desk so I leave a message on his voicemail, telling him what I’ve found and letting him know I’m forwarding him a copy of the receipt.

Then I sit back in my seat and look out the window through the leaf-stripped trees to the sliver of lake visible from my office. It’s a beautiful day, the surface of the water reflecting the brilliant blue sky overhead. Sunlight glints off the ripples left in the wake of a boat speeding past.

I allow myself a moment of optimism. Rowan sounds like a potential person of interest in the Varrus case. At the very least, it should be enough to take the pressure off Sam for a bit while they investigate any potential ties.

When Sam and Connor get back, I pull Sam aside and tell him what I’ve learned about Rowan. He closes his eyes for a moment, and I watch as relief washes over him. “I know I shouldn’t be happy,” he says. “And I’m not. I hate the idea of Callie’s sister being capable of something so cruel and vicious.”

“But knowing that she blames me in part for Callie’s death and hates you for ‘sleeping with the enemy…’” I put air quotes around that last bit. “It gives her a motive for trying to set you up.”

“I know better than anyone how grief twists your mind. Sometimes, the pain is too great, and you have to channel it into something else. That’s why I got involved with the Lost Angels to begin with. It was easier to hate than to grieve. Still, I like to believe I never would have gone as far as Miranda, or Leo, or—potentially—Rowan.”

I like to believe that too, though he did go as far as tracking me down and renting a house next door so he could spy on me and eventually force me to confess my role as Melvin’s Little Helper. But what matters is that once he met me, once he met my kids and spent time with us as a family, he realized he was wrong.

But what if he hadn’t met you? a small voice in my head asks. What if you’d never hired him to fix the roof? What if he hadn’t brought Connor home after he was beaten up at school? What if he hadn’t sat in our kitchen eating all those dinners, or out on the deck drinking beer and watching the sunset?

What if we’d never gotten to know each other? He’d have never had the chance to change his mind. He would have continued harboring that grief and rage.

What, ultimately, would he have done with it? He wanted a confession. But when he didn’t get it, would he have turned violent? Would he have killed?

He says he never would have gone as far as Miranda, or Leo, or Rowan, but how can anyone know that until they’re pushed to the edge and beyond?

16

GWEN

I wake that night to the world exploding around me. There’s an eruption of shouting from outside and then the sound of splintering wood as someone breaks down our front door. Glass shatters. The alarm starts shrieking. I don’t have time to think. I act on instinct, the motions perfected from hundreds of hours of drilling and practicing. I dive for the safe under the bed. Within seconds, I’ve used my fingerprint to release the biometric lock and have my Sig Sauer in hand, its weight familiar and comforting.

As always, my shoes sit next to the bed, ready for me to slip my feet into them without having to pause. Across the room, Sam is also up and armed. His face is unreadable—his jaw set and eyes hard. Soldier Mode. He gestures for me to fall back as he crouches toward the bedroom door.

My kids, I think. Our kids. Their rooms are off the hallway between us and the front door. Between me and whatever violence has just crashed into our house.

I need to get to them. It’s not an option. It’s a primal urge so deeply fixed that there’s no overriding it.

I sprint to the door.

“Gwen, wait,” Sam hisses, his voice barely audible over the blaring siren. But he knows better than to try to stop me.

I have the good sense to drop low when I ease open the bedroom door just wide enough to get a look down the hallway. The air is filled with shouts—commands. The words tangle with the screeching alarm. Beams of light cut through the darkness, spearing the walls and landing on Connor’s bedroom door.

A man dressed in all black with a helmet and flak vest sneaks down the hall. He carries an assault rifle, barrel not fully raised but not pointed at the floor either. His finger rests against the trigger guard, ready to fall against the trigger and start pulling. He looks military or police, but I can’t be sure.

“Gwen Proctor!” he shouts, voice low, and authoritative, and brimming with outrage. “Sam Cade! Drop your weapons and come out with your hands where we can see them.”

I glance at Sam. What the fuck? He shakes his head. He doesn’t know either.

A frisson of fear lances through me. I face a moment of indecision. My first instinct is to obey their order. It’s been ingrained in me since I was young to respect the police and their authority. However, twice men impersonated police officers to gain entry to our house. Both times, they kidnapped my son.

I don’t trust the police. I can’t. Not after that.

If these men even are the police. For all I know, they could be part of some fringe militia group.

My breathing is short and tight as I try to figure out my next move. There must be half a dozen men crowded into my house at this point, all of them in full combat gear and carrying assault rifles.

The man in front pauses by the first door in the hallway. Connor’s room. He bangs a fist on it. “Police! Drop any weapons and get down on the floor, hands out to your sides.”

He tries the knob, but it’s locked. Good boy, Connor, I think to myself. He’s doing what I always told him to do: lock the door against any potential threats.

It doesn’t matter. The man nods to a second man behind him who appears with a heavy metal battering ram. He swings it at the door. Wood splinters. I hear my son scream.

That’s what breaks me.

“Stop it!” I yell, bursting from the room, taking the chance that these men are police. Anything to take their attention off my son.

The man on point pivots in my direction. I watch as his eyes clock my gun. It’s by my side, but that doesn’t matter. He swings his long gun around, raising it as he trains it on me. “Gun!” he yells at the top of his lungs. “Gun! Gun! Gun!” The other officers join in the chant, the sounds mixing with the blaring alarm, the entire house a chaos of overwhelming noise.

The tension in the air is too thick. Too charged. I can practically smell their fear-tinged aggression. The point man is a heartbeat away from pulling the trigger.

I drop my weapon and immediately splay my fingers wide to show I’m not holding anything else. I’m terrified to raise my hands in case he sees that as an act of aggression. Any movement will get me shot.

“Down!” he shouts. “Get down now!”

There’s too much white in his eyes. It belies his fear. A scared man is a dangerous man. I do as he says. But first, I kick the gun down the hallway and out of reach.

The minute my knees hit the floor, two more armed men pounce on me. They’re not gentle as they wrench my arms behind my back and pin them in place.

“Where’s the girl?” one of them shouts. His face is so close that his spittle sprays the side of my cheek.

More men swarm the house. Overhead, a helicopter roars, its spotlight cutting against the windows. “What’s going on?” I cry, trying to understand what’s happening. “Who are you?”

The man shakes me roughly. “The girl!”

Does he mean Lanny? I shake my head. No way. I’m not giving them anything, especially when it comes to my kids.

“Where’s the girl your neighbors heard screaming for help earlier, followed by the sound of gunshots.”

Two more men break down the door to Lanny’s room. They storm through it, tossing the blankets from her bed and kicking over a chair in the corner. When they throw open her closet doors, I hear a muffled scream.

I struggle against the man pinning me to the ground. “Leave my daughter alone!”

The men ignore me. One of them crouches in front of where Lanny cowers in the corner of the closet. His flashlight hits on her tearstained cheeks. “It’s okay, darlin’.”

Her eyes find me, still in the hallway. “Mom?”

I only see her mouth move; there’s too much noise to hear the actual word.

Everything inside me howls to tell her it’s okay, but I can’t. Because I don’t understand what the fuck is going on.

“What’s happening?” I cry. “We haven’t done anything wrong!”

There’s shouting from outside. Then, a gunshot. Followed by two more.

The bottom drops out of my world. I start fighting harder, spitting and cursing.

Someone calls, “Medic!”

My entire body starts to tremble. Someone’s hurt.

I don’t know where Sam is. Or Connor. What if they tried sneaking out? It’s part of what we’ve practiced: fleeing out the window and disappearing into the woods until you can meet up at the rendezvous point—the shed behind Easy Claremont’s house.

What if one of them was running for the woods, and one of these men opened fire? What if my son or my partner is lying on the ground, bleeding out?

Bile rises in my throat. “Let me go!” I demand, bucking and twisting. Trying to get my teeth or nails into flesh.

There’s more commotion outside. It’s all happening so fast. It’s too much. I don’t understand what’s going on. Why are these men here? Why are they pointing guns at me and my daughter?

Lanny’s face drains of color. She looks like a child with her oversized sleep shirt and freshly scrubbed face. She is a child.

The man pinning me to the floor presses more of his body weight against my back, trying to keep me still. My ribs protest. “Who else is here?” he demands.

I don’t answer. I can’t. It’s too difficult to draw air. Not that I would tell him a damn thing anyway.

“Who!” His knee digs against my spine. The last of my breath comes out in a wheeze as he squeezes every last bit of air from my lungs.

Pressure in my skull builds, turning to pain behind my eyes as my cheeks burn and lips tingle. I can’t breathe. My oxygen is running out. Animal instincts kick in, and I fight to free myself. The man shifts his entire weight on top of me.

Lanny screams. “Let her go!”

There’s a scuffle in her bedroom. Seconds later, one of the men comes out, his arms wrapped tightly around Lanny’s middle, her arms pinned to her sides. She thrashes against him. Kicks at the empty air. “Mom!” The word is a wail. She’s terrified.

It cuts deep. She needs me. That’s what I think as the world blurs and darkens around me. My lungs burn. I squirm, trying to find space to breathe, trying to free myself so I can get to my daughter. The man on top of me doesn’t budge.

“Mom!” she screams again as they drag her from the house.

Not again. Please, don’t let these men be taking my kids. It’s already happened twice—both times from this house. Both times by either the police or men impersonating the police.

Both times, in an attempt to punish me and my family. To exact revenge.

Images flash in my head—all the photos I’ve been sent over the years. Mutilated bodies with my kids’ faces photoshopped on top. Deepfake videos showing my children being tortured.

The horror threatens to drown me.

A nearby radio squawks, but I can’t make out the words. All I know is that someone with a gruff voice says. “All clear inside. Cuff her and bring her out.”

The man pinning me grinds his knee harder into my back for a moment longer. Then, all at once, the pressure is gone. I draw in a stilted, ragged, painful breath. Before I can press my hands to my aching ribs, he grabs my wrists. Within seconds, he has me cuffed and is hauling me to my feet. I’m unsteady, my knees nearly buckling.

Someone turned on the hall lights and, for the first time, I get a good look at the guy who was pinning me in place. He’s medium height but broad and thick, his neck practically wider than his jaw. His eyes are blue and piercing, his hair dark, and his cheeks pebbled with a five o’clock shadow.

In another situation, I might have seen him as attractive. Not now. Not when my back still throbs from his knee. Not when I can still hear the vitriol in his voice when he shouted commands at me earlier.

“My kids,” I manage to croak. “Are they okay?”

He looks at me with disgust. “There’s a special place in hell for parents who traffic their kids.”

I blink, shaking my head in confusion. “Traffic kids? What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his hand rings my biceps, his grip tight enough that it will leave bruises. He drags me through the house toward the shattered front door.

“The alarm,” he shouts, nodding to the keypad on the wall. “What’s the code so we can shut this fucking thing off?”

I hesitate. The alarm is tied to both the Norton police station and directly to Kez’s cell phone. Both should have already been notified and be on their way. By now, half the lake is probably awake and wondering what the hell is going on. That’s really all that matters: Someone out there is watching us. Probably several folks. They know something’s happening and that we need help. If these men do anything wrong, there will be witnesses.

I give him the code. He keys it in, and the night falls silent. The sudden quiet is almost dizzying. It doesn’t last long as he shoves me through the broken door.

Outside, the night blazes with lights—not just the red and blue of half a dozen police vehicles but also work lights that have been set up on the lawn, their glare directed at the house. Every now and again, the spotlight from the circling helicopter blazes around us.

Lanny stands by the back of an ambulance, a silver foil blanket draped across her shoulders. A medic is trying to listen to her heart and lungs, but she’s not having any of it. “I’m fine,” she says, batting another medic away.

The minute she sees me, she drops the blanket and runs toward me. “Mom!”

The men detaining me try to stop her, but they underestimate her. She barrels through them, elbowing one in the ribs, until she crashes into me. I feel her solid warmth against me for a heartbeat before they drag her away.

“Hey! Stop that!” She fights, spitting and clawing to get back to me. “Get off me! Let go, you asshole!”

“Lanny,” I say, trying to get her to focus. “Where are Connor and Sam?”

She stops struggling. Her eyes go wide. “What do you mean? They’re not inside?”

In my head, I hear the echoes of those earlier gunshots. Panic claws at my thoughts, but I can’t let it gain purchase. We have a plan for situations like this. We’ve drilled it dozens of times. If there’s any threat at the house, the kids are supposed to lock their bedroom doors, check to make sure the outside is clear, and then run like hell.

I hope to God that’s what Connor did and that he’s halfway to Easy Claremont’s house by now. Kez’s father is a Korean War vet. He’ll keep Connor safe.

Just then, I hear a scuffle around the corner. A trio of armed men appear from the back of the house, dragging a fourth man between them. It’s Sam. His formerly white shirt is torn and bloody, and his plaid pajama pants are caked with mud. His hands are cuffed behind his back.

“Sam!” I shout.

He glances my way, and I suck in a breath. Blood gushes from his nose and is smeared across his cheeks. One eye is already swelling shut. Everything inside me wants to race to him and run my hands over him, checking for damage.

As if sensing this, he catches my eye and shakes his head. Telling me to stay put. “Connor?” I mouth the word, not wanting the men around me to overhear.

Sam’s response is one word: “Safe.”

My knees nearly give out in relief. Whatever shots were fired earlier, none seem to have found their intended target.

A new voice joins the fray, this one female and brimming with authority and outrage. “What the fuck is going on here?” It’s Kezia. She’s out of breath from climbing the driveway at nine months pregnant but she doesn’t show it.

All I can think is thank God.

She storms into the middle of the chaos, hands on her hips and expression formidable, commanding attention. She scans the situation, eyes quickly lighting on both me and Lanny to ensure we’re okay before finally finding Sam.

She curses under her breath as she storms over to him. “Jesus, Sam. You okay?”

He manages to get his feet under him and stands, wincing slightly. “Never better.”

“The guy ran when we told him to stop,” one of the cops holding Sam volunteers.

“Yeah, he was resisting arrest,” the other chimes in, defending their obvious use of force.

Kez narrows her eyes at them, lips pursed to show her disbelief. She shakes her head, then turns, her attention falling on a tank of a man standing nearby. She clearly recognizes him. “Jenkins. Care to explain what this is?” She waves a hand around, indicating the half-dozen cop cars, the ambulance, and the helicopter overhead.

“We got a credible call that a young girl’s life was in danger,” he says.

“And what did this call say, exactly?”

“We had a report that a man and woman at this address were trafficking their daughter. Man who reported it said he’d been keeping an eye on the place, gathering up evidence, but then he heard shouting and a cry for help, followed by gunfire.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “And you believed the caller?”

Jenkins shifts. “He’s a credible source.”

“Who?” Kez demands.

He doesn’t answer, saying instead, “We had reason to believe there was ongoing violence occurring, and exigent circumstances dictated we act immediately.”

“Mm-hmm. Don’t you think this is overkill?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You ever been to the range with one of these two?” he asks, indicating Sam and me. “Everyone knows they’re armed to the teeth, and both got reputations for violence.”

Kez blows out a frustrated breath. “You know I’m supposed to be alerted when there’s any activity involving this address.”

He shrugs defensively. “You’re supposed to be on maternity leave, ain’t ya?”

She runs a hand down her face. “Come on, Jenkins. Haven’t you ever heard of swatting? If you’d called me, I could have told you that’s what this was, and we could have saved a lot of time and taxpayer dollars.”

He glowers at her. “I wasn’t going to take that chance. Not when there are kids’ lives at stake and Sam Cade’s already under suspicion for murder.”

“Well, you’ve got eyes on the girl now, and she’s okay. Aren’t you, Lanny?” She directs that last bit toward my daughter.

“Other than the fact that these assholes scared me shitless and one of these apes manhandled me out of my own fucking house in the middle of the damn night, yeah.”

I notice one of the younger cops near her wincing at her language. I fight the urge to smile. Lanny’s always been feisty, especially when it comes to authority.

Kez nods. “That’s the end of that. Clear the scene. We’re done here.”

“No, ma’am,” Jenkins says, shaking his head. “We’ve got Sam Cade for resisting arrest. We’re not letting that one go.”

“Assaulting an officer too,” one of the cops guarding Sam adds. He holds up his hand. His knuckles look to be split, most likely from punching the shit out of my partner.

“That’s not a good idea, Jenkins,” Kez warns.

He gives her a tight smile. “You ain’t the one calling the shots.” He turns to his men. “Load him up.”

“And this one?” the cop at my arm asks.

Jenkins looks me over. I lift my chin, glaring at him. If he’s hoping I’ll cower at his supposed authority, he has another thing coming. I don’t cower. Not to pricks like him.

He waves a hand. “Let her go.”

The cop by my side seems surprised. “You sure?”

“I don’t feel like doing the extra paperwork,” Jenkins says dismissively.

The minute the cuffs are off, and my arms are free, Lanny launches herself at me. Kez is next, and as her arms come around me, I find myself leaning against her.

“I got a text from Easy,” she murmurs in my ear. “Says Connor’s up at his place.”

My throat burns with relieved tears. I nod my thanks.

She squeezes tighter. “You okay?”

I don’t trust my voice and nod again, even though I’m not sure it’s entirely true. Already I can feel the aftereffects of the adrenaline dump coursing through me. My limbs feel heavy, and tears prick the backs of my eyes. I swallow several times, trying to regain control before I let her go.

“I can’t believe some dickwad calls the cops with a bullshit story, and we get our door broken down and asses hauled out of bed in the middle of the night,” Lanny spits. She’s mad. Anger is always easier to handle than fear.

“I have a feeling I know who called it in,” Kez says. “I saw one of the Belldenes’ trucks off the side of the road down the hill from your driveway. I was in too big a hurry to get here to get a look at who was inside. But I can’t think of any other reason a Belldene would be out this way in the middle of the night.”

“Unless they knew what was about to go down and wanted a front-row seat,” I finish for her.

She nods.

I drop my chin to my chest, the tension in my shoulders wound so tight they ache. We’d been trying to keep a low profile, but apparently, it wasn’t low enough. “Didn’t take them long to find out we were here.”

Beside me, Lanny shuffles her feet. “That, uh, may be my fault. I told Florida we were back.” She says it softly, hesitantly, as if afraid I might get mad. Florida is one of the Belldene kids—around Lanny’s age. She played a pivotal role in helping us track Connor after he was kidnapped by some religious zealots a few years back.

“But she swore she wasn’t going to tell anyone in her family,” Lanny adds.

I eye my daughter. I’m both fiercely proud of the woman she’s become and terrified about what she still has to learn. Despite everything she’s been through, there’s still a part of her that wants to believe in people. That wants to see good in the world.

She still trusts. It’s a liability, but I can’t bring myself to quash that part of her.

I just have to figure out how to teach her to balance that optimism with reality without becoming too jaded.

“It’s a small community,” I tell her. “It wasn’t going to be long before they learned we were back. I was just hoping they wouldn’t still be carrying such a grudge. Or that they might at least give us a little bit of time before trying to scare us off again.”

“I’ll talk to Jasper,” Kez says.

“Don’t bother,” I tell her, waving my hand. “It’s not going to change anything. They never listened to law enforcement before, why would they start now?”

Kez shakes her head. “The Belldenes swatted you, Gwen. They called in a false report, knowing it would lead to the authorities sending armed men to break down your door. You could have been killed. Your kids could have been shot.”

She’s right. I shiver at how easily tonight could have turned even uglier. The reality is the Belldenes are the violent sort, but they’ve never crossed the line into actual mortal danger. Not with my kids, at least.

Until now.

“We’ll figure out a way to deal with them,” I tell her.

“Anything I can do to help—legally—you let me know.” Kez gestures to her car parked down at the bottom of the driveway. “For now, let me drive you to the station. I can see if I can get Sam’s paperwork expedited.”

“You’re nearly nine months pregnant, Kez. Go home. I can take care of Sam. This isn’t our first rodeo with the police.”

“How about I drop by Easy’s and pick Connor up? He and Lanny can stay in the barn. It will be safer at our place, at least until you get your front door fixed.”

I glance at the house and wince. The front door is nothing but shards of splintered wood, scraps of it still clinging to warped hinges.

“I want to go with you, Mom,” Lanny protests.

I slip an arm across her shoulders and pull her against me. “I need you with Connor,” I tell her. “I’m worried about how tonight might have impacted him.” I don’t have to say more. She nods.

“And, Lanny?” I add. “You did good tonight.”

She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t. I was terrified.”

“Of course you were. So was I. Armed men broke into our house in the middle of the night.”

“So? I should have run like Connor did. That’s what we drilled. But I wasn’t fast enough to get to the window. It was stupid to hide in the closet.” She sounds angry at herself, and it breaks my heart. What is this life doing to my kids?

I take her hand and squeeze. “You kept yourself safe, that’s what matters. You didn’t panic.”

She looks like she wants to argue but ends up mumbling, “Whatever,” and then turns and starts down the driveway to Kez’s car. I want to run after her, grab her, and pull her into a hug. I want to stop the world from turning and forcing my daughter to grow up so fast.

But I can’t. Every second that ticks by brings her closer and closer to independence. To that moment when I won’t be there to shield her against the threats that stalk us.

Like I wasn’t there tonight, I remind myself. I’d been impotent. Thrown on the floor and pinned down and utterly unable to do anything to help her.

I’d failed.

All this time, I’ve seen myself as their protector. I’ve believed that, so long as I’m there, I can keep them safe.

It’s a lie.

And that’s the real reason I need to start trusting my kids and giving them space: not for the day when I’m no longer around, but for times like tonight, when I’m here and it doesn’t matter. When they’re on their own regardless of my presence.

As if sensing my internal struggle, Kez places her hand on my arm. “It’s okay, Gwen.”

I’m still trembling, the aftereffects of shock making their way through me. “I could have lost them all tonight,” I tell her, my throat aching.

“But you didn’t,” she reminds me.

I close my eyes and drop my chin to my chest, trying to quiet the emotions churning inside me. “Thank you for coming.”

She squeezes my arm. “That’s what family’s for.”

I take a deep breath and let it out, struggling to find my center once more. “I guess I need to go wake up our lawyer in the middle of the night and get my partner out of jail. Again.”

17

GWEN

It’s sunrise by the time we leave the police station. Once our attorney, Claudia, arrived from Knoxville and started mentioning body cameras and explaining in exquisite detail the lawsuit she planned to file against the officers involved in beating Sam, the department decided it would just be best if they dropped the pending charges.

“Look, as much as I like clients who pay their bills on time, if you could manage to stay out of trouble, it would make all our lives much easier,” Claudia said as she got into her car for the drive back to Knoxville. It didn’t sound like a joke.

As if it were that easy.

A medic tended to Sam’s wounds while he was in custody, but he still looks pretty terrible. His nose has a cut across the bridge, and one of his eyes is swelled half-shut. Several of his ribs are bruised, and while he tries to hide it, it’s clear he’s in pain. He winces as he slides into the passenger seat of my SUV.

When we reach the house, I sigh as I pull into the driveway. Half my winter garden is chewed up from where the police cars haphazardly parked last night, and the remnants of our front door lie scattered across the porch.

Because of the damage, I couldn’t set the alarm before we left, which means the house has been completely open and vulnerable for hours. I grab my gun from the safe in the back of the SUV as Sam gets his from his truck. He takes the lead, crouching low and staying alert as we approach the front door from the side.

He catches my eye and holds up three fingers. I wait until all are down before following him inside. We sweep the house quickly and methodically, checking under every bed, through every closet, and even in the attic. Once we’re sure no one else has snuck in and is waiting to ambush us, Sam rummages through a crate in the panic room until he finds our debugger.

He uses it in every room, slowly checking the floors, walls, ceilings, and shelves. Once he’s done, he gives me a thumbs-up. No hidden cameras or mics, thank goodness. It’s only at that point that I allow myself to slump into one of the kitchen chairs. I lean my elbows on the table and thrust my fingers through my hair.

“Why does it always have to be so damn hard?” I ask, thoroughly exhausted.

“Would it be worth it if it was easy?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

I notice his smile, then, and realize he was joking. I’m glad for that little moment of levity. My heart needed a break from the crushing strain of it all.

“We need to reprogram the alarm,” I tell him. “The cops know the old code, and who knows who they’ve shared it with.”

Sam winces as he slides into the chair across from me. “I guess I should head down to the hardware store and pick up a new door before whoever swatted us decides to get more creative or aggressive.”

“It was the Belldenes,” I tell him. “Kez is pretty sure of it. She saw one of their trucks parked off to the side of the road on her way to the house.”

Sam’s expression turns stormy. “They’ve gone too far. It was one thing with the viper in the mailbox and shooting out my truck window. The cops fired shots last night. Connor could have been hit.”

I feel physically sick at the thought. “Kez said she’d talk to Jasper again. We could file charges since swatting is illegal, but who knows if anyone will care that much.”

“They won’t. If the Belldenes cared about the law, they wouldn’t flout it like they do.” He shakes his head. “We’re just going to have to get creative, that’s all.”

“Like what?” While I’m all for waging war against the Belldenes for our right to live in Stillhouse Lake, we’re already fighting enough battles. We don’t need to add more.

Before he can answer, my phone pings with a text.

Taylor

Looks like you’ve been busy.

It’s followed by a link to a news site. I click on it, already bracing for what I’ll find. It’s a picture of Sam from the night before, hands cuffed behind his back and head down as a cop guides him into a patrol car. Above it in bold is the headline: Murder Suspect Implicated in Child Sex Trafficking Ring.

My stomach starts to ache.

“What is it?” Sam asks.

I don’t want to show him, but I also don’t want him to be blindsided if he comes across it on his own. Feeling sick, I turn my phone to face him.

He takes it from me and begins to read. I slide from my seat and move to the coffeemaker. I need caffeine badly. Once I’ve brewed a pot, I push a mug onto the table in front of Sam. He’s still staring at the phone screen, the muscle in his jaw working overtime. His body is tense, ready to lash out, but there’s nothing to hit, no way to expel the anger boiling inside him.

“We’ll get Kez or someone at the station to make a statement,” I tell him. “Send it to the news and demand a retraction. Threaten them with a defamation suit if they don’t.”

He tosses the phone across the table toward me. “Except everything in that headline is technically true. I am a murder suspect. And I was implicated in sex trafficking. Even though it’s all bullshit. It doesn’t matter what the truth is. People believe what they want to.”

“Unless you make them believe differently,” I counter.

He shrugs. I can see some of the fight leaving him. I can’t let that happen. I need him to stay strong.

I think back to what Madison said at the police station in Knoxville, about how our story is written by others because we remain silent. I hate to admit it, but she had a point. “Maybe we need to reconsider talking to the press,” I suggest.

He snorts. “No thanks.”

I’m not surprised he dismisses the possibility so easily. In the past, I would have as well. Something needs to change, though. My therapist is fond of reciting the Henry Ford quote, “If you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you always got.”

The reality is, what we’ve been doing hasn’t been working. We face more online hate now than we ever have. It isn’t abating. If anything, it’s getting worse.

“I’m serious. We need more than just a statement. We need something that people will pay attention to.”

“If you haven’t noticed, no one cares about alleged criminals. Everyone assumes that where there’s smoke, there’s fire. I’ve got smoke billowing out of me everywhere. Besides, are you forgetting Howie Hamlin?”

I shudder at the memory. Of course I haven’t forgotten him. More than a dozen news outlets had reached out to interview me after I killed Melvin and we’d agreed to go on Howie Hamlin’s show after receiving numerous assurances that he wouldn’t deviate from the topics we’d approved.

Within moments of beginning the interview, he ambushed me. He brought Miranda Tidewell in to essentially accuse me of being Melvin’s accomplice. I’d stormed out. That was my last attempt at playing nice with the media. I swore I would never put myself through that again.

Now, nearly three years later, I’m reconsidering.

“People don’t want to hear from me, Gwen,” Sam adds. “They want to believe the worst about people. Let them.”

I can’t accept that. Not when it’s not just us we have to consider.

I slowly spin the coffee cup, watching the steam seep into the air. The ceramic is warm in my hands—uncomfortably so. I think about Madison’s argument at the police station in Knoxville. I hate parroting her words, but she has a point. “It isn’t fair to the kids.”

He winces at the statement, but I continue. “I found a shoebox full of acceptance letters in Lanny’s room the other day. Stanford, Berkeley, Smith, Princeton. Top colleges all over the country. She applied to all of them in secret. She even got a private mailbox so we wouldn’t know about it.”

Sam looks as bewildered as I felt at the time. Hell, I still feel that way. “Why?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. And I don’t know how to talk to her about it. But a part of me can’t help but wonder if it’s because of Melvin. Because of us—all of this.” I wave my hand around the broken house, the splintered door to her room, and the clothes strewn on the floor from her closet when they dragged her out.

“Remember when she visited Reyne U? She was so excited. She used your last name and, for the first time, she could be a normal kid. And then she had to leave early, and word got out who she was, and that was the end of her anonymity. Once again, she became Melvin Royal’s daughter.

“I think she’s worried she can’t be her own person. And the thing is, she’s right. With The Royal Murders, wherever she goes to school, everyone’s going to know who she is. It’s not like there are a million Lannys in the world. It’s a pretty distinctive and recognizable name.”

“But she had to have started applying to these schools before the podcast launched. I’m not even sure it was on our radar back then,” he points out.

It’s true, but the point remains the same. “Consider it from her point of view. Imagine going away to one of these schools, and it’s parents’ weekend. If you were Lanny, would you want us there?”

He stares down at his coffee, his expression resigned. “And you think going public will change that?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “But I don’t see how it could make things worse.”

The corner of his lip twitches. “You should know better than to say something like that by now. You’re only tempting fate.”

“Maybe I’m tired of playing it safe.”

This time, his smile is genuine. “Gwen Proctor, I don’t know a human in this world who would say that you’re the type to play it safe.”

Except that I have been these last few years. I’ve felt like if I lay low, if I followed the rules, if I didn’t engage with the constant stream of hate, somehow my patience would be rewarded, and we’d be allowed to move on from Melvin’s mess.

Perhaps it’s time to take a different approach. Maybe it’s time to be loud. Angry. To speak up.

It doesn’t escape my attention that women are often rewarded for their silence. I’m not interested in that any longer.

“Madison suggested we do a podcast. Sort of an answer to The Royal Murders, except this time, we’d be the ones in control of the narrative. I think maybe we should consider accepting her offer.”

“You really think we should reward the woman who spent a considerable amount of time and effort painting us in the worst light possible?”

“Actually, yeah. That’s exactly who we should talk to. If listeners see her changing her mind about us, then it might make them do the same.”

“You trust her?”

I laugh. “No. But,” I add, “Madison was with me when I got the 911 text from Lanny, and she could have easily gone public with her story. She didn’t. So, yeah, maybe I trust her a little more than before. Or at least, I’m willing to give her a chance. That doesn’t mean I’m letting my guard down.”

Sam carries his mug to the sink, dumps the dregs of his coffee, then rinses it and sets it in the drying rack. When he’s done, he turns to face me. “I don’t think this is a good idea. But I’m not going to stop you.”

We’ve had disagreements before, some larger than others. I don’t like it. I’m used to being on the same page. It’s part of what works with Sam and me. We have the same priorities and values.

But we each carry different baggage, and that sometimes causes us to see things through different lenses.

If Sam were truly against the podcast, he would say so. As it stands, he’s leaving it up to me to take the risk. I understand where he’s coming from. His concerns are valid.

“I’ll reach out to Madison and see what she says. Just because we record a podcast doesn’t mean we have to release it. We can always revisit the question down the road.”

He nods and, together, we make a plan of attack for fixing the house. Sam heads off to the hardware store, and I call Madison to let her know I’m interested in discussing the possibility of moving forward with her podcast idea. She says yes immediately, and we agree to meet at a coffee shop in Norton the following morning.

This might be a mistake. We might be painting an even larger target on our backs. I hope not.

Early that afternoon, Kez drives Lanny and Connor back to the house on her way to visit her father. I don’t even wait for them to walk in the front door before pulling them both into my arms.

Connor rolls his eyes. “So, we’re doing this then?”

Lanny snickers.

I glance at Sam to see if he understands. He looks as clueless as I feel. “Doing what?”

Connor sighs. “The typical mom post-mortem, where you tell us how scared you were and run through everything we did wrong and what to do differently next time so we can be prepared.”

Lanny nods. “Usually followed by a ‘surprise drill’ that night or the next to make sure we were listening.”

I’m still frowning when Lanny claps a hand on my shoulder. “You do it every time, Mom.”

“Yeah,” Connor adds. “You should really think about varying it up. Routines are dangerous, remember? They make you vulnerable.”

Both kids walk past me toward the kitchen, leaving me with my jaw dropped. I scramble after them. “This isn’t a joke, guys.”

“Did you have that one on your bingo card?” Connor asks Lanny. “I’m pretty sure I did.”

They’re both being entirely too blasé about this situation. “Armed men broke into our house.” I bite out. “Shots were fired. Sam was beaten.”

At that last detail, both kids have the decency to look chastened. They look past me to where Sam leans against the kitchen wall. “You okay?” Lanny asks.

“Never better.”

Lanny and Connor catch each other’s eye again, and I watch them have a silent conversation. Apparently, it’s decided that Lanny will talk first.

She sighs. “Look, Mom. We know last night was serious. It scared the shit out of both of us. And at some point, we do want to talk about it. But not now. The last thing we want to do is spend the day rehashing it and then spend the next several nights running drills for next time.”

“We want to go to the movies,” Connor says.

I blink, convinced there’s no way I heard correctly. “The movies?” I glance again at Sam. He seems as surprised as I am.

Connor nods. “Like a normal family.”

As much as I appreciate the sentiment, we can’t just ignore what happened. He was right the first time; we need to discuss last night and walk through what worked and what didn’t. “Normal families don’t have their front doors broken in by the police,” I point out. “We’re not normal. We can’t pretend we are.”

“Yes, we can,” Lanny says, her voice firm.

“You promised we wouldn’t let fear dictate our lives,” Connor adds.

“That was before a man was murdered in our living room, and an entire SWAT team was called out to our house.”

“If not now, then when, Mom?” I notice how straight her back is and that she’s squared her shoulders as if ready for a fight. I realize, then, how important this is to them.

I want to protest. I want to double down and explain the precariousness of our situation over and over until they understand. Then it hits me, they do understand. Both of them were there last night. They were terrified, just as much as I was. They’re traumatized, just like I am.

But they refuse to let that define them.

They want to claim a piece of normalcy despite everyone trying to take it from them.

Suddenly, I’m so fiercely proud of these two that my heart hurts. Tears burn the back of my throat. “Okay,” I tell them. “We’re going to the movies. And after that, Kathy’s Kakes. Then after that, we’re picking up takeout to bring home and eating it in front of the TV.”

Lanny laughs. “That sounds pretty indulgent for a normal family.”

I smile at her. “Since when do we do anything in half measures?”

The next morning, I sleep later than I have in weeks. Probably because I spent most of the night waking up in a panic, thinking I heard SWAT outside, ready to break down the door. Usually, I’m up well before dawn, so waking up to the dull light of the sun seeping around the curtains in our bedroom is weird.

Sam lies next to me, still asleep, his body warm and comforting. I press myself against his back and close my eyes. For that moment, I allow myself to forget my doubts and fears about him. I forget about Sicko Patrol and the podcast. I forget about Melvin’s empty grave and the man who was murdered in our living room.

Instead, I focus on the rhythm of Sam’s breathing, noting that my own matches his subconsciously. I think about yesterday afternoon, sitting at the movies with my family and the sound of their laughter in the darkness. I remember going to Kathy’s Kakes, where Lanny and Connor playfully argued over which flavor slices they should get before ultimately deciding to get two different ones and split them.

I think about what it had been like to pile into our living room together, binge-watching a ridiculous reality TV show and debating what we’d have done differently if we were contestants.

If I’d had my way, we’d have spent yesterday at the shooting range and talking through additional strategies to protect against home invasions. We’d have practiced our defensive moves and breaking out of various physical holds. I’d have set my alarm to wake everyone up at 2:00 a.m. with a surprise drill.

I’d have missed out on the sound of Lanny snorting when she laughed too hard. The feel of Connor tucked against me on the couch. The delight in seeing my kids happy and relaxed and okay.

Those are the moments I’ve been fighting for. I can’t let myself lose sight of that.

Eventually, though, the obligations of my day drag me from bed. I shower and dress quickly, slamming back a mug of burning coffee before heading out to meet Madison.

It’s only when I reach my SUV that I realize all four of my tires are flat. It’s obvious from the gaping gashes in the sidewalls that it was deliberate. Boiling with rage, I pull up our security cameras and scroll through the night before.

Sure enough, a truck rolls up our driveway just after 3:00 a.m. with its lights turned off. A figure jumps out, leaving the engine running, and saunters up to our vehicles. He takes something out of his pocket and kneels. One by one, he punctures all eight of our tires.

Then he stands and looks directly at the security camera. He does nothing to obscure his identity, making it clear as day who he is: Jesse Belldene. He pulls a sheet of paper from his back pocket and holds it up. There’s one word scrawled across it in dark ink: LEAVE!

He then tips what looks like a wickedly sharp hunting knife to his forehead in a mock salute before returning to his truck and backing down the driveway.

I stomp my foot and let out a roar of frustration. “That motherfucker,” I shout. “How are we supposed to leave if you slash our fucking tires!”

The front door flies open, and Sam appears. He’s shirtless and shoeless but clutching the .38 in both hands, muzzle pointed toward the ground. His eyes find me instantly. “Gwen?”

“It’s fine,” I growl through clenched teeth. “I’m just shouting at the universe. Jesse Belldene slashed our tires last night.”

Sam lets out a sigh and steps out of his shooting stance. “Seriously? You sure it was him?”

I hold up my phone, a screenshot from the surveillance camera still visible on the screen. “He wasn’t being shy about it. He made sure the camera caught him doing it. He even held up a note telling us to leave. Which, you know, isn’t a thing we can really do without tires, so it’s kind of a mixed message.”

“I guess I need to have that chat with Jasper about finding a way to get along.”

Anger still simmers through me. “It won’t do any good,” I spit.

“Well, I’ll figure something out. In the meantime, I’ll give Javi a call and see if he can pick up some new tires for us and drop them by.”

I run a hand down my face. “I’m supposed to be meeting Madison in town in fifteen minutes.”

“Maybe this is a sign that the podcast is a bad idea,” he offers before heading back inside. He’s joking, somewhat.

If I were in Knoxville, I could have tried a rideshare app, but that’s not nearly as available this far outside of town. Instead, I text her to let her know we’ll have to reschedule. She responds almost instantly.

Madison

I can come to you if it’s easier.

I hesitate. My house is my sanctuary. I’m not comfortable having her here just yet. When I don’t immediately respond, she adds:

Madison

Or I can come pick you up. I still have those files to drop off for you.

Gwen

We’re pretty far outside of town. There’s no need for you to go out of your way.

Instead of a text, my phone rings. It’s Madison. Frowning, I answer it.

“Okay, don’t freak out,” she says by way of hello.

My spine stiffens, and my stomach clenches.

“When I went to book an Airbnb last night, there weren’t many options. You know how they don’t show you exactly where they are on the map? So, I just picked one and didn’t think anything of it. But then I drove up here and…well…um…hi, neighbor.”

It takes me a moment to comprehend what she’s saying. I immediately spin, taking in my surroundings. Sure enough, I catch sight of a figure on the porch of the house up the hill.

The same house that Sam rented when he first came to Stillhouse Lake all those years ago. The one he used to spy on me and my family while he figured out how to get me to confess to murdering his sister.

I blink because there’s no way this is happening.

“Is that you?” I ask, incredulous.

18

GWEN

Madison waves from the porch of the house next door.

I don’t know what to say. I feel exposed. Vulnerable.

Thankfully, she fills the silence. “I know how this must look. I’m really sorry, Gwen. I can try to find somewhere else to stay if it would make you more comfortable.”

She pauses, waiting. My instinct is to tell her that, yes, I want her to move, but I check myself. If she’s here for nefarious reasons or to spy on us, then she can do that just as easily hunkering in the woods behind the house as she can from the rental up the hill. Besides, spying goes both ways. Having her nearby means I can keep tabs on her just as easily.

I still don’t like it.

“It’s fine,” I tell her through clenched teeth. “Let me grab something and I’ll be right over.” I hang up and go inside to retrieve my gun. No way am I going over there unarmed.

I arrive at Madison’s rental house ten minutes later with my Sig Sauer tucked snugly in my shoulder holster. I approach the cabin slowly, memories assaulting me from when Sam lived here. I remember the number of times I jogged past, the times I looked this way and caught sight of him sitting on the front porch drinking his coffee.

It’s unsettling when I knock on the door and instead of Sam opening it, it’s Madison. She’s wearing pressed, dark-wash jeans, a fitted flannel shirt topped by a quilted vest, a camel hair coat, and knee-high boots. It’s not at all a practical outfit and makes it clear she’s never lived anywhere with a true winter. Otherwise, she’d know how useless those boots would be the moment the first flakes of snow fell.

Meanwhile, I’m in fleece-lined leggings and a thermal top under a quilted jacket I left open in case I need to reach my firearm. Plus I’ve got on thick snow boots with a solid tread. I wanted to make sure I could bolt outside comfortably if necessary.

Madison’s face brightens when she sees me. “Gwen! Hi! Come in, please.” She steps aside and I’m once again hit with déjà vu. The cabin isn’t large. It’s one of the old hunting lodges from before they turned the area around Stillhouse Lake into a resort. At some point along the way, someone installed a few upgrades to make it easier to rent. When Sam lived here, there was just an old sofa, chair, and no TV. Now, there’s a blush couch, an overstuffed loveseat, and a large TV hanging on the wall.

“Coffee?” Madison asks as she leads me toward the kitchen.

Not as much has changed in this room. The appliances have been upgraded, but the table in the center of the space is still the same. I run my fingertips across it, remembering eating pancakes here with Sam.

Of course, this was also where we were sitting when someone fired a shotgun at us through the window. Too many of my memories are seasoned with violence.

Madison puts a pod in a fancy-looking machine, and we wait while it gurgles and hisses. I notice a hard case open on the kitchen counter, various pieces of equipment stashed inside. She sees me looking at it.

“I’m glad you changed your mind about the podcast. I think it’s going to really help get your story out there.”

“I’m still not committed to releasing anything,” I remind her.

The machine finally finishes, and Madison hands me the cup of coffee. The moment I reach for it, she notices the bruises circling my wrists from where the police handcuffed me the other night.

She gasps. “What happened?”

I grimace. “Nothing.”

She reaches for me like she’s going to take my wrist but catches herself before touching me. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Let’s just say there are a few folks who aren’t super excited we’re back in town. One of them swatted us. And then slashed our tires. That’s why I couldn’t meet you at the diner.”

Her eyes go wide. “Really? Why’d they do that?”

“Sam pissed one of them off.”

“And they swatted you and slashed your tires? What did Sam do?”

“Got one of them banned from the gun range when he showed up drunk and picked a fight after Sam took his gun.”

She blinks at me. “Seriously? That’s it?”

I want to laugh at her naïveté. People take their guns seriously around here. The range isn’t just a place to practice shooting; it’s a social hotspot. Getting banned made Jesse Belldene look bad. It hurt his ego and, with some men, that automatically leads to violence.

“I also brought a little too much attention to the town, given my past. The Belldenes are what you’d call hillbilly mafia. The less authorities look their way, the better.”

“But the cops are going after them for it, right?”

“There’s no point. The Belldenes consider themselves untouchable. Honestly, the best thing to do is just leave them alone in the hopes they leave you alone.”

Madison thinks about that for a moment. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Of course it does.” There’s anger in my voice. “I’m tired of feeling like I have to fight the world just to exist. I wish everyone would leave us alone: all the sickos out there with nothing better to do with their lives than send us death threats, the Lost Angels and their mission to expose my family and me for crimes we had no part in. I thought when Miranda Tidewell died, that would be the end of it. But then Leo took over. Once he disappeared, I had hope again. But then came Rowan Applegate. It’s never ending and it’s exhausting.”

I realize I’m nearly panting, my hands clenched into fists, and my cheeks hot. I shake my head, trying to dissipate some of the burning anger. “Sorry. My emotions are closer to the surface these days. I haven’t had much sleep since the swatting, and when I am able to sleep, I keep waking up in a panic thinking someone’s about to smash in the door.”

I’m embarrassed for having unloaded on her. “Maybe this was a bad idea. I should go.” I start for the door.

“You need to stop silencing yourself, Gwen,” Madison says.

“If my family heard you say that, they’d laugh. You may not have noticed this, Madison, but I’m not generally a quiet person.”

“You may not think so, but you’re wrong.”

I cross my arms and lift an eyebrow, inviting her to continue.

She holds up a hand, ticking off her points as she goes. “You don’t answer media requests.”

“Because I don’t trust the media not to twist my words,” I counter. “Journalists always have an agenda, and it rarely overlaps with mine.”

“You refuse to stand up to the Belldenes.”

“That’s out of pure self-interest. I’ve been to their compound. I’ve seen the kind of weaponry they have at their disposal. Engaging with them is a losing proposition.”

“You talk about all the threats your family receives, but from what I’ve seen, you do nothing about them.”

“I send them to the police and the FBI. What do you want me to do, become a vigilante?”

“The Lost Angels have been waging a campaign against you for years, and instead of fighting back, you’re walking away.”

“I’m being smart, Madison. I’m picking my battles. I know that may look like staying silent to you, but you’re young. You’re like my daughter, still so idealistic, believing that if you can just make the right argument, someone will listen and change their minds. You still feel like you can change things. Well, I hate to break it to you. Sometimes, you can’t. Sometimes, you just have to accept things the way they are and make the best out of a shit situation.”

“Is that what you’d tell Lanny to do? Just accept the way things are? Don’t make waves? Don’t fight for change?”

I’m the one who brought my daughter into this, but still my chest burns at the mention of Lanny’s name.

“People need to hear from you, Gwen,” Madison says. “They need to hear what it looks like to fight. People see you as the villain. Show them you’re not.”

I turn away from her and stare out the front window toward the lake. The surface is an unknowable gray. I think of the woman I was the last time I stood here in this house. I was on the edge of running after finally putting down tentative roots. I was trying to decide who I wanted to be and what I planned to fight for.

I was scared.

I’m still scared.

I’m not sure I’ll ever stop being scared.

Maybe that’s the problem. I keep waiting to find safety. I keep waiting for the moment I won’t clock exits when I enter a room or go to bed with my shoes by the bed in case I need to make a hasty escape. I keep waiting for it to end.

There is no such thing. This will never end.

This is life. It’s happening now. And I’m going to miss it if I’m not careful.

“Okay,” I say, turning back to face her. “Let’s get started.”

19

GWEN

That evening, Kez and Javi come for dinner. While Javi, Sam, and the kids chop veggies and man the grill, Kez and I sit on the porch under a blanket. The air is crisp, the sky above still sporting the remnants of sunset.

“I agreed to record a podcast about Melvin,” I tell her.

She looks at me as though I’ve grown two heads. “I’m quite sure I didn’t hear that correctly because the Gwen Proctor I know would never voluntarily talk to the media.”

“It’s worse than you think. I’m working with Madison Westcott.”

“The Royal Murders Madison Westcott?”

I nod. “You don’t have to say it, Sam already has. I know it’s a risk.”

“Risk isn’t exactly the word I’d use, but sure, you can call it that. Did you at least give her a thorough background check?”

“I did. And I asked Taylor from work to do so as well. So far, nothing’s come up that has us worried.”

“Except for all the shit she’s said about you and your family in The Royal Murders,” she points out.

“I’m not committed to releasing it yet. I’ve just agreed to talk to her. So far, I can’t imagine anything interesting coming from it. We recorded for two hours this morning, and it was all boring background stuff.”

“I wouldn’t trust her.”

I laugh. “I don’t trust her. Especially given that she’s renting the house up the hill.”

Kez nearly spits out her drink. “The hell you say?”

“The house Sam stayed in when he first came to Stillhouse Lake.” I nod toward it.

She cranes her neck to get a better look. From here, we can see the flicker of the TV in the front windows. I’d noticed her leaving earlier in the day, but she must be back. The lights in the kitchen are blazing, and I strain to catch sight of movement but there isn’t any. I wonder what she’s watching. Aside from the few times my kids turn something on, it’s been so long since I’ve sat down to watch TV that I wouldn’t even know what’s popular these days.

Beside me, Kez clears her throat. I look her way and am met with pursed lips. “Gwen. Seriously.”

I hold up my hands. “I know. It’s weird.”

“It’s not weird. It’s stalkery. And disconcerting. It’s not like you to be okay with something like this.”

“I went online and looked up short-term rentals. She’s right. There aren’t many options in the area right now. Apparently, there’s an arts festival in Norton that’s got everything close to town booked.”

She gives me a long, hard, disapproving look.

I sigh. “I know, Kez. It’s a risk and I hate risks. But I have to do something because the nothing I’ve been doing isn’t working. If a podcast can help clear our name and take some of the pressure off, I have to try it.”

“That’s some magical thinking shit right there,” she says.

“Trust me, if I thought magic might help, I’d try that too.”

She presses her lips together in a grumble but decides to change the subject. “I was able to get ahold of some of the officers involved in those cases you sent over. The Sicko Patrol.” She glances my way.

I perk up, waiting.

“They all recovered shards of human bone at the scene.”

Up until now, I’d always considered the possibility that the deaths might be connected, but it had seemed so far-fetched. Here, though, was proof. “All of them?” I ask.

She nods. “Every single one.”

“Jesus,” I breathe. It takes a moment for the reality of this to sink in. “They’re all connected, then?”

She nods again.

I stare out at the lake, a dark scar devoid of light, as the repercussions become clear. The enormity of the situation is staggering. “That means there’s a serial killer out there.”

Kez isn’t surprised by my conclusion. She’s clearly already thought it through.

“Shit.” I run a hand down my face.

The reality is, despite everyone’s fascination with serial killers, they’re actually fairly rare these days. Except in my world, apparently. First Melvin Royal, now this.

“None of them reported it to the FBI?” I’m assuming they didn’t, otherwise I would have gotten another visit from Special Agents Indiri and Wren.

“Most of them dismissed it as an odd quirk of the scene. None of the bones were found in the victims’ bodies like Cooper Kuntz. That would have definitely raised some red flags.”

I consider that for a moment. “Why do you think that is? Why the change with Kuntz? Why literally shove the bone down his throat? It seems like an escalation, doesn’t it?”

“Could be there was something personal about Kuntz. Or the killer was trying to make a statement, and no one was listening. They knew that putting the bone in the victim’s body would get attention.”

“Most killers don’t like attention,” I point out.

“Apparently, this one does.”

“So, what is this one trying to say that we’re not hearing?”

She rolls her head toward me. I can feel her studying my profile in the darkness. I continue staring out at the empty lake. “You know what this means, Gwen.” It’s a statement not a question.

I do. I just haven’t wanted to acknowledge it. Hiding from the truth doesn’t make it go away.

“You’re the common link,” she continues. “The victims are all men who threatened you.”

I know where she’s going with this—it was obvious the moment she said the deaths were all connected. “I’m the one who benefits from their deaths.”

“You’re going to be their first suspect,” she confirms.

Or Sam, I think to myself. I hear his laugh carry from where he and the others surround the grill. As I watch, he claps a hand on Connor’s shoulder. My son grins up at him. Sam’s smile is more fragile, careful not to re-split his lip.

I think about the lengths Sam would go to protect us. The rage I’ve seen in him when he’s taken a turn at Sicko Patrol.

Would he kill for us? Absolutely. Of that I have no doubt. If it came to pulling the trigger to keep us safe, he wouldn’t hesitate. The question is, where would he draw the line? Would he hunt down the people who threaten us? I can’t see it.

That doesn’t mean it’s impossible.

I almost want to laugh at the absurdity of imagining Sam as a vigilante. But the reality of the situation is too horrible.

“Any chance you can reach out to Detective Gutierrez with the Knoxville PD and ask them if they found a bone fragment at the Varrus crime scene?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You think they’re related?”

“I think it’s in our best interest to find out.”

She nods.

“The internet trolls are going to lose their damn minds when they find out about this,” I say. “They’re going to come for me. Except now, it will be even more personal. They’ll think I’ve been targeting them. They’ll feel even more justified in taking me out.”

“You need to be ready,” Kez says. “Before going to the FBI, you need to have your alibis locked down tight. Don’t even give them a chance to consider you as a suspect. You should do the same for Sam,” she adds.

“That won’t matter to the trolls,” I tell her. They don’t listen to reason. They never have.”

The next morning, Sam is already gone by the time I wake up. He mentioned picking up a job a bit farther away than usual and wanting to get a head start on the commute. I’m usually the first one up in the mornings, so it’s a little disorienting to find a pot of coffee already brewed, and a scone waiting for me on a plate by my empty mug.

I smile at the thought of Sam picking up scones on his way home yesterday just so that he could surprise me this morning. It’s one of the things I love about him: how attentive he is to those around him, anticipating their needs—sometimes before they even realize what that is.

I carry my scone to the window overlooking the lake and eat while admiring the view. The same old fisherman from before is down by the dock, loading gear into his rickety boat. I shiver at the thought of how cold it must be out on the open water. He must really love to fish if he’s willing to brave this weather to do it.

I realize, then, that I don’t have anything like that in my life. I like to read, but I’m not sure that counts as a hobby, especially considering I usually only manage two or three pages in bed before passing out at night. Back when I was married to Melvin, I liked to cook. I’d spend hours scrolling through recipes online, trying to find just the right meal that might impress him.

It’s not that I’ve given up cooking, I just don’t put the same time or effort into it that I used to. Somewhere along the way, as a single mom with two kids on the run from my ex-husband, it became less of a priority and more of a chore.

Then it hits me. I know exactly what my hobby is: self-defense. I’ve spent hours at the gun range, watching videos online, working out, and running drills. It’s such an everyday part of my life that I don’t even think twice about it.

I press my forehead against the window, feeling the cold from outside seep into my skin. What does it say about me that I spend my free time perfecting my aim with various weapons and practicing Krav Maga? In the beginning, it was a necessity. I had to learn how to protect my kids. Then, as they grew older, I continued learning and training so I could pass on that knowledge to them.

I’ve always been proud of my self-defense skills. I burn with self-righteous pride when I enter a new gun range and get derisive looks from the other shooters, only to watch their jaws drop when they see my target. I like attending sparring classes and being dismissed by larger participants, only to pin them to the mat before they realize what’s happening.

Ultimately, though, I started training because of Melvin. This part of my life that makes me feel strong and independent and powerful exists as a reaction to my ex-husband.

Which means that, in some ways, he’s had a role in it. Not directly, but it’s another area of my life defined by him in one way or another.

It’s hard to acknowledge how deep his influence over me goes. I keep trying to sever every single tie to him and my old life, but for each one I cut, I only find more.

Maybe it’s a fool’s errand. Perhaps I’ll never truly be able to break free of Melvin Royal.

I close my eyes, letting the desperation of that thought wash over me.

Wouldn’t he laugh to see me now? To know how much I still think about him. How large a role he still plays.

“No,” I say out loud. I snap my head back from the window and stand tall. Melvin can’t laugh at me anymore, I think to myself with a smile. Because he’s dead, and I’m the one who killed him.

Once I’m settled in my office with a fresh cup of coffee, I close the door and boot up the computer. Most of my personal things from my office in Knoxville remain in boxes stacked in the corner. I keep meaning to unpack them, but some part of me still wonders how permanent this move will be.

I’m torn. Stillhouse Lake has always represented hope and possibility to me. There are good memories here, tangled with the bad. It’s easy here to remember the optimism I felt as we painted the rooms in this house, repaired the roof, and put on the new deck.

I felt the possibility of a home here. A future. This is where I took a stand. Refused to run.

I don’t miss the irony that I’m back here again, taking another stand against the Lost Angels and those who have persecuted us over the years. Hopefully, this time around we’ll find lasting success.

With a sigh, I move to the stack of framed photos leaning against the wall and flip through them until I find the one of Melvin’s grave. It’s an unassuming shot. To anyone else, it would look like an unimpressive—if somewhat macabre—cemetery landscape. Only I know this place as Melvin’s grave.

Or so I thought.

Someone else figured it out. The same person who tracked down those men who’d harassed me with threats and warnings online. But why? Why steal Melvin’s body? Why leave pieces of him at the crime scenes? Doing so ties the murders together and exposes the killer to much greater liability if they’re caught.

At my computer, I pull up the list of names I sent Kez, along with the details of each man’s death. I make a list of dates, then start combing through my calendar. Several are easy to provide alibis for. One was a night I was out surveilling a client and I have time logs plus timestamped photos throughout the night. Another was an event at Connor’s barn, and I have a dated photo of the two of us posing by his favorite horse. A third I have receipts from a food delivery service.

They’re not airtight alibis. A prosecutor could argue that we had the food delivered as a ruse and weren’t actually home. But still, it’s something at least. Which is better than some of the other dates. They were nights of little import. Nothing on the calendar—likely nights home with the kids, no receipts I can point to as evidence of where I was. Our security system only keeps recordings for a month, so I can’t pull video showing me arriving home and never leaving.

Still, I find enough to make it pretty damn clear I wasn’t involved in any of the men’s deaths.

Since it’s early and the kids are still asleep, I switch over to our shared family calendar and start working on Sam’s whereabouts on those dates. The first two are difficult, as he was out of town for work. When he’s flying cargo, it’s not unusual for him to be gone for several days at a time.

Except the more I look into it, the more I realize that it wasn’t just the first two dates he was out of town for. It’s all of them. Which is weird, but it only means that I can’t provide an alibi for him. It shouldn’t be a problem. The upside to him flying on those dates is that there will be flight manifests and logs proving where he was.

I start pulling that information together for those specific work trips, collating flight numbers and destinations. However, the more I dig into his alibis, the more uneasy I grow. Sam flew to Boise, Idaho the day before Salem Adams was found murdered in his home. He lived outside Boise.

A coincidence, surely.

Sam flew several trips to Akron, Ohio the week Forrester Blakeny was killed in a suburb outside the city.

Another was murdered in Indiana and another in Michigan while Sam was in Detroit.

How the fuck is this possible? By the time I finish compiling all the information, I sit back in my chair and stare at the sheet of paper in shock.

Every single one of the deaths lines up to a time when Sam was not only out of town for work but also somewhere near the victim. Not only does Sam not have alibis for those dates, records place him disturbingly close to the victims.

I refuse to believe he had anything to do with the deaths. I know Sam. He’s not a murderer.

I will do anything to protect my family. Anything.

It had been one of his last texts to Leo Varrus before he was found murdered in our house. Sam had shown it to me after his arrest.

The detectives working Leo’s murder had copies of those texts. Messages that gave Sam a motive to kill not just Leo but also the sickos who’d been stalking me and my kids for years.

I think of the other morning when he caught me resuming Sicko Patrol. He hadn’t seemed surprised, which makes me wonder how long he’d known I was back at it. A small voice in my head wonders if perhaps Sam targeted the worst of the sickos for me. To ease the tide of hate coming at us in some sort of twisted way—or at least eliminate the most egregious of it.

I stop myself before that thought takes hold. It’s impossible. Sam isn’t a cold-blooded killer.

That’s not what the police think. Gutierrez is probably already convening a grand jury to bring charges against him.

I drop my head into my hands as a sense of despair washes over me. This has all become so much larger and more complicated than before. It doesn’t just paint Sam as a killer, it makes him look like a serial killer.

I feel sick to my stomach.

I can’t just sit on this information. There’s a serial killer out there. I need to tell the FBI so they can track this guy down before he kills again. But as Kez noted last night, Sam and I will be their first suspects.

Sam will be screwed. Unless I can give them someone else.

I immediately think of Rowan.

Someone would need access to Sam’s flight schedule to set him up like this. Rowan’s a hacker. She could have easily broken into his company files.

Unless she found a way into our system instead. If she gained access to our network, she would have known exactly when Sam was flying, and where. She also could have hacked our security system.

My stomach churns, anxiety threading through my veins. I text Taylor. She’d been the one to set up our system in the first place, putting in the firewalls and VPNs to keep our data secure. But what if there was a gap somewhere?

Gwen

Can you run a check on our computer system?

She answers instantly—I’m pretty sure she never sleeps either.

Taylor

Sure. Any particular reason why?

Gwen

I think someone accessed Sam’s flight schedule. I’m trying to figure out if the breach was on the work end or our end.

Taylor

On it. Report back soon.

As she works, I stare at the photo of Melvin’s grave. His bones tie everything together. If I can figure out who robbed his grave, I can figure out who killed all the sickos and who’s setting Sam up to take the fall.

There’s so much about this I don’t understand, but one question keeps getting stuck in my head: Why Sam? Someone has gone to huge, elaborate lengths to set him up. Why? Clearly, they want him to suffer. It has to be personal.

Again, I think about Rowan and her rage at Sam for what she considers to be him abandoning his sister by sleeping with the enemy. It’s inconceivable that someone could channel so much energy into revenge. It never brings closure or absolution. It won’t bring Callie back.

It only turns her into a killer. Into the exact kind of monster Melvin Royal was.

What a fucking waste.

20

GWEN

I agree to meet Madison later that morning for another recording session. Before I leave, I check on the kids, though there’s really no reason. Both are still asleep. I should probably institute a schedule akin to normal school hours but given everything they’ve been through, I’m willing to let it slide.

I send a text on the family chat, letting them know where I’ll be, then make sure the alarm is armed before walking up the hill to Madison’s rental. The upside to her being so close is that it will be easy to keep an eye on the house.

Inside, she has a fire going in the old cast-iron stove, which gives the air a tinge of woodsmoke. The room is warm, cheery, and inviting. I follow her into the kitchen, where she has coffee waiting. Her equipment is set up on the kitchen table: her laptop and two large microphones waiting.

While she runs sound checks through her laptop, I stare at the mic in front of me. I try not to think about that morning at The Howie Hamlin Show, staring into that camera lens, a growing sense of anxiety gnawing inside me.

At least this time I’m not being broadcast live. Madison has agreed that I’ll retain all the recordings we make. At the end of each session, I’ll watch while she copies them onto a USB drive for me and deletes the original files.

That may sound like overkill but given that she stole recordings from when she worked with the Lost Angels, I’m not inclined to trust her on this.

Once we’ve run through the sound checks and Madison has the levels where she wants them, she looks at me a little shyly. “Sorry, this just feels a little surreal,” she says. “Even back when you were on trial and I was covering it for the school paper, my dream was to interview you. Of course, I couldn’t back then. But that didn’t stop me from imagining what I would ask.

“So, yeah, I know it sounds super dorky, but I’m still a bit shocked to actually be sitting across from you right now.”

Her earnestness is endearing, but I feel compelled to make sure she understands the terms of our deal. “I’m still not guaranteeing we’ll publish any of this.”

She waves a hand. “Oh, I know. But to finally be able to ask you questions I’ve been wondering about for years? It will be enough.”

She fiddles with her notebook, the one she used to write down questions and notes during our earlier session. “You said that one of the reasons you agreed to do this podcast was because you felt like your partner, Sam, was being unfairly accused of Leo Varrus’s murder and you want to clear his name.”

I nod. She gestures to the mic, reminding me that my answers need to be audible.

“Yes. Whoever is doing this has already tried to set Sam up once before. They sprayed Leo’s blood in our house at Stillhouse Lake, making it appear as though he’d been murdered and his body disposed of. They went to great lengths to fake speed camera footage of Sam’s truck driving down here the night of the supposed murder. Fortunately, forensics eventually found a preservative in the blood samples and determined that it wasn’t fresh but had been stored for some time. The prevailing theory is that Varrus spent months collecting blood in order to pull it off.”

“That sounds like a lot of work. Why do you think someone would go to such lengths?”

“At the time, we assumed Varrus was behind the hoax. It made sense—Leo and Sam had been friends once upon a time. They’d both lost loved ones to Melvin Royal and were both members of the Lost Angels. Eventually, Leo became convinced that I was Melvin’s accomplice and took it personally when Sam and I started dating.”

“Personally enough to dedicate his life to ruining Sam’s?”

I shrug. “You would have had to ask him.”

“You felt from the beginning that Sam was innocent.”

“Yes, and I was right. Varrus wasn’t killed at our house in Stillhouse Lake.”

“You know this because he was eventually murdered at your house in Knoxville.”

“Yes.”

“And authorities are calling Sam a person of interest in that case now. Which, to be clear to our listeners, doesn’t make him a suspect. It just means the police are taking a closer look.”

“Yes. But again, he’s being framed. He didn’t kill Leo Varrus.”

“He was set up to look like a murderer and that failed. So now he’s being set up again?”

She makes it sound absurd. She’s right, though, it does sound absurd. But it’s also the truth. That’s what’s so frustrating about all of this.

She takes a sip of coffee and then ponders me over the rim of her mug. “Do you ever think… or like, does any part of you wonder if he could be involved? I mean, haven’t we all dated people who kept secrets? I remember this one guy I was with in college—he had an account on Feet Finder. Which really answered a lot of questions about his constant insistence I wear high heels.”

She laughs.

I don’t. “No, I’ve never doubted Sam. He’s not a monster.”

She tilts her head to the side, genuinely curious. “Well, to be fair, you didn’t think Melvin was a monster either. What if it’s the same situation here?”

“Sam is nothing like Melvin.” The very thought that they share any similarities at all is horrifying.

“But he’s done some sus things in the past, right? Didn’t he move all the way out to Stillhouse Lake just to spy on you and try to infiltrate your life for his own hidden agenda? What if he’s still following that playbook?”

“He’s not. People change. Everything Sam did back then was borne of grief and rage.”

“So, he’s not still angry and upset that Melvin Royal killed his sister?”

I narrow my eyes at her. It feels a bit like she’s twisting my words, which I don’t appreciate. “Of course he is. But he knows I had nothing to do with it. That’s the difference. He spent time with me. Got to know me and my kids. He figured out the truth.”

She smiles softly. “You really love him, don’t you?”

The question catches me off guard. She’s been going so hard on Sam I wasn’t expecting an easy one. “Yes.”

“What do you love about him?”

I shake my head. “I don’t even know where to begin.” She says nothing, giving me space to continue. I try to think of a story that encapsulates how I feel about him. “Early in our relationship, Sam took me up flying. He was still working construction at the time, but he had a buddy with an old plane he let Sam borrow—the kind that’s kept in a barn with an old field for a runway. Had it been anyone but Sam, I would have absolutely refused to climb aboard.

“But it was Sam, and I trusted him. He understood that me being a mother was the most important thing in the world to me, and that I guarded my kids’ lives with my own. He knew that if something happened during that flight, if we crashed or didn’t make it back safely, it would mean orphaning my kids.”

I turn my mug in my hands, remembering that afternoon. The way the sun beat down on the grass in the old field, turning the air muggy and thick. The way Sam studied the plane through his pre-flight checks, so thorough and focused. The exhilaration of that first moment we lifted off from the ground.

“He recognized that it wasn’t my life he held in his hands, but theirs. And when we finally made it up and were soaring through the clouds, he told me that it used to be that never in his life had he felt closer to heaven than he did while in the air. Then he met me. Being my partner, caring for my kids, that was his new heaven.”

I belatedly realize how sappy that sounds, so I add, “Also he makes a mean pancake. The way to my heart may be through my kids, but there’s a shortcut through my stomach.” It’s not like me to be so open about my relationship with Sam, but if the goal is to exonerate him in the public’s eye, then I need to humanize him. I need everyone to see the Sam that I know and love.

Madison laughs. Then considers me for a moment. She hesitates before asking her next question. “I think what that story proves, though, is that Sam is your greatest protector.”

“Well, I like to believe I can protect myself, but yes, he feels strongly about keeping our family safe.”

“You murdered Melvin Royal.”

The abrupt shift causes whiplash. “Yes.”

“Why?”

I can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the question. “Because he was trying to rape, torture, and murder me on a livestream to paying customers. Because he tried to kidnap my kids. Twice. He was poison that was never going to stop infecting our lives.”

“Do you regret killing him?”

“Never.” It’s an easy answer.

“Your lives are better off—safer—with him dead.”

I nod. “Absolutely.”

“Did you love Melvin Royal?”

My stomach twists at the question, the taste of coffee and bile burning the back of my throat. “No.”

She frowns. “Really? Not even on your wedding day? Then why marry him?”

How to explain that, back then, I saw no other options? There was only one path for my life to take: meet a man, get married, have kids. It’s how I was raised. How my friends were raised. It’s the life my mom lived—and all my friends’ moms too. I didn’t know any different.

“I didn’t know who the real Melvin Royal was. The man I loved was just a mirage. He didn’t exist.”

“Were you scared of him?”

I think about that question for a moment. “I don’t know how to answer that. If I was, I never allowed myself to acknowledge it. I thought I’d won the lottery. He gave me the life I wanted: two amazing kids and the ability to stay home with them. He was a good father. The kids felt loved by him.”

She raises her eyebrows. “That’s an interesting way of phrasing it, that the kids felt loved by him.”

“Melvin Royal was incapable of love.” I don’t try to hide the bitterness in my voice.

“As I’m sure you know, there’s a large contingent of people out there who think you were complicit in Melvin’s crimes.”

“Oh?” I ask sarcastically.

She smiles. “Their argument is that you were married to Melvin for over a decade. You had two kids with him. You lived with him. A lot of people don’t understand how you couldn’t have known what kind of man he was. They argue that you were being willfully blind. What do you say to that?”

“I was naïve. I was raised to defer to my husband. To see the husband as the man of the house: he went to work, provided for us, and deserved downtime to himself. I was taught not to ask a lot of questions. To anticipate his needs and to make life comfortable for him. I was raised to be a good wife. That’s what I tried to be.”

“Do you regret not asking more questions? Did you ever even consider what might be behind the locked door in the garage?”

I let out a long, painful breath. “You have no idea how much I regret. Absolutely, I wish I’d seen the truth about Melvin before it was too late for all those girls. I wish I could have saved them. I hate how many lives he has destroyed—not just with the women he murdered but also their families. My family too.”

Madison stares down at her notes for a long moment and chews the bottom of her lip. She’s clearly torn about something.

“What is it?”

She hesitates for a moment longer before saying. “There’s something I want to ask you, but I’m worried I’ll offend you. It’s just... I think listeners will be curious, and if I don’t ask you, they’ll think I’m pulling punches, and they’ll lose faith in me as a narrator.”

“Okay,” I tell her hesitantly.

She blows out a breath and clears her throat, sitting a little straighter. “You don’t think Sam is a murderer.”

“No.” I say it as emphatically as possible.

“Do you consider yourself a murderer?”

“No.”

“Even though you killed Melvin Royal.”

“Like I said, that was in self-defense.”

“Because he threatened your family.”

“Right.”

“You lived with Melvin Royal for more than a decade. You built a life with him, had kids together, shared a bed, and you had no idea he was a monster.”

“Yes, he was that good an actor. No one suspected him. It wasn’t only me. Neighbors had no idea, our priest, his coworkers.”

“So, he had you fooled.”

“He did, unfortunately.”

“How do you know Sam doesn’t have you fooled as well?”

I’m on my feet before I realize it. “We’re done here.” There’s a tremor to my voice. My heart thunders in my ears as adrenaline surges through my body as though I’d been physically attacked.

I rip off my headphones and drop them onto the table.

“Gwen, wait.”

I’ve already started for the door.

She calls after me. “You’re angry because you know I’m right.”

My lips twist bitterly. That’s rich coming from her. “Fuck off, Madison. We’re done.”

21

GWEN

The minute I get home, I drag Lanny out for a run. I need to blow off steam from the recording session with Madison, and Lanny’s been complaining about being bored. A run kills two birds with one stone. We start out slow, warming up our muscles as we turn the air in front of our mouths into clouds.

The farther we get from the house, the easier it is to fall into step. We used to run like this often, though more often than not, it was against Lanny’s will. She eventually came to love it, though, just like I did. When we moved to Knoxville, however, we ran together less and less. Our neighborhood didn’t have an easy loop, plus work and school always seemed to get in the way.

Finding my familiar rhythm with Lanny makes it even more apparent how discordant the last several months have been. I’ve spent so much time trying to figure out the best way to approach Lanny about the college letters, only to realize there’s no such thing. She’s going to be ticked regardless. So, I decide to rip off the Band-Aid.

“I found the college acceptance letters.”

She comes to an immediate stop. It takes me a few more steps to slow, and I turn to face her.

She stands with her hands on her hips. Her expression is stormy, the glare in her eyes accusatory. “What?”

“I was looking for my Ramones shirt you keep taking.”

She scowls at me. “And you thought it might be in a shoebox under my bed?”

I don’t try to explain that, as her mother, I have a right to snoop wherever I want. She’s still legally a child and under my care and control. Instead, I say, “I’m sorry.”

My apology doesn’t penetrate. “When?” she demands. “When did you find them?”

I blow out a breath, knowing my answer isn’t going to make things much better. “A couple of weeks ago.”

Her eyes go wide. “Are you kidding me right now?”

She mumbles something under her breath and resumes her jog, except this time, she’s running. I sprint to catch up to her. “Can we talk about this, please?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you applied to all those schools?” I ask.

“Because I didn’t want to,” she responds curtly.

“Why the private mailbox?”

“To keep it private.”

I’m done with this. I’ve been tiptoeing around this information for long enough. I grab her arm and pull her to a stop. We’re both panting. “Please, Lanny. I want to understand.”

“No, you don’t,” she spits.

The vehemence of her reply takes me aback. She’s angry, but it doesn’t feel like this is just about me snooping in her room anymore.

“You keep saying things will change. You promised we’d stop letting fear dictate our lives. But nothing changed. Sure, for a little while you let me drive to school every now and again, but then you started to get paranoid. And I hear you in the mornings, you know. When you get up early and sneak into your office for Sicko Patrol. You’re not fooling anyone.”

I wince, her words hitting like a physical blow. Now that she’s gotten started, though, she continues.

“I know you’re scared, Mom, but so am I. You’re worried about some psycho killer jumping out of the bushes, and I’m scared about figuring out who I am and what I want to do with my life. When I set up that school visit last fall, the first thing you did was drill me on situational awareness. You never asked what classes I planned to sit in on or what I was most excited about seeing.

“You’re always so focused on the threat. Nothing else interests you. So, no, I didn’t tell you about applying to college because I already knew what you would say. You’d look up campus maps and pull dorm schematics to find out which were the safest and what the best escape routes were. You’d spend more time studying crime maps than the class catalog, and I wasn’t interested in that.”

I want to tell her she’s wrong, but she’s not. I can’t lie to her or to myself.

“I’m sorry, Lanny,” I tell her. I mean it with every fiber of my being. I don’t know how to tell her what it’s like being a parent. That our kids come into the world squishy and soft and so, so vulnerable. There is no joy or terror like holding a child for the first time, knowing that it’s not just their physical bodies you’re in charge of but also their hearts and souls, dreams and desires.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “I’m not going to any of those schools anyway.” She turns and starts walking.

I hate the tiny spark of elation I feel at hearing that. My daughter isn’t going away to college. She’s not moving across the country. She’s going to stay home and be safe.

My chest crushes at the thought. What kind of a mother am I, happy that my baby is giving up on a dream? I can’t do this. I can’t be this person.

I can’t let her do this.

“Lanny, wait,” I call as I chase after her on wobbly legs. “Why aren’t you going? What changed? If it’s the money, we can find it.” I’m not sure how, but we could make it happen. If we finished the podcast and sold it, I was sure we could make something. I hate the idea of making money off Melvin, but if it paid for Lanny’s college, it would be worth it.

She shakes her head. “It’s not the money. Though, damn, those schools are expensive.”

“Then what?”

She stops again and looks past me toward the lake. It’s cold today, though a few fishermen are still out on the water.

She lifts a shoulder and wipes a tear from her eye. “It turns out you’re right. There’s no escaping Melvin Royal. I thought I could reinvent myself like I did when I went to Reyne U. I thought I could be someone other than that serial killer’s daughter, but I can’t. It’s not just the podcast. There will always be something. We’ve been running for years and look where it got us.” She flings a hand out at the lake. “Nowhere.”

Her voice cracks, and it breaks my heart. I hate seeing my daughter hurting. I hate that I haven’t been able to save her from this. I can’t. That’s the reality of becoming an adult: realizing that not all problems are fixable. Not all pain can be brushed away with a mother’s kiss. Not all mistakes can be solved with an apology.

It’s what I’ve been forced to understand since returning to Stillhouse Lake. This isn’t where my post-Melvin Royal life began. We’d been on the run for years before we settled here. In many ways, though, this place was the start of our healing. The point where I thought there would be a light at the end of the tunnel. Only to find out there were more tunnels beyond this one. There will always be tunnels.

But there will also always be light. It’s too easy to forget that.

“If you don’t live the life you want, you’re letting your father win,” I tell her.

She scowls. “He wins anyway.” Her voice is so bitter it takes me aback.

I start to argue, but she shakes her head. “No, Mom. Tell me what’s changed? It’s the same cycle again and again and again. We move somewhere new, we enroll in school, we make friends, and then boom, our life blows up.” She makes an exploding gesture with her hands. “And it always ties back to Melvin. First there was Lancel Graham, the deranged acolyte who killed those two women and kidnapped Connor and me, hoping to take us to Dad. When that didn’t work, Dad came after us himself, kidnapping Connor and almost murdering you. After that, we got a bit of a reprieve until Miranda Tidewell came after us with that stupid documentary. Then there was Jonathan Watson, who almost killed you and Kez.

“And, yeah, maybe what went down last fall in Gardenia wasn’t directly tied to Melvin, but Connor and Vee wouldn’t have even gone with you if it weren’t for the school shooting and the media being so quick to believe Connor was involved just because of who his father was. Now, here we are, back in Stillhouse Lake because of the Lost Angels. It’s always, always because of Melvin fucking Royal.”

She’s shouting now, her cheeks blazing and wet with tears. “When does it end, Mom? How? You promise again and again that it will be different, and it never is.”

My own tears stream from my eyes. She’s right. My first impulse is to argue that this time really will be the end. If we can just make it through to the other side, figure out who’s trying to set Sam up, and who’s behind these murders. But it’s impossible to say there won’t be another crisis after.

I can’t know the future, so I give her the best answer I can. “I don’t know. I want it to end as badly as you do.”

Lanny shakes her head, cutting me off. “I don’t think you do, Mom. That’s the thing. I’m not sure you know who you are if you’re not fighting Melvin Royal.”

The words are stunningly sharp, nearly slicing me down the middle. I clutch a hand at my chest, unable to catch my breath. It’s the same dark revelation that’s been swimming under the surface of my consciousness.

“You know what hurts the worst, Mom?”

I say nothing in response. I can’t find my voice to speak.

“You didn’t even congratulate me for getting into those schools.”

She turns and starts sprinting back toward the house. I chase after her. I have no idea what to say or how to fix this. I only know I can’t let her go.

In the past, she’s never been able to outrun me. I always chalked it up to desperation—only the truly desperate are willing to push themselves past the pain of searing lungs and screaming muscles. This time, though, she outpaces me completely. There’s no way I’ll be able to catch her, and a part of me worries that she might just keep on running past our house to who knows where.

Then, suddenly, at the last turn toward our driveway she comes to an abrupt stop. It’s so unexpected that I barely avoid colliding with her. I catch myself against a small tree off the side of the road. “Lanny⁠—”

I notice her expression and fall silent. She’s gone completely still, body pulled tight. I’m instantly on guard, scanning my surroundings.

That’s when I notice the woman on the dock near the turnoff to our driveway.

“That woman,” Lanny hisses under her breath.

I nod. Something about her sets the hairs on the back of my neck on end. I’ve spent a lot of time on our deck, watching the lake, and I’m familiar with most of the locals who use this old dock for their boats. They’re all older men, retirees with white hair, hunched backs, and limps.

This is a woman who fits none of those descriptions. She’s tall and lithe with a bob of dark hair. She definitely stands out, which sets off my radar.

“I’ve never seen her before,” Lanny whispers. “Something about her isn’t right.”

I nod. I’m about to tell her to go up to the house when she leans toward me, her voice softer than a leaf sliding across the ground. “I’ll go get Connor and set the alarm. If I don’t hear from you in five minutes, we’ll start driving. If you don’t call or text by the time we reach Norton city limits, I’ll call the cops and head to Kez and Javi’s.”

It’s exactly what I was going to tell her to do. I don’t even have to say anything before Lanny is off, sneaking through the woods up the hill to our house. I watch until I’m satisfied she’s safe, then I start toward the dock.

I generally don’t arm myself when I go jogging. I haven’t found a holster that fits right without chafing or dragging down my clothes. I regret that choice right now.

As I approach the stranger, I keep my legs and arms loose and stay on my toes, ready to defend myself or run—whichever is necessary.

She’s dressed smartly, which is part of the reason she stood out. Most people around here dress for comfort, even more so in the winter, but not this woman. She’s wearing dark leggings and a wool tunic with ankle boots. A large cashmere scarf is wound around her neck. It’s a pretty outfit, but she’s probably freezing, especially given that the breeze tends to be stronger on the dock out over the water.

She senses my approach because she turns to face me before I have the chance to say anything. I recognize her instantly, and my stomach twists.

“Rowan.” What the hell is she doing in Stillhouse Lake? What’s she doing here, right next to my house?

The answer is obvious. She’s been waiting for me. The thought sends a chill through me. I wish again that I’d carried a gun with me while jogging or had at least cut through the woods to grab one from the house before approaching this woman.

I stop where I am at the edge of the dock. From everything I’ve learned about Rowan recently, she could be a serial killer, and I might be her next target. She doesn’t look like one, of course—they rarely do.

She looks me over, her expression remaining unchanged. If she hates me or is imagining my mutilated corpse, I can’t tell. The woman has one hell of a poker face.

“I know about the bones,” she says. No preamble, no small talk.

I blink, completely blindsided by the statement. “What bones?”

She smiles slightly as if amused by my feigned ignorance. Except my confusion isn’t feigned. “Melvin’s bones,” she says. “I know someone robbed his grave, and I know they’ve been leaving his bones at various crime scenes. Murders, mostly.”

As far as I’m aware, the police haven’t released that information. “None of that is public knowledge.”

“You think the police are the only ones able to dig up information and put the pieces together? Please.”

“Why are you here?”

“Research. I’m considering a second season of the podcast and wanted to see where you lived after fleeing Melvin Royal. I always wanted to figure out what it is about this place that made Sam turn against the Lost Angels. Stillhouse Lake is synonymous with Gina Royal and Gwen Proctor. I wanted to see it all for myself.”

I narrow my eyes. “What’s the real reason?”

That gets a genuine smile. “Sometimes, I forget how smart you are. Then again, you have to be to have bested Melvin.”

She swings a large purse off her shoulder and reaches inside. My mind screams gun, and I’m already pivoting to run when she pulls out a folder. She notices my scramble to bolt and tsks. “I’m not here to hurt you, Gwen. Not physically.”

“Then why are you here?”

She rolls her eyes. “If you’ll take the damn folder, I’ll show you.” She stalks closer and shoves it at me.

Unless she’s coated it with some sort of poison—unlikely since she’s handling it with bare hands—I can’t see any harm in taking it. I flip it open. Inside are dozens of pages, each a dossier of a different victim. I recognize most of the names: Cooper Kuntz, Salem Adams, Forrester Blakeny. All men I’d come across during Sicko Patrol. All men who sent me vile threats.

All men who ended up dead or missing, with one of Melvin’s bones found with them at the crime scenes.

I count ten murder victims in all, three more than I’d found on my own and passed along to the FBI. I stare back up at her, studying her. What kind of game is she playing?

“How did you get all this?”

“The Lost Angels tip line,” she says. “We’ve been running an ad for it at the end of the podcasts, inviting anyone with information to reach out. Most of what we’ve gotten is crap, but some of it turned out to be true.”

It’s a plausible explanation, though I’m not sure I buy it. I don’t trust anything Rowan says.

“You know what they all have in common other than Melvin’s bones being at the crime scenes?” she continues. “You. They’re all men who threatened you in some form or another. Now, they’re all missing or dead.”

It’s rich that she’s blaming me when she’s the most viable suspect. I wonder if this confrontation is somehow a part of her plan to set me up.

I close the folder. “I had nothing to do with these men’s deaths.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “For someone so innocent, a lot of people end up dying around you.”

“You know, there’s no such thing as a perfect murder. Whoever did this will get caught. I hope you have a good lawyer.”

She laughs, incredulous. “You think I’m involved?”

“I think someone is trying to set me and Sam up. You’ve made your hatred of us clear. You’d stop at nothing to get revenge, and it’s not going to work.”

She stalks closer, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t want you dead, Gwen. I want you miserable. Sam too. I want the world to hate you as much as I do. I want you to live a long life, and every minute of it I want you to suffer.”

Her words send chills down my spine. I remember looking into Melvin’s eyes after he’d been arrested and no longer felt the need to hide his true self from me. He carried so much hatred inside. It burned through him, just like it does in Rowan.

“And my kids?” I ask her. “Do they deserve to suffer too? Do you have any idea what your podcast has done to them? The kind of hate they’re getting online? It wasn’t enough for you to come for me and Sam in your podcast, but you came after my kids. You used their names. You made them targets.”

“Their father made them targets,” she spits.

I throw up my arms. “They didn’t get to choose who their parents were!”

She steps forward, finger pointing. “Yes, but you chose who you married. Who you had children with.”

“I didn’t know he was a murderer!” I shout. My hands clench into fists at my sides. I’m so tired of these fucking accusations. I’m surprised by the rage coursing through me. I force myself to take a step back and put distance between us.

“You know what I think, Gina?”

I bristle at her use of my old name. She’s doing it on purpose—refusing to acknowledge who I am now. I clench my teeth and say nothing.

Her eyes narrow. “I think you’re still Melvin’s Little Helper. I think you haven’t stopped killing. I think you have an enemies list and you’re working through it one by one, killing them all. And I think you leave one of Melvin’s bones behind as a calling card. As a sick way of honoring him.”

“If I had an enemies list, Rowan, you’d be at the top of it.”

“Is that a threat?”

I hear a car engine behind me and turn to see my SUV pulling out of the driveway and onto the street. Lanny is at the wheel, Conner in the passenger seat. I’ve forgotten to text them the all-clear and I kick myself for the panic I see etched on both my children’s faces. It only adds fuel to my anger.

I wave to indicate that everything is okay, then motion for them to pull over so I can hop into the car. Lanny drives half off the road, and I heave open the back passenger door. “Leave us alone, Rowan,” I call back to the woman. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

She laughs. “Why would I care about your lawyer? Don’t forget, truth is an absolute defense to a defamation claim. You can’t run from the truth, Gina!”

Her voice echoes behind me as I slam the door and tell my daughter to drive.

“Who was that?” Lanny asks. There’s a slight quaver to her voice, though she’s trying not to let it show—remnants of the adrenaline dump from having to grab Connor and run.

“Rowan Applegate,” Connor answers before I have a chance. “Sam’s sister Callie’s sister.”

“The woman from the podcast?” The sudden rage in my daughter’s voice makes me worried she might slam on the brakes and turn around to go after the woman. “What the hell is she doing here?”

“Probably wants to keep ruining our lives. It’s what the Lost Angels like to do,” Connor says. There’s a dullness to his voice. It almost sounds like exhausted complacency. It worries me. He’s been less animated lately. Less engaged. I worry that his scars from what happened in Gardenia last fall are more emotional than physical.

He’s become withdrawn, and I desperately want to find some sort of normalcy for him. Something for him to look forward to.

There’s so much I should be doing right now. There’s a potential serial killer out there targeting people who have been stalking me. I have to tell Sam, we have to figure out his alibis, we have to alert the FBI. We have to figure out what to do about Rowan. We have to record more of the podcast for Madison. We need to be figuring out who’s trying to set Sam up and why.

Then I think about what I told Lanny earlier about how we can’t let these things dictate our lives. That Melvin wins when we live in fear. If I want her to believe that, then I need to embrace the same philosophy.

“Why don’t we go ahead and head over to that barn we were going to check out?” I suggest. “We can stop in town and get a slice of cake at Kathy’s Kakes on the way home.”

Lanny’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Do I get to drive?”

I smile at her. “Absolutely.”

22

GWEN

The barn is positioned at the end of a narrow valley with a river cutting through the center of it. As we wend our way toward it, Connor brightens at the sight of several horses grazing in large paddocks. Kez’s father, Easy, was the one to recommend it. It doesn’t have a formal equine therapy program, but the owner still embraces the theory of healing through animals and nature.

I called ahead on our way here, and the owner is waiting for us by a small gravel parking lot. She introduces herself and takes Connor to meet several of the horses.

Lanny and I hang back, our earlier conversation hanging awkwardly between us. “I didn’t see Rowan on the dock,” I tell her.

She glances my way quizzically.

“I was so busy chasing after you, I didn’t notice her. But you did. You clocked her right away, and your gut told you she was a potential threat. You were right.”

She shrugs.

“And then when you saw her, you knew immediately to go to the house and get Connor. You reacted instantly to protect your brother and yourself.”

“It’s what you always taught us to do.”

“You did good, Lanny. Not just this time, but before too. I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

She nods. “Thanks.”

Her response is distant, and I can still see the stings from earlier. The owner of the barn offers Connor the chance to ride one of the horses. He eagerly accepts, and Lanny and I sit on a bench in the indoor arena as Connor tacks up a Paint mare and leads her into the ring.

It’s impossible not to notice the shift in Connor once he mounts the horse. His shoulders relax, his expression softens, and he handles the reins with quiet confidence. At one point, the Paint veers toward the center of the ring, and he gently corrects her. I can’t catch his exact words, but I can hear the way he murmurs to her, keeping up a constant stream of lilting conversation.

The horse snorts at something he says, and Connor laughs. I realize, then, how little he’s laughed lately. Our house used to be loud and rambunctious. The kids used to argue and make up. Lanny used to blare music, and at times I swore Connor could nearly bring the house down with the bass rumbling from his video games.

I think about what it will be like next year if Lanny goes away to college. And then, years down the line, when Connor leaves as well, and it’s just me and Sam and the emptiness.

I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. But as both of my kids have recently pointed out, they’re going to grow up with or without my permission. My job is to make sure they’re ready for whatever comes next.

Today, Lanny proved that she is.

“I cried when I found those acceptance letters,” I tell her.

She shifts as though physically withdrawing from the conversation. I put a hand on her leg to stop her. “I was so damn proud of you, Lanny. I am proud of you. To see all those colleges—some of the best in the country. Of course, they should want you. You’re amazing.”

Her mouth twitches in a smile, but she still doesn’t look at me. She’s watching Connor as he nudges the horse into a trot and then a canter.

“And yes, I cried at the thought of you going away to school. No parent is ever ready to let go of their kid. But mostly, I cried that you felt like you couldn’t share that with me. I think about what it was like when you got that first acceptance letter—the elation you must have felt—and I hate that I wasn’t there with you. I will always regret that.

“I wish I could tell you that I would have supported you one hundred percent, but I don’t know if that’s true. But I need you to know that I support you now. Absolutely and unequivocally.”

She reaches over and slips her fingers through mine, holding my hand tight. “Thank you, Mom.”

“Though you should know that New Haven has a terrible reputation when it comes to crime,” I add.

As I’d hoped, she laughs, some of the tension between us fracturing and splintering.

The moment is broken when my phone vibrates with an incoming call. I check the number. It’s Gutierrez. I wince. “I have to take this,” I tell Lanny. I’m already up and making my way toward the large double doors leading outside when I answer.

“This is Gwen,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and even despite my fluttering heart. I can’t imagine why he’d be calling and it has me worried.

“Ms. Proctor, hello,” says a familiar, deep voice. “This is Detective Gutierrez from the Knoxville PD. I heard about the incident at your house up near Norton with the SWAT team. I wanted to check in to see how you’re doing.”

As far as excuses go, it’s not a bad one. “We’re okay, thank you.”

“I didn’t realize you and Mr. Cade had left town.”

I can’t tell if he means for the statement to be accusatory, but I feel defensive, nevertheless. “No one told us we couldn’t.”

“Oh, you’re right. No formal charges have been filed. Though we do like to keep tabs on persons of interest when we can.”

I’m still bristling. “Get a court order, and we’ll be happy to keep you updated.”

He chuckles. “I hear that’s a beautiful area. How long you guys been up there?”

If he’s fishing, I’m not interested. “What can I do for you, Detective Gutierrez?”

I can hear the smile in his voice. It’s as if he appreciates my directness. “I’m hoping you might have a minute to answer a couple of questions for me.”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“I can’t answer that for you, Ms. Proctor. Are you requesting one?” If I tell him yes, that will be the end of the conversation, and I still won’t know why he’s calling. My gut is telling me this is information I should know.

“Not yet,” I tell him. “What’s your question?”

“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you where you were last night.”

I frown. This isn’t at all where I expected the conversation to go. I’m instantly suspicious. “Why? What happened last night?”

“Your house burned down.” He says it so bluntly it takes a minute for me to process and understand.

I blink, still not sure I heard him right. “Excuse me?”

“The house you were renting—where Leonard Varrus was murdered. A fire broke out a little before eleven last night. Burned it clean to the ground.”

I’m still so stunned by the news that I’m not sure what to say. “What? How?”

“Looks like arson.”

I lean against the outside wall of the barn. This doesn’t make any sense. “But why?”

Gutierrez clears his throat. “We were hoping maybe you could help with that.”

Now, I understand his earlier questions, including his interest in our having moved to Stillhouse Lake. “You think Sam or I had something to do with it.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Not necessarily. Though it would be a convenient way to dispose of evidence.”

“Except that you already cleared the scene,” I point out.

“Maybe we missed something. Now, we’ll never know.”

From his tone, it’s clear we’re serious suspects. “Sam and I were both home last night.”

“You got anyone who can back that up?” he asks.

“My kids.” Though the last thing I want to do is drag them into this.

“Anyone of legal age?” he clarifies.

“We had a detective on the Norton Police Department and her partner, a Marine reservist, over for dinner. They left around eleven. I was up by five. One of our neighbors can verify that.”

“Mr. Cade was with you?”

“The entire time.” That should be enough to clear us from the suspect list. “Now, if that’s all⁠—”

“I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that,” he says.

Irritation flashes through me. “Of course, it is. It always is,” I say dryly.

“The arson investigator says a timer was used on the incendiary device. I’m afraid I’ll need your whereabouts for more than just last night.”

I press my fingers to my forehead. I think about the hours Sam has spent away from home. The late night last week. Not that I think he had anything to do with this, but filling in the gaps of his whereabouts won’t be easy. “We’ll have to discuss that with our lawyer and get back to you on that.”

“We also found partial human remains.”

He says it so bluntly that it catches me completely off guard. “What?”

“Human remains,” he says again.

The words leave me speechless. I instantly think about my kids, but obviously, it can’t be either of them. They’re both in the barn. I saw Sam this morning, so clearly, they’re not his remains.

With a clawing panic, I think: Vee. She treated our house like her own. She had her own key, her own alarm code. She also had her own apartment, but that never stopped her from staying over half the time. She preferred the water pressure at our house.

I press my fingers to my eyes. What if the landlord still hadn’t changed the locks? Vee wouldn’t care that we’d been kicked off the lease. If the house was empty, she’d consider it an invitation to do whatever she wanted.

“Hold on,” I tell Gutierrez.

I lower the phone from my ear and immediately pull up Vee on my location app. She’s at the tattoo shop. Still, she could have just left her phone there after work. I text her.

Gwen

I need to know you’re okay.

Three dots appear, indicating she’s typing. I nearly collapse with relief.

Vee

Whatsup Ms P?

Gwen

Nothing. It’s okay.

Vee

Nice to know your paranoia hasn’t worn off;)

I return to the call with Gutierrez. “My family’s safe. Have you checked in with the landlord? Maybe he was there or already rented the place out?”

“I’m sorry, I can understand the confusion. You misunderstand. The remains aren’t recent,” he clarifies. “Whoever they belonged to has been dead for a while. The only thing left were bones.”

And then, suddenly, I know who the body must belong to: Melvin Royal.

“Melvin,” I say, my voice barely audible.

A shudder rolls through me. Was it possible his body was in the house while we were still living there? Surely not. Surely, it was left by whoever set the fire. I swallow the bile clawing at the back of my throat.

“We’ll run DNA to confirm, but that’s our working theory.” He pauses for a second. “You came to that conclusion awfully quickly. Took our lab a couple of hours to hunt down old prison X-rays. Care to explain how you figured it out so fast?”

Because it’s the only answer that makes sense. Who else could it be? This is a message. Just like the bones at the sickos’ murders.

This time, the message feels more personal. It’s not just a bone, but most of Melvin’s entire fucking body.

“You found one of Melvin’s bones on Varrus, didn’t you?” His death has to be connected. There’s no way it’s not.

If he’s surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it. “We did. Shoved down his throat. Likely before he died, according to the autopsy report.”

I press a hand to my neck, trying not to imagine what that must have been like for him. He may have been a despicable man at the end of his life, but that doesn’t mean he should have been tortured before being killed.

“And I’m guessing you already know about the other murders too, Detective.” There’s no way they wouldn’t have connected all the dots. Not once they realized it was Melvin’s remains in the house. That would have flagged the FBI, and their involvement would have pulled all the pieces together.

“You know someone has been using Melvin’s bones as calling cards,” I continue. “It’s the same thing here.”

“Or it’s where you and Sam stashed the body.”

I laugh incredulously. “You were at our house the night of the murder. You had a warrant. You tore the place apart. If Melvin’s bones had been there, you’d have found them.”

“Unless you hid them well.”

I shake my head. How in the hell am I supposed to prove a negative? “Let me be exceedingly clear, Detective. I despise my ex-husband with every fiber of my being. I was the one to put a bullet in his head, and I’d do it again without hesitation. That man ruined my life, my kids’ lives, his victims’ lives, and their families’ lives. He’s a monster. I won’t even allow a photo of him in my house, much less his fucking dead body!”

I’m nearly shouting by the end, and I heave in a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. People in authority don’t tend to take kindly to angry women, especially those who yell. Even if what they’re yelling about is the truth.

“I understand your position, Ms. Proctor, I really do. But we have to follow the evidence. If you want to help yourself out, I’ll need you to go ahead and send me your alibis for your time since leaving town. It would be helpful if you could get Mr. Cade to do the same.”

I swallow a curse. I’ve really been hoping the FBI would take over the case before the locals could dig their teeth in. I need to buy us time. “Like I said, I’ll have to discuss that with my lawyer.”

“Ms. Proctor, I know you may not believe me, but the system works more often than it doesn’t. If you truly have nothing to do with this, then cooperating will only clear you that much faster.”

I appreciate what Gutierrez is saying, and I really do think his heart is in the right place. But he’s incredibly ignorant if he actually believes that. The criminal justice system was built to benefit some individuals over others, and it does an excellent job of reinforcing those delineations. “Tell that to all the wrongfully convicted sitting in jail cells.”

“You don’t have to protect him, you know,” Gutierrez says. His voice has softened.

I frown. “Protect who?”

“Sam. I know he’s your partner, and I’m sure you love him, but you already made that mistake once, Ms. Proctor.”

The audacity of this man! Rage ignites inside me. “I’m not protecting anyone. I’m telling the truth,” I bite out. “And the longer you focus on Sam, the farther behind you’re getting in finding the real killer. More people will die because of that. You understand?”

“Is that a threat?”

The question leaves me speechless. I don’t even bother to say goodbye before hanging up. I miss the old days when I could have slammed the receiver down. Instead, I ball my hands into fists and growl.

“Mom?”

I spin to find Lanny standing there. She’s got her arms wrapped around herself like she’s fending off the cold. Which makes me think she’s been out here for a while. I try to replay the conversation in my head to figure out how much she may have heard.

“Are you in trouble?” she asks. Not half an hour ago, I was marveling at how quickly my daughter was growing up. How capable she was becoming. Now, I’m reminded that, in some ways, she’s still a kid.

“No,” I tell her.

“Is Sam?”

There’s a split second of hesitation before I give the same answer.

She presses her lips together. I can see her thoughts warring. She wants to believe me, just like she wanted to believe that Santa was real, and the Easter Bunny left candy every year. But some part of her knows it’s more complicated.

She’s debating whether to ask more. I don’t realize I’m shaking my head until I see her shift, taking a slight step back. “Okay. Well, Connor’s finished. They’re just talking through his work schedule now. He asked me to come get you since someone will have to drive him to his shifts until he gets his license.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I tell her. I need a moment to compose myself and let the adrenaline make its way through my system.

She starts back inside but hesitates at the door. “It’s going to be okay, isn’t it, Mom?”

She’s talking about Sam and what she overheard. I plaster my most reassuring smile on my face. “Yes.” I say it with as much conviction as possible. How many years have I done this—kept the worst from them? Maybe it was the right thing to do then, but I’m not so sure it is anymore.

Not if Lanny will be out on her own soon. She deserves the truth—or at least the best truth I can give her. “Actually, honey, I don’t know,” I amend.

She recognizes the shift—that I’m letting her see more than before. “Oh.”

“But we’re going to fight like hell, just like we always do,” I assure her.

She gives me a whisper of a smile and nods. Then, she disappears into the barn.

I stay outside, tucking my hands under my arms against the cold. The afternoon sky is fading, the shadows across the valley shifting and lengthening. I mentally run through our every move since coming to Stillhouse Lake. All the days Sam was up early and home late. I hate that this is where my thoughts lead me, wondering if it’s possible that one of those days he could have snuck down to Knoxville.

And what? Planted what amounts to a bomb in our old rental? Then left Melvin’s body there as evidence?

It’s beyond preposterous.

So, why did I hesitate earlier when Lanny asked about Sam? Why does my stomach twist anytime more information about the various crimes comes to light? Why does it feel like I’m walking around, waiting for a bomb to drop?

Because someone is setting Sam up.

But what if they’re not? What if it’s really him?

I’d be an idiot not to consider the possibility. Only someone who lacks conviction in the strength of their own argument refuses to hear the opposition.

It’s not just the flights that match up to the Sicko Patrol murders, it’s the secrecy. He planned to meet with Leo and didn’t tell me. He lied to me about that. What else might he have lied about?

What will you do if it is him?

That’s the question that truly terrifies me, because I don’t know.

What I do know is that it’s time Sam and I talked and laid our cards on the table.

23

GWEN

That night, I wait until the kids are in their rooms after dinner, then suggest to Sam that we take a walk. Despite the fact that it’s winter and dark outside, he doesn’t protest. He knows me well enough to recognize that I have something important on my mind—something I don’t want the kids to overhear.

We grab our coats, and Sam follows me out the door. We walk in silence down the driveway to the lake. It’s not far to the road, and beyond it, the small gravel parking lot and the rickety old dock.

The same one Rowan stood on this morning. Though that’s also something I haven’t mentioned to Sam yet. There are so many secrets still between us. I’m hoping to put an end to that tonight.

I stop at the edge of the dock, staring down its length to the lake beyond. The water stretches out and around us like liquid darkness. “They found shards of Melvin’s bones in the other Sicko Patrol victims,” I tell him.

He nods slowly, taking the information in. “That means there’s a serial killer out there.”

I turn and face him, crossing my arms. “They found a bone in Leo Varrus’s throat as well.”

This time, his eyes go wide. He places his hands on his head and begins to pace.

“It ties his death to the others. And since you’re their lead suspect for Leo’s murder…”

I don’t have to finish the statement. He understands the implications.

“They think I’m a serial killer.”

“It’s worse than that,” I tell him.

He lets out a bark of a laugh. “Worse?”

“You don’t have alibis for the dates of the sickos’ murders.” I study his reaction, trying to discern whether his surprise is genuine.

How has it come to this? That I could consider my partner capable of something like this.

Easy, a small voice whispers. It’s happened before. You’ve been blindsided by those closest to you in the past.

He frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“Kez was the one to figure it out. She called the police departments involved with the Sicko Patrol murders and asked if they’d found a bone at the crime scene. As soon as she confirmed the links between the victims, she knew it was only a matter of time before the FBI made the same connection. Once they did, suspicion would naturally fall on us. I knew we’d have to clear our names fast because, once authorities get a suspect, they stop looking for others and only look for evidence to prove their theory right.”

“Confirmation bias,” Sam says.

I nod. “My alibis were easy. Yours…weren’t.”

“How so?” He seems genuinely curious, as if he isn’t already aware what the answer is. Which is a point in favor of his innocence.

“You were out of town for every murder,” I tell him carefully, eyeing his reaction.

He frowns. “So? I’m a pilot. When I’m on the schedule, I’m out of town half the days of the week, if not more.”

I look out toward the lake again. The night is still, and the surface is flat, a reflection of the dark sky above. It’s almost dizzying, like standing on the edge of an abyss. One step and I’d fall into emptiness.

I want to believe he isn’t that good of an actor, but I can’t. I know from experience how convincing he can be. When we first met, he convinced me he was a normal guy, a bachelor writer living next door, whose only interest in me was earning a few bucks by fixing my roof.

I bought into his story completely.

So, what I’d really like to believe—what I need to believe—is that he wouldn’t pull an act around me again.

“All of your destinations matched up with the murders,” I tell him. “According to your flight schedule, you were within an hour’s drive of every single one.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in. “How is that even possible?”

“I don’t know.” I’m still staring at the water, wondering how many secrets it holds. How many conversations has it been privy to?

“That doesn’t explain why you didn’t come to me when you learned about all of this.”

I don’t have a good answer.

He turns to face me. “Unless you think I had something to do with it?”

My response is immediate. “Of course I don’t.”

He senses my hesitation. “But?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Leo? We said no more secrets.” My voice has risen and is edged with pain and accusation.

“You’ve kept secrets too, Gwen,” he says softly.

“Not like that,” I argue.

“Why are you really upset? Is it because I didn’t tell you I was going to meet Leo? Or because you think I killed him.”

I wrap my arms around my middle. “I think you would have killed him if given the chance,” I admit. “But I don’t think you’re the one who murdered him. You’d never be that cruel. And you’d never do it in our house. Especially with all that blood. You know firsthand what a bitch that would be to clean.”

As I’d hoped, a smile twitches the corner of his mouth.

It fades the moment I say, “Someone burned down our rental house in Knoxville.”

He staggers back a step. “What? When? And you’re just mentioning this now?”

“They found Melvin’s body in the wreckage. The rest of his skeleton.”

He runs his hand through his hair, taking that in. “He always did want to be cremated,” he notes.

I snicker. “Unfortunately for him, the fire didn’t burn hot enough for that. He’s still just a pile of bones. Next time, I plan to bury him in an unmarked grave. No anonymous number, nothing. Or maybe we should take a cruise, and I’ll dump his remains overboard. I going to make damn sure no one ever finds him again.”

He chuckles, and for a moment, we stand in silence.

“I’m scared, Sam,” I tell him.

His hand bridges the distance between us, his fingers wrapping around mine. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you or the kids.”

“But what if something happens to you?” I ask. “Whoever’s doing this is going after my enemies. For all I know, you could be on that list. What if he comes for you next?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

I want to believe him, but that small voice in the back of my head just keeps asking: How can he know that for sure unless he’s the one behind the murders?

Later that night, I lie in bed awake, staring at the ceiling. Sam sleeps beside me, his breaths coming in soft snores. It’s too dark in the room to see his profile, but I don’t need light to remember every minute detail of it. The peppering of scars along his temple, the old cut through his eyebrow, the small bump on the bridge of his nose.

I know this man.

He’s not a monster.

But then a tiny voice keeps whispering that I lived with Melvin Royal for over a decade without suspecting he was capable of evil.

I know what kind of man Sam is, I remind myself. He’s a soldier, someone who volunteered to fight for his country. A pilot, good under pressure. A partner who knows me in every way, who accepts my faults and neuroses. A father who adopted my kids—our kids.

He’s also one of the founders of the Lost Angels. He’s a man who was once so consumed with grief and rage that he tracked you across the country. He is a man capable of violence.

Madison asked if he’d killed anyone. I played it off, but the truth is, he has, and he did it to defend our family. When crazed, zealous cultists kidnapped Connor, Sam got taken along with him. It was a battle to get both of them back, and there’s no question Sam ended up with blood on his hands.

You said it before, Sam would do anything to protect his family.

Madison’s words haunt me. They’re true. He would. He has.

As much as I scream in my head over and over again that he wouldn’t do this, there’s the tiniest, most infinitesimal sliver of doubt. It’s the lack of an alibi. It’s the fact that he didn’t tell me about Leo reaching out to meet and that he tried to handle that all on his own.

Would he have ever told me?

If I’m being honest with myself, what would Sam have done if the meeting with Leo had taken place? If Leo had shown up at their agreed location? I already know Sam took his gun with him; they found it when they patted him down. I’d like to believe Sam never would have resorted to violence, but Varrus attempted to ruin his life.

Leo not only set Sam up for a murder he didn’t commit, he taunted him about it afterward. It horrified and enraged Sam. Can I say with one hundred percent certainty that Varrus couldn’t have provoked Sam to drawing his gun and pulling the trigger?

No. Of course not.

But Sam wouldn’t have taken Leo to our house and murdered him there. He wouldn’t have brought that kind of spotlight and scrutiny into our lives.

Sam had been the one to clean the Stillhouse Lake house after Leo poured blood all over it. He was keenly aware of how difficult it is to clean up a crime scene. He wouldn’t have put himself through that again. That may sound petty, but it’s true.

I shake my head, furious that I’m even having this debate with myself. There’s no debate to be had. I know Sam.

But you knew Melvin too, that small voice reminds me. At least I thought I did. And while I had no idea what he was doing out in that garage, I did know something was off about him. I knew he liked to choke me during sex. He liked the fear in my eyes as I fell unconscious.

He liked violence.

And I chose to ignore it.

Maybe Rowan had a point when she said I’m complicit because I allowed myself to remain willfully ignorant. I didn’t like the part of Melvin that liked rough sex. It scared me. It shamed me. I didn’t want to think about it, or dwell on it, or contemplate what it might mean outside of the bedroom.

I didn’t want to ask what it said about Melvin as a human being because I didn’t want to know the answer. Some part of me knew that the answer would destroy my entire life.

As it did when that driver struck our garage.

At the end of the day, I can’t ignore that there’s a common denominator between Sam and Melvin: me. What if the problem is me? What if I’m incapable of seeing the truth about the men in my life? Hell, even with my own son last year, I had no idea he was spending so much time on the Melvin Royal message boards.

I’d want to laugh at the irony if it didn’t also make me want to cry. In my work for J.B., one of my specialties is vetting corporate bigwigs. My job is to ignore the bland banker exterior and dig deep until I find the weakness that some foreign government or corrupt official or greedy billionaire will exploit. I literally unearth secrets for a living.

I just can’t seem to do the same with my own family.

I stare at my reflection in the window over the sink. It’s a gray day outside, making me appear as little more than a blur. How would it ever be possible for the two loves of my life to have both been arrested for murder?

Sam isn’t a murderer. He’s not the one behind all of this.

But then, who is?

The next morning, a teaser for the upcoming episode of The Royal Murders drops. I’m in my office alone. Sam has already left for a job, and both kids are still in bed. Even so, I listen with my headphones on the off chance it includes another snippet from Melvin. I can’t stand the idea of that man’s voice filling the rooms of my house.

Instead, it’s Rowan Applegate’s voice I hear.

As many listeners are aware, when we released the first episode of The Royal Murders, we had the entire podcast recorded and ready to go. However, as we’ve been airing episodes, we’ve been getting feedback—a lot of it—and many of you have had questions, thoughts, and even tips that have led us in some very interesting directions. In short: there’s a whole lot more to this story than we first realized. In fact, we’ve only been scratching the tip of the iceberg.

To that end, while we plan to continue airing the original episodes, we’ve decided to also start adding bonus episodes to explore this new information. Trust me, you won’t want to miss it.

First up: it looks like there’s a new serial killer out there. You won’t have heard of him yet—the FBI hasn’t released any information. But if you know where to look, you can see a pattern emerging.

Cooper Kuntz. Salem Adams. Forrester Blakeny. Devin Pedowitz. Names of guys you’ve probably never heard of. What do they have in common? They all crossed Gina Royal in one way or another. Every one of them wished Gina Royal dead.

They didn’t get their wish. Instead, they were the ones to die. And they weren’t the only ones. Two others who posted threats against Gwen on a Melvin Royal message board have gone missing and are presumed dead. Leo Varrus, whose own daughter was one of Melvin Royal’s victims and who was a known critic of Gina’s, was found murdered in Gina Royal’s living room.

You heard that right: a man was murdered in Gina’s own house.

You seeing the pattern here?

All of them enemies of Gina Royal. All of them dead.

Think that’s a coincidence?

Well, I asked the woman herself about it. “I think you have an enemies list and you’ve been working through them one by one, killing them all.”

“If I had an enemies list, Rowan, you’d be at the top of it.”

Straight from the mouth of Gina Royal.

I guess if something happens to me, you all know who the prime suspect is.

Listen to our first bonus episode of The Royal Murders when it airs on Tuesday to learn more.

My heart pounds in my ears. Anger flushes my cheeks while my stomach churns.

That line: “If I had an enemies list, Rowan, you’d be at the top of it.” That had been me from the dock the day before. I sound angry and threatening. I sound like the kind of woman who might kill her enemies.

I yank the earbuds free and throw them on my desk. Rowan set me up. She wanted to needle me and get some sort of response she could use in her podcast. She knew exactly what to say to get me to talk.

And I fell for it.

I call Sam, needing to vent, but it goes straight to voicemail. Damnit.

I shake my head. How did she even know where to find me? I mean, locating my address in Stillhouse Lake wouldn’t be that difficult. Property records are public information. But how did she know she would find me then? She didn’t look like a woman who’d been waiting outside in the cold for a long time on the off chance I might come jogging by.

“Madison.” I spit her name like a curse. She has a prime view of my house. She could have told Rowan how and where to find me. What if they’re still working together? What if her entire approach with me has been a ruse?

I push to my feet and storm through the house. Lanny’s in the kitchen, standing barefoot in pajama bottoms and one of my old T-shirts as she waits for the coffee maker. She must have gotten up while I was listening to the podcast teaser, which is why I didn’t hear her.

She looks at me sleepily and notices my agitation. “Everything okay?”

I sidestep the question. “I’m going next door for a minute to talk to Madison about something. Connor’s still asleep. Will you be okay here alone?”

She rolls her eyes. “We’ll be fine, Mom.”

Still, I make sure to arm the alarm before leaving. Then I stomp up the hill toward Madison’s rental, my fists clenched. I pound on the door angrily, not stopping until it opens.

Madison stands on the threshold, eyes wide with alarm. “Gwen, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Did you know she would be here?” I demand.

She frowns at me, confused. “Who?”

“Rowan Applegate. She’s in Stillhouse Lake. She ambushed me on my run yesterday. She knew exactly where to find me and when, as if someone had been keeping tabs on me for her.”

“Rowan’s here?”

I cross my arms. “Have you been spying on me for her?”

She shakes her head. “No. I wouldn’t do that to you. I swear,” she protests. “I wouldn’t betray you like that.”

Her cheeks are slightly flushed, her eyes bright. She appears genuinely confused and upset. She’s so good at coming across as earnest. The question is: Can I trust her?

My gut tells me she’s telling the truth. But my brain still isn’t convinced.

She must sense my hesitation. “Gwen, I promise you. I’m not working with Rowan.”

I say nothing, still unsure.

“You said she ambushed you,” she presses. “What happened?”

I still have the podcast teaser queued up on my phone, so I hold it out and press play. Rowan’s voice comes out tinny and small. I clench my teeth as she talks, rage pouring through me all over again.

Madison’s lips part in shock as she listens. “Gosh, Gwen. Is all of that true? Is someone attacking your enemies?”

“You mean, am I attacking my enemies?”

She rolls her eyes, and for a split second, I’m reminded of Lanny doing the same in my kitchen earlier when I asked if she’d be okay home alone. “I know it’s not you, Gwen,” she says, her tone of voice the same as my daughter’s, as if she can’t believe I’d even ask the question.

“You’re probably the only one.”

She clears her throat and glances out at the lake. “Is Sam…I mean, I know he’s a person of interest in the Varrus case. And if that’s connected to the others…have they taken him in for questioning?” She asks the question hesitantly, clearly remembering that her accusations against Sam caused me to storm out earlier.

“No,” I say curtly. “He didn’t do this.”

She’s smart enough not to press the issue. “Do they have any other suspects?”

I shake my head. “That’s why I want you to tell me everything you know about Rowan.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “You think she might be behind this?”

“I think she’s one of a long line of Lost Angels who would do anything to take me down—either directly or indirectly through Sam.”

She blows out a breath. “Okay. You want to come inside?”

I look toward my house. “No thanks. I’m still riled up from the podcast. The cool air helps.” Which isn’t a lie. But the truth is that I still don’t trust Madison completely and am not interested in being trapped in a house with her. Especially since I stormed up here before grabbing a firearm. Plus, I have a better view of my house from out here, which makes it easier to keep tabs on Lanny and Connor.

She nods and steps out onto the porch, closing the door behind her. I note that she seems to have finally gotten the memo about how to dress for winter in the mountains. She’s wearing black, lined canvas pants and a black wool turtleneck. Her hair is held back by a black fleece headband, and I notice a leaf stuck in her braid.

She thinks for a moment before saying, “Rowan can be a bit⁠—”

While she struggles to find the right word, plenty come to my mind: difficult, horrible, vindictive, sociopathic. I decide it’s probably best if I don’t share any of those.

“She’s still grieving,” she finally says. “I think it’s the main driving force in her life these days.”

A familiar guilt eases into my heart. Rowan may be an enemy, but it’s rooted in a brutal loss caused by my ex-husband. While I can’t understand how she would allow herself to turn that pain into violence, I can still understand and empathize with the underlying sorrow.

“Melvin took her sister from her,” I say. “I’m not sure you ever get over something like that.” I think of what I would do if something happened to Sam or one of my kids. I would burn the world down. “Do you know Rowan well?”

“As well as anyone does, I guess. She tends to keep to herself. She’s ridiculously protective of her private life. I once saw a picture in the paper of her with her daughter at the farmer’s market and remarked how much they looked alike. She unloaded on me about how she wanted her kids to be kept out of the public eye and that she should sue the paper for printing her likeness without permission.”

She sounds like a terrible person to work for. “Does she have a temper?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t even hesitate before answering.

“Enough of one that she’s capable of murder?” I ask.

Madison stares out at the lake for a moment, thinking. Then she lifts a shoulder. “We’re all capable of murder, don’t you think? It’s just a matter of finding the right buttons.”

24

GWEN

I’m standing in the kitchen, making my fourth cup of coffee for the morning and thinking about my conversation with Madison. Before I left, she asked me if I was glad all those men were dead—the ones that threatened me and my family.

I told her no and left it at that. But I still can’t get the question out of my head. I certainly haven’t felt any remorse at their death. If anything, knowing they’re gone is a huge relief. It means fewer threats against us.

But that answer leaves me unsettled. I don’t want to be the type of person who feels so little about the death of another human being. Isn’t that who Melvin Royal was at his core: someone who fully and completely devalued others’ existence?

I remember reading an article once where a professor of sociology explained that one of the first steps in any genocide is denying a population their humanity. You compare them to animals and vilify them. If you don’t see your adversary as a person, it’s easier to eradicate them.

No one could really argue that any of those murdered sickos were upstanding citizens. They were mean, small-minded, and perfectly willing to make my life a living hell. But it isn’t right to deny their humanity. If anything, I’m willing to bet their ugliness was actually borne of pain and abuse.

Melvin thought of his victims as walking meat for him to use. They were objects. Most people just take up space anyway, he’d once said. That’s what allowed him to murder them so viciously.

I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to think like him.

Lanny interrupts my thoughts before I can form any conclusions. “Mom?” she asks, shuffling into the kitchen. Her voice cracks, and I instantly forget about everything else and focus on her.

She stands barefoot in the doorway, still wearing her PJ pants and an old hoodie. Her eyes are red and puffy, like she’s been crying.

“I need to borrow the car.” She shifts from foot to foot with a sense of urgency.

I immediately straighten. Something’s clearly happened. “What’s going on?”

She bites her lower lip, hesitating.

That she doesn’t want to tell me is obvious. My first instinct is to pry, but I remind myself that I’m trying to change old habits. This is one of those moments I knew would come eventually—when I would have to let go and trust Lanny. But damn, it’s hard.

I blow out a breath. We have to start somewhere. I figure my best bet is to be honest with her. “I know you want me to trust you right now, Lanny, and give you the car keys without asking any questions. I get that. I really do. But please understand why that’s hard for me to do. You’re upset. Something’s wrong. And that makes me worry you might not be in the best frame of mind to be making levelheaded decisions.”

Tears gather at the corners of her eyes as she senses that I’m not letting her take the car. I hold up a hand.

“I promised you I would give you more independence, and I will. You can have the keys. All I ask in return is for you to take a second and really think about whether this is something you should be dealing with on your own or if you can let me help.”

I hold my breath, waiting and hoping she makes the right decision.

“It’s Florida Belldene. Something happened at their house—a fire or something like that. She said the police are there and the DEA, and all hell is breaking loose. She wants me to come get her.”

I swallow down the urge to wave my hands and shout: You were going to the fucking Belldene compound on your own during what sounds like a potential drug raid and abscond with one of their kids? Are you mad?!

Instead, I clear my throat and say as calmly as possible, “That sounds like a lot.”

Her lower lip trembles. “She needs my help, Mom. I’m the only one she trusts.” There’s an urgent desperation in her voice.

“I didn’t realize you and Florida were that close.”

Her cheeks flush. “Yeah, um... When I was down here with Sam last fall, we hung out. And we’ve sort of kept up with each other since. You know. Online and stuff.”

Suddenly, I put two and two together. “Sunshine state of mind,” I say. “Florida.”

Her eyes go wide and fill with panic. “Shit. You know about my Insta account? I know you’re against it, and I’m sorry. It’s just that⁠—”

I wave a hand. “Let’s not worry about that right now.” I stand. “I assume you’re okay if I drive?”

Lanny looks at me with wide eyes. “Really? You’ll take me?”

“Of course, I’m going to help you when you need it. That’s the way this trust thing works.”

She launches herself at me, grabbing me in a huge hug. “Thank you, Mom.”

I hold her for a moment, squeezing her tightly, grateful that she trusted me enough to ask for help and hoping like hell I don’t regret giving it to her.

While she runs to get dressed, I stop by Connor’s room. He’s still asleep. I consider waking him and making him come with us but then reconsider. It’s probably safer for him to stay here, and at fifteen, it’s not like he’s not used to being home alone.

I text him, letting him know Lanny and I are out and will be back in about an hour. Knowing him, we’ll be back before he’s even up.

Next, I swing by my bedroom, pulling on my shoulder holster, and grabbing my firearm from the lockbox in the bedside table. I try calling Sam, but it rolls to voicemail. With a growl of frustration, I check the location app. His phone is offline. Again.

I squeeze my eyes closed and curse under my breath. Where the hell is he?

I dash off a quick text.

Gwen

Where are you?? Call me!!

We’re in the car less than five minutes later, headed into the mountains. The Belldenes own a significant amount of land, and it’s all crisscrossed with dirt roads and paths that don’t show on any map. Florida texts Lanny directions to a small clearing deep in the woods by a stream. As we drive deeper and deeper into the forest, a part of me wonders if I’m heading into a trap.

“You sure you trust Florida?” I ask Lanny. “You know how much her family hates ours. They could have put her up to this.”

She shakes her head vehemently. “She’s not like them. That’s one reason we get along so well. We’re both judged based on the criminals in our family.”

I swallow down the ache her answer causes in my chest.

Lanny looks out the window, her arms tightly crossed. “She’s the one who encouraged me to apply to all those schools. I didn’t think I even had a shot of getting in, but she did.”

And, just like that, any hesitation I had about Florida Belldene is gone.

I take a sharp turn onto a deeply rutted road barely wide enough to fit the SUV. As we bump over water breaks, I glance toward my daughter. “So, I guess it hasn’t been all bad moving back to Stillhouse Lake, huh?”

A small grin tugs at the corner of her mouth. “No.”

I keep an eagle eye out as we approach the designated meeting place. Florida’s standing by a copse of trees at the edge of the clearing. When she sees us coming, she races toward us. Lanny launches out of the car before I’ve even fully stopped.

The two collide in a fierce hug.

Lanny presses her hand against Florida’s cheek. “You okay?”

Florida nods, her eyes glistening with tears. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Of course, I came,” she says simply. “You needed my help.”

That right there tells me so much about who my daughter is now and the woman she’s becoming. When someone needs help, she gives it. She’s generous and kind. The very opposite of her father. And I know right then that she’s escaped any reach he may have had.

The two of them clamber into the back seat, and I make a quick three-point turn before heading out in the direction we came.

“Thank you, Mrs. Proctor,” Florida says. “It’s a madhouse back at the compound. I don’t know what started it, but a fire broke out in one of the outbuildings, and Daddy and them tried puttin’ it out on their own but it was too much. Some of the trees caught, and then the Fire Department came. Feds were right on their tail. Everyone ran, and I got scared.”

I glance in the rearview mirror and note how tightly the two hold each other’s hands.

“Do your parents know where you are?”

She chews her lower lip. “No, ma’am. Not exactly.”

“Don’t you think they might be worried about you?”

She lets out a small laugh. “They’d probably be more worried to know I was with you, honestly. They’re not big fans of yours.”

“I gathered,” I say dryly.

“I overheard one of my cousins saying he thinks you might have been the one to set the fire and call in the raid.”

Awesome. Another reason for the Belldenes to hate me even more. That’s just what I need: another target on our backs. “Do we need to be worried?”

“Were you the ones to call the feds?”

“No. But when has the truth ever mattered?”

She shakes her head, her strawberry-blond ponytail falling over her shoulder. “They won’t do anything to hurt you so long as I’m around. They know better.”

I hope she’s right.

Sam calls shortly before dinner. “I got your message, what’s up?”

I’ve spent the day irritated as hell and I don’t do much to hide it. “Where have you been? I sent that text hours ago.”

“I’m at Joe’s house—he’s that veteran out on the other side of the mountain. I told you I’d be out of pocket with this job. The cell reception is shitty out here.”

I run a hand down my face. I vaguely remember him telling me that, but still, it doesn’t do much to lessen my frustration. “Are you on your way home?”

“That’s why I was calling. Some of the bolts I picked up for the toilet don’t fit, so I have to swing by a neighbor’s to root through his barn and see if he has something that might work. I promised Joe I’d have this thing installed tonight, and I really don’t want to have to come all the way out here tomorrow if I can avoid it.”

I let out a sigh. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you when you get home.”

I try to spend the evening focused on the kids. After dinner, the three of us watch a movie together on the couch, and as much as I try to enjoy the quiet calmness of the evening and pay attention to the plot, I can’t. Every sense is trained on the door, waiting for the sound of Sam’s tires crunching up the driveway.

It isn’t until the kids have gone to bed, and I’ve tried picking up a book only to reread the same page over and over again, that he returns. I check the time. It’s after midnight. I go to greet him and pull up short at the sight of him.

He’s covered in mud. His pants are soaked up to the knees, and flecks of dirt are splattered up his jacket and across his cheeks. They blend with the faded bruises that still ring one eye from his encounter with the police.

“What the hell happened?” I ask.

He startles at the question as if surprised to see me. He glances past me, noting that the kids aren’t around. “Gwen, I figured you’d be in bed.”

“I stayed up to wait for you. I was worried.”

He wipes at his face with the back of his arm, only managing to smear the mud more. I notice how exhausted he looks—the bags under his eyes, the shadowed hollows of his cheeks. “Sorry. You didn’t need to do that. Everything’s fine.”

I cross my arms and crook an eyebrow at the obvious understatement. “It doesn’t look fine.”

“I had a flat,” he says. “There was debris on one of the back roads and I got a nail in my tire when I tried to drive around it.”

There’s more than just a flat tire that’s weighing on him. “Are you okay?”

He shucks off his jacket and toes off his muddy boots, leaving both by the door. “I’m just tired. I feel like the past several years have been spent lurching from one crisis to another. My sister’s death, Melvin’s trial, Lancel Graham, Miranda Tidewell, Father Tom and the Assembly of Saints, Jonathan Watson, Leo Varrus. I’m ready for it to end. I’m ready to turn the page and start a fresh chapter—preferably one that’s in a rom-com rather than a thriller.” He attempts a smile.

I laugh, and the tension around his eyes eases somewhat. “How about you?” he asks. “How was your day?”

How in the world am I supposed to tell him that I spent a large part of it reminding myself that he’s not a serial killer like my ex-husband?

“Fine,” I tell him. I wince when I realize I sound like Connor.

“Actually, it wasn’t fine,” I amend. “It was pretty terrible. Rowan released a teaser for her next episode, where she basically accuses me of being a serial killer. I confronted Madison about it, thinking she might have double-crossed me and be back working with Rowan. She professed her innocence, though she did ask whether the cops had paid us a visit to talk to you.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but I hold up a hand to keep him from interrupting.

“Then, apparently, there was a fire at the Belldene compound that turned into some sort of massive raid by the feds. Lanny asked me to help her rescue Florida—they’re an item, by the way. Have been for a while. Florida’s staying with us for now—she’s on an air mattress on the floor in Lanny’s room. There’s a manhunt for the rest of her family, and I’ve already called Claudia to see if she or another lawyer in her office can represent Florida.

“So, yeah. My day was fine.”

He blinks at me, then sinks onto the couch. “Damn. I missed a lot.”

I laugh. “Yeah, you missed a lot.”

He considers everything I told him for a moment. “The Belldenes, huh? Guess that should take them out of commission for a while. Maybe distract them from coming after us. So that’s good.”

“For now. Apparently, there’s a rumor that we’re the ones who tipped off the authorities and caused the raid.”

He lets his head fall onto the back of the couch. “Shit.”

I nod. “Exactly.” I frown at him, remembering his rage the night of the swatting and his pledge to find a way to put an end to the Belldenes threatening us. “We’re not the ones who tipped off the authorities, right?”

His eyebrows raise. “You think I called the feds on the Belldenes?”

I lift a shoulder. “Maybe.”

“That doesn’t bode well for my defense against all the Sicko Patrol murders if I can’t even convince my own partner of my innocence.”

I notice he doesn’t deny it. I decide not to pry. Maybe there are some things I don’t want to know.

25

GWEN

The next morning, Sam’s in the shower and I’m at work in my office when there’s a brisk knock on the door. I grab my phone to pull up the security feed and notice I have a missed call from Kez. I make a note to call her back and check the doorbell camera.

It’s two Norton police officers—one uniformed and one wearing khakis and a blazer. I recognize the latter: Detective Andreas Diakos. He replaced Prester after he passed away, and Kez has always had good things to say about him. Apparently, he’s eager and smart but also has integrity and a sense of fairness.

Because Kez recused herself, Diakos was the one to take the lead and interrogate Sam after they discovered all the blood in our house several months ago. I’d met him a couple of times during the investigation. He’d always been perfectly pleasant, but it’s hard not to be wary of a man who was on the verge of accusing your partner of murder.

I hesitate, wondering if maybe they’re here about the swatting incident the other night. The uniformed officer knocks again, a little louder. I glance at the closed doors to Lanny’s and Connor’s rooms. The last thing I want is for the police to wake them up. Especially Connor—I’m still not sure if he’s fully recovered from the swatting.

I move to quickly disarm the alarm, throw the locks, and open the door.

Diakos’s smile is instantaneous. “Ms. Proctor, lovely to see you again.” He’s young, his hair thick and dark, and he has a dimple that pops when he grins. He’s so disarming that I have to remind myself to keep my guard up.

“Detective Diakos, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I’m sorry for dropping by unannounced. Do you have a moment to talk?”

It’s cold outside, and the neighborly thing to do would be to invite them in for coffee. I’m not feeling particularly neighborly this morning, though. So, I grab my coat from the hook on the wall and slip outside. “What’s this about?”

The young officer looks toward the lake, and I follow his gaze.

I’m struck with such an overwhelming sense of déjà vu that I nearly lose my balance. An ambulance is parked in the gravel lot off the road near the end of our driveway, its lights flashing. The back bay doors are open, but the paramedics are sitting on the bumper, chatting with another officer, who looks to be guarding access to the dock.

Beyond them, out on the lake, a couple of police boats are anchored, red and blue lights strobing. A couple of men in scuba suits stand in one of them, and I watch as a third tips over the side, disappearing into the dark water.

The scene is devastatingly familiar. So much so that I half-expect to find Lancel Graham and Detective Prester waiting for me when I turn back to the cops. After all, they were the ones who came to talk to me after the first woman’s body was found in the lake after we moved here four years ago—the young woman that Graham himself had tortured and killed at my ex-husband’s request.

All of it in an attempt to flush me out.

“What’s going on?” The words come out dry and broken. I lick my chapped lips and clear my throat.

“They found a body in the lake,” Diakos says.

This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. It has to be a joke, somehow. An elaborate prank of some kind.

Both Diakos and the officer are young. I wonder if either of them was around four years ago when Graham went on his murderous rampage. Do they have any idea that this has all happened before? Just like this? Do they understand that this is history repeating itself?

I remember the first time, how I initially thought it was just a boater who’d suffered an accident. But if that was the case now, there wouldn’t be two police officers standing at my door, asking me questions.

“Who?”

He shakes his head. “We haven’t identified her yet.”

Her. So, they know it’s a woman.

“What happened?” I’m fairly certain I don’t want to know the answer, but I have to. I need to know if this is related to Melvin again. If we’re starting all over from the beginning.

Diakos hesitates. “We’re still trying to piece that together.”

Of course, he’s not going to share details, especially with me.

Still, I have to know. “Was it an accident?”

He looks at me for a long moment before saying, “No.”

My knees go weak. I press a hand against the door at my back to steady myself. Diakos watches my reaction with a keen eye. I’m sure he’s trying to gauge if my surprise is genuine or if this is all an act.

Another murder. Another woman found in the lake. Melvin’s ghost reaching out from the grave.

Diakos continues. “We’re going around to all the houses on this side of the lake, asking folks if they heard anything out of the ordinary last night.”

Just like last time. I close my eyes, thinking back through the evening. It’s winter, which means there aren’t a ton of boats out on the lake these days. I would think the sound of a boat might stand out, but only if it had an engine. I shake my head. “I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary.”

Diakos nods, trying to hide his disappointment. “Who else was here who might have heard something?”

“My kids, but they’re asleep right now.” I’d rather not wake them, but I know that’s not an option. Last time, Lanny was a witness of sorts—she saw the boat and heard the splash. I hope to God that’s not the case again.

“And Sam?” Diakos presses.

“He was here too.” It’s only once the words are out of my mouth that I remember that’s not entirely true. I flash back to him coming home late, the mud on his clothes, his wet pants. A cold feeling tunnels through me.

“I’ll get them,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

“Do you mind if we continue the conversation inside?” Diakos asks. I wonder if he’s asking out of his own personal comfort or because he wants to make sure I don’t have a chance to prep Sam and the kids. I want to keep him outside. I want to keep all of this away from my house, our refuge.

I know how suspicious that would look, though. How ridiculous it would be to have Connor, still in his PJs, huddling on the frozen front step. “Of course,” I say.

I show them in and offer coffee. Diakos takes a seat at the table, but the other officer stands off to the side, trying to fade into the background. Sam hears the commotion and comes down the hallway. The minute he spots Diakos, his eyes swivel to meet mine. I can see the question in them.

“A body was found in the lake,” I tell him. I have my back to the two police officers, so I let the naked fear and confusion show on my face. “They want to ask us if we heard anything.”

His steps falter, and his face drains of color. “A body?” Sam was in Stillhouse Lake four years ago when the first woman’s body was discovered. The police knocked on his door, just like mine. He must feel the same sense of déjà vu that I do.

“An accident?” he asks, though he knows from my expression it wasn’t. “Do we know who it is yet?”

“We still haven’t identified her.”

He notes the same thing I did: that it’s a female victim. Just like Melvin liked.

“I’ll wake the kids,” I tell him. His hand reaches out and brushes mine as I pass. It’s a touch of comfort and solidarity. A reminder that we’re in this together.

Or a reminder to present a united front, regardless.

Once I’m out of sight, I hesitate outside Connor’s door and listen as Sam pulls down a mug and pours himself a cup of coffee. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but I can try,” he says.

“Did you hear anything suspicious last night?” Diakos asks.

“Around what time?”

“That’s what we’re hoping to figure out. Right now, our window is frustratingly vague, but we’re assuming after dark.”

Sam hesitates a moment, and I can picture him staring off into space, a little crinkle in his forehead as he thinks. “I can’t say that I heard anything at all. I wish I could be more help.”

He doesn’t tell them he wasn’t home for much of the night. A queasy feeling starts rumbling in my stomach. I hope that’s not a mistake that comes back to bite him down the road. What if there are witnesses who saw him out? What if they get a warrant for our security cameras that show him arriving home late?

I make a mental note to delete the footage. Does that mean I suspect he was behind this?

I don’t have time to answer that question. Especially when I’m not sure I’ll like the answer.

I knock softly on Connor’s door and then move on to Lanny’s. Florida’s already awake, sitting in the middle of the blow-up mattress on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest and her eyes wide and frightened. Lanny perches next to her, a hand on her back.

“Are they here for me? ’Cause of my family?” Florida’s voice is small and a tear trails down her cheek.

I kick myself for not thinking about how having cops arrive at the house unannounced might affect Florida after everything that happened yesterday. “No, sweetie,” I tell her. “They want to know if anyone heard anything out on the lake last night.”

Connor hovers behind me in the doorway and I feel him stiffen. Lanny and he exchange a glance. Of course reliving this part of their past would be traumatizing.

“It’s going to be okay,” I reassure them.

They know by now that I can’t promise that.

In the kitchen, Diakos’s eyes go wide when he recognizes Florida. I step between them. “My understanding is that you’re here to ask about last night,” I tell him. “If you feel the urge to ask about anything else, like, say…her family, then I’m going to have to call my lawyer and get her involved which will take some time, given that her office is in Knoxville, and she’d have to drive all the way out here—if and when her schedule allows.”

He holds up his hands. “The feds took over the Belldene case. I don’t have anything to do with that. I’m only interested in what happened on the lake last night.”

I nod, indicating he’s free to proceed.

Lanny brushes past me, heading straight for the coffee. Diakos asks her first if she heard anything suspicious the night before. Her answer is a very quick and succinct, “Nope.” She doesn’t even pause to consider or think about it.

Her bedroom window faces the lake. The last time this happened, she heard the boat and the splash of the body hitting the water. She was one of the few witnesses. That was the reason I’d started making plans to leave Stillhouse Lake. Until that point we’d been living under the radar, trying to avoid attention.

Little did I know that Melvin had already found us by then.

I wonder if Lanny truly didn’t hear anything this time, or if she doesn’t want to get involved. She’s savvier now than she was back then. She understands the system and that it doesn’t always favor the innocent. She’s not going to tell the cops anything until she’s talked it over with Sam and me.

Connor, on the other hand, does take a moment to think about it and then shrugs. “I went to bed early.”

Diakos wouldn’t know my son well enough to recognize the evasive non-answer. Instead, he takes it as a no. I make a note to follow up with Connor once he leaves.

Diakos then looks at Florida, who shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says softly, her eyes on the floor.

He doesn’t seem particularly pleased with the answers but doesn’t press. Instead, he pulls a card from his pocket and sets it on the table. “If any of you guys think of anything else, feel free to reach out.”

None of us takes the card, and it just sits there. Diakos stands and glances toward the other officer. They say their goodbyes, and I walk them to the door. Once outside, Diakos hesitates. “I wasn’t on the force four years ago, but I’ve read the files. I know what happened with Rain Harrington.” She was the first girl they fished out of the lake, the one Lancel Graham flayed alive.

“Then you know I had nothing to do with either of those two girls’ deaths. And while the police were looking at me, they missed the fact that one of their own had gone bad.”

He nods. “I’m aware. I don’t plan on making the same mistake.”

“Which mistake? The police have made many when it comes to my family.”

“The mistake of not keeping an open mind.”

“The same way you did when you were ready to blame Sam for a murder he didn’t commit?”

“If you’ll recall, I was on board with asking the lab to test for preservatives in the blood.”

“That still didn’t clear his name.”

“Not completely. Nor should it have. There was other evidence that implicated Sam in Varrus’s disappearance.”

I think about the speed camera photos of Sam’s truck. We’d always assumed Leo had found a vehicle that looked like his and swapped the plates in order to set Sam up. But now another idea comes to mind.

“You should look into Rowan Applegate. She’s a Lost Angel, the head of it now that Leo has passed. She was Callie’s sister—Melvin’s last victim. She’s a hacker and may have found a way to manipulate the photos in the speed camera that night. And she’s in town. I saw her the other day down at that dock.” I gesture to where the ambulance and police cars sit, lights flashing.

I wait for Diakos to laugh at my suggestion. To anyone else, it would sound like I’m grasping at straws.

Instead, he says, “I’ll look into it. If you think of anything else, you have my card.”

I watch as the two cops retreat to a dusty police car. They back down the driveway, then head up the road to continue their canvass. Their next stop is Madison’s cabin. I notice that she’s already out on the porch, coffee mug grasped between her hands, watching the activity on the lake.

I wonder if she realizes her culpability in this. It was that fucking podcast that started everything. Though if she hadn’t been the one to produce it, I’m sure the Lost Angels would have found someone else to work with. I’m still not willing to let her off the hook for the role she played.

Ultimately, however, I can’t ignore that I’m the common link between all the tragedies. Every single victim was an enemy of mine, and someone is hunting them down and taking them out. I don’t know who, and I don’t know why, but I do know that whoever it is has a plan. They’ve been working on this for months, meticulously planning, anticipating my every move and response.

I don’t know what their end game is, but Sam is clearly on their list. Why else would they be working so hard to set him up to take the fall? And why would they want him to take the fall if it isn’t to punish me?

I’m their ultimate target.

With this conclusion comes an even more brutal, horrifying realization: if anyone knows me at all, they’d be keenly aware that the ultimate way to destroy me would be to go after my kids.

I have to get them away from me and someplace safe. My only real choice is Kez and Javi’s. I hate asking them, given that Kez is so near her due date, but I don’t see any other options. I pull out my phone and give her a call. She answers immediately.

“Gwen, I’ve been trying to reach you. They pulled another body from the lake.”

I glance out at the police boats still circling in the water, their lights flashing. As I watch, one of the divers surfaces. “I know. Detective Diakos has already been by to ask if we heard anything last night.”

“She was murdered, Gwen. Just like the two women four years ago.”

My stomach sinks. It’s confirmation of what I already suspected.

“Her skin was flayed,” Kez continues. “And her vocal cords were cut. They think she was tied to a cement block, but the rope somehow got severed.” She hesitates before saying what we’re both thinking. “It’s just like Melvin, Gwen.”

“Melvin’s dead,” I bite out. “So is Lancel Graham.”

“They found a bone in her throat. They’re sending it off to be tested.”

I curse under my breath. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. “No need. It will be one of Melvin’s.”

“You think these are all connected.”

“I do. Someone’s taunting me, and I think I have a way of figuring out who.”

“How?” Kez asks.

“I’m going to find out directly from the source: Melvin Royal.”

26

GWEN

The first thing I do is book a ticket to Wichita, leaving in a few hours. Sam, of course, wants to come with me. “I have to do this alone,” I tell him. I’m not sure I can explain why, except that dealing directly with Melvin always makes me feel tainted and gross. I don’t want to bring any of that into my current life if at all possible.

He drops a kiss on my cheek. “I understand. Whatever you need from me, I’ll do it.”

“I need to know the kids are safe.” And the reality is, I know my kids are safe with him. I am too. Even if he did murder all those sickos and Leonard Varrus, it would have been to protect us.

“I’ve already talked to Javi. I’m going to take them out there, and we’re all going to spend the night—Florida too.”

Relief washes through me. Of course, he’s already handled it. Of course, he knew without asking what I needed. It’s one of the reasons I love this man so fiercely. I want to fall against him, sink into him, and let his strong arms encircle and hold me. I want him to tell me I’m doing the right thing—that we’ll figure out who is behind all of this and finally move on from this chapter of our lives.

Unfortunately, I know Sam will never make promises he can’t keep, and no one can promise us a normal life.

It doesn’t take me long to pack, and after I’ve hugged the kids goodbye, I make the drive to the Knoxville airport. Once the plane takes off, I stare out at the world passing by below. It’s hard not to think about a similar trip I took four years ago. It had been the first time I’d trusted Sam with my kids.

I’d gone to visit Melvin then as well. I had hopes I would be able to put an end to everything.

I failed that time. This time, I won’t.

After we land, I pick up my rental car, put the address in the GPS, and drive. After an hour and a half, I pull through the gates of Shady Grove Cemetery. It’s an unassuming place, the kind of graveyard you’d expect to see if you did an image search online. There’s a wrought iron arch over the entrance and a series of paved roads stretching out through acres of green lawn dotted with trees and a few benches.

The grounds are decently maintained, though there’s nothing particularly special about them. Most of the graves have standing stones, though none are overly ornamental. A few have flowers here and there, but nothing that shows a tremendous amount of care or effort. This isn’t the kind of place mourners come to sit for hours, talking to their dead loved ones.

I’ve only been here once before so that I could lay eyes on the grave and make sure the bastard was buried. That’s when I took the photo that hangs on my office wall. I make the turns automatically, stopping when I’m close to the section bearing his grave.

Until he died, I hadn’t been aware that Melvin had already purchased a funeral package. I was shocked when I saw the price he’d paid. He’d gone all out: full cremation, a high-end urn for his ashes, a beautiful plot in an old cemetery tucked under an ancient, graceful oak. No accommodations made for me and, eventually, our kids. Apparently, he’d preferred the idea of his ashes being interred alone.

I’d asked for a refund. The funeral home balked until I told them who the package had been for. Once they realized that honoring the pre-paid package would mean having a serial killer buried within their hallowed grounds, they immediately agreed to terminate the contract. They’d taken a hefty cut of the fees in exchange, but I didn’t care. It left enough to cover a casket and buy a plot here, in this generic cemetery far enough outside the city that it’s mostly forgotten. I used the leftover funds to purchase a tiny tombstone with nothing but a number on it.

It would have been cheaper if I’d cremated him, but Melvin was incredibly claustrophobic and terrified of being buried alive. He’d been very strident about his desire to be cremated for that reason. So, of course, I did the opposite. One last fuck-you to the man who fucked up our lives.

I’d gone to great lengths to ensure Melvin’s grave was anonymous and forgotten. Except, somehow, someone had found it.

I slip out of the car and weave my way through the clusters of other graves and brittle yellow grass until I’m standing in front of his. The FBI told me they reburied the empty casket once they’d taken whatever evidence they could. It’s weird to stand here, knowing there’s nothing of him here.

I notice there’s dirt caked in the carved numbers of his tombstone and I do nothing to remove it. If I weren’t worried that it might be disrespectful to the dead around me, I would have spit on Melvin’s grave.

I stand for a moment, reliving it all. The horror of that afternoon when I arrived home to find the dead body hanging in our garage. The year in jail, separated from my kids. The trial and having to face—in detail—the horror Melvin had inflicted on those women. The years after, constantly on the run, changing our names, schools, towns. Never putting down roots.

The fear of being hunted, of having my kids taken, our lives constantly threatened.

All of it because of Melvin fucking Royal.

And it’s not even just our past he’s robbed us of. It’s also our future: Lanny’s fear of going to college because she’ll always be known as that serial killer’s daughter. Connor’s terror that he’ll grow up to be a man like Melvin. My inability to let go of Sicko Patrol.

“I’m not letting you win,” I tell him. “I’m done with you playing a role in my life. Here’s the thing: we’re fine without you. We’re amazing without you. Connor is this incredible kid—smart, sensitive, caring. You always worried about him growing up soft, but he’s a badass. More so than you ever were. He wants to be an architect, or a therapist, maybe an author. And he would be great at any of those things. That kid has been through more than any child should ever have to deal with and he’s come out stronger for it.

“And Lanny…you would be enraged if you saw her now. Her hair color changes from week to week. She wears baggy clothes and black nail polish. She’s a proud feminist. And guess what else—she dates girls. She’s smart too. She’s gotten into colleges that would blow your mind, and she’s going to go, and she’s going to live an incredible life.

“You wanted to raise her to be meek and mild and afraid like I used to be. Well, guess what? She’s loud. She’s got strong opinions and loves to share them. She’s fiercely loyal—to her brother, to her friends, to me and Sam.

“Speaking of Sam, he’s a wonderful father. He’s their real dad, not you. He adopted them, did you know that? He listens to them, he supports them, he challenges them. He loves them. He truly does—not the way you claimed to. They’re not some prop he uses to make himself look good. Also? He’s pretty damn amazing in bed. I never get tired of feeling that man’s hands on me.”

I realize I’m crying, but they’re happy tears. Relieved tears. The kind you let loose when you’re reaching the end of something momentous.

“So, you know what, Melvin? We’re doing pretty fucking well without you. We don’t need you. We never did. I’d say I hope you rot in hell, but I don’t care. I don’t care about you at all. I’m done with you taking up space in our lives.”

With that, I turn on my heel and leave.

I recall the maintenance building being on the back edge of the property and decide to walk rather than drive. I use the opportunity to breathe in the fresh, frigid air, letting it sear my lungs. When I reach the building, I find an older man unloading bags of mulch from a truck. He’s wearing a beat-up tan jacket and a plaid hat, and his face is weathered and wrinkled from decades spent outside.

“Excuse me, hello,” I call out as I approach.

He pauses and looks up, then straightens, taking his time with it and arching his back to stretch it a little in the process.

“Do you work here?” I ask, even though it’s obvious from the badge on his jacket that he does.

He nods. “I do. Name’s Callum.” He holds out a hand.

“Hi, Callum, I’m Gwen,” I say, shaking it. I note that his palms are rough and calloused. Unsurprising, given his job. “Can I ask you a couple of questions about one of the graves?”

His forehead wrinkles in concern. “There a problem?”

“Oh, no, not like that. I’m not here to complain or raise a fuss.” I try to figure out the best way to explain the situation without giving too much away. “I’m just curious about something. Grave marker 820724, you know where that one is?”

He thinks for a moment. “Over in section seven. Barre gray, single upright.”

I remember the woman at the funeral home poring through the options, trying to upsell me at every turn. My answer was always the same: whatever is cheapest. I’d have thrown his body out to rot in a garbage dump if it had been allowed.

I nod. “That’s the one. I’m surprised you remember it off the top of your head.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been mowing around these graves since before you were born. I remember when they put that one in because most anonymous folk end up in the pauper graves. Not that I care much. Don’t change the job none.”

He’s got a point. “Do you have any idea who’s buried there?”

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am, I sure don’t.”

“You sure? His name wasn’t in any records?”

He shakes his head again. “They keep those up at the office.”

“You’ve never been curious?”

“It’s not my job to be curious. It’s my job to take care of the graves and the grounds. We all belong to God, no matter who you are or what you’ve done.”

I wonder if he’d change his mind if I told him the grave belonged to a man who’d tortured and brutally murdered over a dozen young women. “Have you noticed anyone paying special attention to that grave?”

He grabs a water bottle from a nearby table and takes a long sip as he considers. “There was a woman who used to come by every now and again, but she stopped a while back.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Did you tell the FBI agents when they were here before?”

He frowns, clearly confused. “FBI agents?”

I nod. “They came out a couple of months ago.”

He shakes his head. “I wasn’t here. My daughter had a kid near a year ago. He came early—was in the NICU for a long time. I took an extended leave to help her take care of her other kids. Just came back a few weeks ago.”

“How’re they doing—your daughter and her son?”

He instantly softens. “Cutest kid you’ve ever seen. Of course, I feel that way about all my grandkids. He gave us a scare, but he pulled through. He’ll be one next month.”

“Your daughter is lucky you were there for her,” I tell him.

He smiles. “There isn’t much I won’t do for my kids.”

“I have two of my own. I know exactly what you mean.”

“How old?” he asks.

“Seventeen and fifteen. Girl and a boy.”

He smiles. “Almost an empty nest.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

“It’s like an eagle teaching her young to fly. When they soar off, you know you’ve done your job well.”

The analogy brings unexpected tears to my eyes. “Thank you for that,” I say softly.

He laughs. “Then you just have to hope they bring home little eaglets of their own one day. I’ll tell you this much: nothing better than being a grandparent.”

I’ve barely thought past Lanny getting her GED and going to college. I haven’t even considered beyond that, to the day she or Connor might bring home kids of their own. But somehow, in that moment, I know it’s a real possibility. They can both have that future if they want it. They can have any other future they want as well.

Something shifts in my heart, something fundamental and foundational. Because I can see it now. Their futures. Not exactly, nothing specific, just the existence of them, bright and brimming with possibility.

Regardless of what happened yesterday, or eight years ago, or what will happen tomorrow or in a decade, my kids will be okay. Not just okay, they’re going to thrive.

They’re going to soar.

Callum clears his throat, bringing me back to the present. “Sorry, you weren’t asking about me; you were asking about 820724.”

“Oh, right. Do you recall anything about the woman who used to visit? Her age or what she looked like.”

“I don’t, no. When people are visiting, I try to keep my distance. I know that’s a private time between them and their loved one. I don’t want to interfere or interrupt.”

I pull my phone from my pocket and navigate to the professional profile pic of Rowan I’d found earlier. I show it to him. “Any chance she looks familiar?”

He studies the photograph, then reluctantly shakes his head. “I’m sorry, no. Like I said, I keep my distance.”

Damn. I’d been hoping he might recognize her, which would be the proof I needed to tie Rowan to Melvin’s grave. “Is there anything else about the grave? Anything that stands out?”

“Other than the incident with the salt, no.”

I blink, taken aback. “The incident with the salt?”

“A while back, someone salted the grass. Killed it straight out. Made quite the eyesore.”

“Is that something that happens often?”

“Never happened in any cemetery I’ve been tending.”

“So, what happened?”

“We had to pull out the grass and at least a foot of dirt to make sure we got rid of it all before replacing the sod.”

I can’t believe I never heard about this. “When was this?”

He considers a moment. “You know, it was the Fourth of July year before last. I remember because we pulled up the grass before I left for vacation—I always take my grandbabies to the beach that week to give their parents a bit of a break. It wasn’t until I came back that we were able to lay the new sod.”

My heart gallops in my chest as the implication of what he’s saying becomes clear. “So, the grave was left unattended with the sod pulled back for a week?”

He lifts a shoulder. “More or less, yeah. We didn’t have any other burials that week, so it wasn’t a problem. Usually, something like that would be an eyesore, but we don’t get a lot of visitors out here.”

“When you came back, did you notice anything different about the grave?”

He frowns. “Different how?”

“Like, had the ground been disturbed in any way?”

“I mean, the ground had been churned, but that was just Mike prepping the dirt for the sod.”

“Is Mike around anywhere so I can ask him about it?”

He shrugs. “He works in the office now. You’d have to look for him there.”

I hold out my hand again. “You’ve been very helpful. Thanks for taking the time to answer my questions.”

He nods, and we shake. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Me too, I think as I start back toward my car. Though I think I’ve at least narrowed down the window for when Melvin’s bones were stolen. If someone salted the gravesite, it makes sense the cemetery would have to dig up the ground and go deep enough to remove the affected dirt. At that point, the grass would be removed, along with about a foot of earth. Which would make it that much easier for someone to dig up a grave without drawing too much attention.

Once at my car, I drive back to the cemetery gates and park in the lot by a small office. There’s only one person inside, a middle-aged man wearing navy pants and a slightly yellowed shirt with a short green tie. He smooths his hand over the tie and stands when I enter. “Welcome to Shady Grove Cemetery,” he says. His eyes carry the desperate hopefulness of a salesman trying to close a deal.

I start to introduce myself but then remember that I purchased Melvin’s lot under my former name. I hadn’t wanted it to be attached to Gwen Proctor. I swallow down my revulsion and force myself to say, “Hi, my name is Gina Royal. I have some questions about a grave.”

His eyes flare. “Royal?” He seems confused at first, though it’s obvious from the slight quaver to his voice that he knows my connection to the celebrity who was once buried in their midst. He clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s my understanding that my ex-husband’s grave was robbed. I’m here to find out who did it and when.”

“Um…” He glances around, and I note the panic in his eyes. “Okay. Sure. I should probably call my manager, though. She’ll probably be able to help more than I can.”

“Are you Mike?”

He nods but seems surprised and a little panicked that I know his name.

“My understanding is that my ex-husband’s grave was vandalized a year and a half ago—the ground was salted, and you helped fix it.”

“Um…” It’s obvious he has no idea what I’m talking about.

“You tilled the ground to loosen the dirt for laying down sod,” I prompt.

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am. I didn’t have anything to do with—I just do what I’m told, and no one told me to do that.” He’s on the verge of panicking. I’d feel sorry for him if I didn’t think he had information that might be helpful.

“I heard there was a woman who’d been visiting the grave before that incident.”

He nods again.

I pull up the photo of Rowan I showed to Callum just a few minutes ago. “Is this her?”

He studies the picture. “Maybe?” I can’t decide if he’s trying to be evasive or genuinely isn’t sure.

“When I came in here, you recognized my name instantly.” He seems relieved that I don’t press him on the picture.

“Sure. Of course I recognized your name.”

“Because you know Melvin Royal is buried here.”

“Riiight,” he admits, reluctantly drawing out the word.

“How did you know that?”

He freezes. “Um.”

“His grave is supposed to be anonymous. That’s why there’s no name on the marker.”

He swallows but doesn’t have an answer.

“The woman who used to visit that grave, are you the one who told her where Melvin Royal was buried?”

He glances past me toward the door, and I’m sure he’s calculating an escape. I shift slightly, blocking his exit.

“I’m not looking to get anyone in trouble,” I tell him. “I’m just looking for answers.”

He seems to think about it for a moment, then deflates entirely. “I only talked to her on the phone a few times. When she visited, she always wore a large sun hat and avoided interacting with anyone. I assumed…” His cheeks color slightly.

“What did you assume?” I press.

He lets out a breath. “She told me her name was Gina Royal.”

I wasn’t expecting that. “Did she ever show you any kind of identification?”

He counters with, “Can I see your ID?”

Touché. I can’t show him any because my license and all my credit cards are under Gwen Proctor. I have nothing officially tying me to my old identity. That’s how I prefer it.

“Can you describe her?”

He shrugs. “Dark hair. Good looking.”

As far as descriptions go, it’s pretty useless. I try to keep the exasperation from my voice when I prod, “Older? Younger? Tall? Short?”

“Average?” He guesses.

I bite back my impatience and move on. “Callum said she stopped visiting at some point,” I say, trying to pull the interview back on track. “Do you remember when that was?”

“Summer about a year and a half ago. Around the Fourth of July. I remember because Callum was out on his yearly beach trip, and I had to cover for him. Had to cancel my own plans.”

“So, after that week, you never saw her again? And that didn’t surprise you?”

“It happens more often than you think. People don’t come here for the dead, they come for the living. They come because they need closure, or to work something through, or just to say things out loud, even though no one is listening. I figured she got what she needed and was done.”

She did get what she needed, I think to myself. Melvin’s body.

27

GWEN

On my way back to the airport, I check in with Sam. He and the kids are over at Kez and Javi’s, helping to put the finishing touches on the nursery. He lets me know that all is well and says he hasn’t noticed anything suspicious.

“Were you able to learn anything from the cemetery?” he asks.

“I’m fairly sure I know when his body was taken. Someone salted the ground over his grave right around the Fourth of July a year and a half ago. They had to pull up the dead grass and nearly a foot of dirt to make sure they got it all. The caretaker then went on vacation, but when he got back, he said the ground was churned up. He chalked it up to someone loosening the dirt to prep the area for the new sod and didn’t think twice about it.”

“But you don’t think that’s what happened?”

“It would have been the perfect time for someone to dig up Melvin’s body. The grass had already been pulled up, and the area was already disturbed. They could have snuck in, dug up the coffin, and replaced it without having to worry about putting the grass back down perfectly.”

“Okay, so Fourth of July. We have a date. How does that help?”

“He also said a woman used to visit the grave regularly before then. But after the Fourth of July, she never came again.”

“Were they able to describe her?”

I snort. “No. The caretaker only ever saw her from afar, and the guy in the office couldn’t remember her well enough to describe her. But it was Rowan, I’m sure of it. I already reached out to Taylor. Now that we have a general timeframe, I asked her to look into where Rowan was and what she was doing during that time. Once I have that, I’ll call Mike and let him know. He’ll make sure the other agents listen and don’t ignore what I have to say. If they can’t figure out how Rowan robbed that grave, we will. And when we do, we’ll finally clear you once and for all.”

“You think it will be that easy?” he asks.

Nothing is ever easy, not when it comes to our lives. But maybe this time we’ll catch a break. “A girl can dream,” I tell him.

At the airport, I return the rental car and just clear security when I get a text from Taylor.

Taylor

Looked into Rowan’s whereabouts during the timeframe you asked about:

There’s a link, and I click on it. It takes me to a news article about a cybersecurity convention in Wichita over the Fourth of July weekend. Rowan was one of the scheduled speakers.

I gasp out loud and reread the article twice, unable to believe my eyes. Rowan was in Wichita—less than two hours away from the cemetery—when Melvin’s grave was robbed. I shake my head in disbelief. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry with relief.

I immediately call Mike. “I have your killer,” I tell him.

“Gwen, hi, good to hear from you.”

“Mike, I know who the serial killer is. I know who’s trying to set Sam up.” I must be talking a little too animatedly because I get some strange looks from people as I make my way through the terminal to my gate.

“Okay, I’ll bite.”

“Rowan Applegate.”

He’s silent a moment. “I don’t think so, Gwen.”

“Look, I know female serial killers are rare, but it has to be her. Hear me out: she’s a hacker, so she could have easily gotten ahold of Sam’s flight schedule. She was near Knoxville when Leo Varrus was killed. She was in Stillhouse Lake when the Belldenes’ compound exploded, and when that woman’s body was found in the lake. And get this, I just visited the cemetery where Melvin was buried and I got a timeframe for when the grave was likely robbed. It lines up with when Rowan was nearby on a work trip. It can’t be a coincidence, Mike. It’s her, I know it is.”

“Rowan isn’t behind those murders.”

“But how can you say that? If you just look at⁠—”

“Rowan is dead.”

I blink. There’s no way I heard that correctly. “What?”

“She was murdered, Gwen.”

My steps slow to a stop. I’m in the middle of the terminal, harried travelers flowing around me like water. “How?”

“We’re still waiting on the details, but they found her body floating in⁠—”

“Stillhouse Lake,” I finish, somehow knowing that’s what he was about to say. She was the one they were asking about this morning. A shiver passes through me as an ache spreads through my gut.

“Yes,” he says.

A man in a business suit nearly clips my shoulder and curses under his breath. I continue walking slowly toward my gate. “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t the one responsible for everything else,” I argue. “She still could have killed all those stalkers. She could have been the one to murder Leonard Varrus.” I’m grasping at straws.

“They found a bone, Gwen. Presumably, one of Melvin’s. It was in her throat.”

“Oh, God,” I say under my breath. Rowan may have been my enemy, but she was also a mom. She had two kids, practically the same ages as mine.

“It looks like she was a victim, just like the others.”

All my optimism crumbles around me. I was so convinced I’d found the culprit. How could I have been so wrong?

“She’s dead because of me.” I feel hollow inside. “Just like the others.”

“It’s not your fault,” Mike is quick to say.

“I should have warned her. I knew the killer was targeting my enemies. It’s obvious she’d be at the top of that list. I just…”

I trail off, remembering Sam coming home late the night before, covered in mud. Another enemy vanquished. Another time when Sam doesn’t have an alibi. This can’t be happening. I refuse to believe it.

“You just what, Gwen?” Mike asks, prodding me to finish the thought.

It takes me a moment to remember what I was saying. “I thought Rowan was the killer. I was so sure.”

She was the best suspect. Everything lined up. Now, I realize she must have been set up, the same as Sam. The killer has been playing us all, sending us down rabbit hole after rabbit hole, making us chase our tails and get nowhere.

“What now?” I ask. Something like despair takes root inside me, sitting heavily on my heart. I thought we were close to the end. I thought there was a light at the end of this nightmare.

“We keep looking.”

“They’re going to pin this on Sam, Mike. There are no other suspects.” It’s starting to feel inevitable.

“I won’t let them.”

“We may not have a choice.”

I reach the gate, and the agent is already calling final boarding for my flight home. “I have to go, Mike,” I tell him. He hangs up without a goodbye, his usual way of ending calls.

I spend the first half of the flight staring out the window into the gloaming. Below, bright lights surround swaths of darkness, and it reminds me of standing on my deck, looking out at Stillhouse Lake.

I keep picturing Sam coming home last night. I’m trying to remember exactly what he looked like. Was there any blood? Were his pants wet or just muddy? Was there any indication that his disarray could have been caused by trying to subdue Rowan and not changing a flat?

I think about this morning when he told the cops he was home. And about the security app on my phone that will absolutely show he got in later than he let on. It’s not proof of his involvement, but it certainly doesn’t exonerate him. My first instinct was to delete the footage as soon as I got back on WiFi, but now, I’m not so sure.

I lean my head against the window, letting the cool breeze from the air conditioning nozzle overhead wash over me. If I keep digging and I keep finding more proof against Sam, what am I going to do?

Even if he was somehow involved, I know one thing for certain: Sam isn’t a monster.

But that doesn’t mean he may not be guilty of murder.

I pull out my phone, desperate for a distraction from all the questions without answers. The Royal Murders is still queued up on my podcast app—the teaser for the bonus episode Rowan promised.

I wonder if her death means it won’t be released.

I remember, then, the USB drive Madison gave me at our first meeting. The one with all the original episodes from before Rowan took over and re-edited them. I tossed it into my purse when I got the 911 call from Lanny and forgot about it.

Listening to Madison’s original episodes wasn’t a priority. Now, though, I’m curious.

Luckily enough, it’s the kind of USB I can plug into my phone, which makes it quite easy to queue up the episodes. I fit in my earbuds, close my eyes, and press play.

Madison was right. Her original episodes were much more generous toward me—even complimentary at times—which is surprising. I can only imagine just how much Rowan must have lost her mind when she first heard these. She must have been apoplectic. No wonder she fired Madison and re-edited everything before releasing it.

Maybe if she’d left well enough alone, she wouldn’t have ended up on my enemies list and become a target for the Sicko Patrol serial killer. I wonder what will happen to the rest of the unaired podcast episodes now that she’s dead. I assume there’s some other acolyte in the Lost Angels, ready and willing to take up the mantle of hatred.

Though perhaps they’ll change their mind about coming after me when they realize it might get them killed.

I land in Knoxville and collect my car. It’s cold, colder than it’s been in a while. My breath clouds around me as I text Sam to let him know I’m safe and on my way.

During the drive, I continue listening to Madison’s podcast and am only half-paying attention when I realize she just mentioned Melvin Royal’s grave.

I bolt upright in my seat. Surely, I didn’t hear that correctly. I press the back button before playing it again.

Madison’s voice echoes through the car. I turn up the volume. “You can be mistaken for missing it. Unlike other well-known serial killers, Melvin’s grave isn’t marked. It’s meant to be anonymous. Just a number: 820724. A simple gray stone in a sea of green grass. Though no secrets stay buried forever.”

My heart thumps erratically in my chest. That’s Melvin’s grave number; there’s no doubt about that. How does she know it? I feel sick to my stomach.

No secrets stay buried forever.

Those words can’t be a coincidence. It’s impossible. To the casual listener, that phrase would mean nothing. But when you know that Melvin’s grave was robbed—when you realize his body was dug up—it means everything.

When Madison recorded the podcast, she knew where Melvin’s grave was. More than that, she knew he was no longer buried there.

But when did she record this? Then I remember her mentioning the lush green grass. The grass today was brittle and yellow. Which means she was likely there in the summer or fall at the latest.

Before any of the sickos had been murdered.

I clamp a hand over my mouth.

The earliest anyone could have figured out that Melvin’s grave had been robbed was when that first bone was found in Cooper Kuntz’s throat. Even then, they didn’t figure out the bone belonged to Melvin until they ran the DNA tests this winter.

Madison couldn’t have known last summer about Melvin’s grave being robbed unless she was the one who robbed it.

It seems impossibly far-fetched. But the evidence is too strong to dismiss.

Madison Westcott is the sicko killer.

And she’s living right fucking next door to my family.

In a panic, I call Sam. He answers immediately. “Hey, honey, you almost back?”

At the sound of his voice, I have to swallow back tears at the sting of guilt that lances through me. How could I have ever suspected him of all those murders? How could I have believed he would do something like that and keep it from me.

“You and the kids safe?” I ask breathlessly. “Where are you?”

His voice pitches with alarm. “We’re all at Javi and Kez’s. Everyone’s fine. Is there something I need to know?”

I blow out a breath of relief that they’re not at home. I notice my hands are trembling and tighten them around the steering wheel to get them to stop.

“Are you armed?”

“You’re scaring me, Gwen.”

“It’s Madison Westcott,” I say.

I can hear his confusion. “Who is?”

“The sicko serial killer.”

There’s a long pause. “What? I think I missed something.”

“When I first met with her, she gave me a USB drive with her original podcast episodes on it. I forgot about them at first and was never super interested in listening because I thought the original podcast was vile enough. Why subject myself to more? But I ended up listening on the plane, and she mentioned Melvin’s grave.”

“Oookayyy.” It’s not that he doesn’t believe me. It’s that he doesn’t follow what I’m saying.

“When I talked to the caretaker at the cemetery, he said that a woman used to visit the grave a couple of years ago, right around the time the ground was salted and robbed. I know I said earlier it was Rowan, but what if it was Madison”

“Did you show them a picture of Madison and ask if they recognized her?”

“No, I showed them a photo of Rowan because she was the most likely suspect. They didn’t recognize her. They just said the woman had dark hair and always wore a hat, but that could have been Madison in disguise.”

“I still don’t see how you’re making the connection here, Gwen.”

“She knows Melvin’s grave number,” I tell him. “In the podcast, she recites the number. She says it was meant to stay anonymous but that no secrets stay buried forever. That was the exact quote: ‘No secrets stay buried forever.’ Just like Melvin’s body. She knows, Sam. She knows because she’s the one who dug him up.”

“You said she mentions the grave number in the episode. What if someone else somehow heard it and they were the ones that dug him up?”

I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “His body was already gone when she recorded that. That’s why it didn’t matter if she told the world where he was buried. And don’t forget, she was in Knoxville to meet us when Leo was murdered. She was the reason we left the house in the first place.”

Sam still doesn’t seem convinced.

“During one of our interviews, she compared you to Melvin. She suggested that you had me fooled the same way Melvin did. She was trying to turn me against you, Sam.”

That hits. I can hear his growl through the car speakers. “Fuck.”

I need you to call Mike and fill him in,” I tell him. “I’m about twenty minutes outside Norton, where cell service gets a little patchy. I should be there soon.”

“Absolutely,” he says.

“Call me back and let me know if they want me to go straight to the Norton PD to give a statement tonight.”

“Will do.”

“And Sam? I love you.”

I hear the smile in his voice. “I love you too. Come home to me safe.”

I tell him I will and end the call. I push the car faster, anxious to get back. Giddy that I’ve figured out who the sicko killer is, and it’s not Sam I’ll have to deal with the guilt of having doubted him later.

By the time I reach Norton, I still haven’t heard from Sam. I try calling him again, but it goes straight to voicemail.

Worst-case scenarios spiral through my head. What if Madison figured out where they were? What if she went after them?

When my call doesn’t go through again, I try Lanny. Thankfully, she picks up. “What’s up, Mom?”

“Where are you?”

She sounds confused. “At Kez’s, why?”

“I’m trying to get ahold of Sam but he’s not picking up. Can you put him on for me?”

“Sam’s not here.”

My heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?”

“He went out after you called.”

“Out where?”

“He didn’t say.”

I try to keep my panic under control. “Can you do me a favor and pull up the location app? Does that show where he is?”

Lanny’s instantly alert. She can tell by the tone of my voice that there’s a problem. She does exactly what I ask. “Looks like he went back home.”

“The Stillhouse Lake house?” I ask.

“Yeah, home.”

What are you doing, Sam? I think to myself.

I’m sitting at one of the few stoplights in Norton. A right will take me out to Javi and Kez’s. A left will take me to the lake.

“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath. I turn left and hit the gas.

“Everything okay, Mom?”

“I need you to keep your brother safe, okay? Lock the doors, tell Kez and Javi that we should be back soon but to keep an eye out until then.”

I can hear her wanting to ask questions, but she doesn’t. She knows the drill. “Be careful, Mom. I love you.”

I will never get tired of hearing those words. “I love you too, honey.”

Less than ten minutes later, I veer onto the road that circles Stillhouse Lake. I tried calling Sam again, but he still didn’t pick up. “Please, be home,” I murmur under my breath. “Please, don’t have done anything stupid.”

Finally I pull into our driveway and let out a sigh of relief when I find Sam’s truck parked in his usual spot. “Thank God,” I breathe. I swear if he just came back here to pick something up and for some reason left his phone in the truck, I’m going to kill him myself.

I’ve barely thrown the SUV in park before I’m out and racing to the house. I throw open the door, ready to give him a piece of my mind for scaring me. I’m several steps inside before I realize that something’s wrong.

The alarm. It’s not beeping. Which means, it wasn’t armed.

I freeze. My hand twitches, wanting to reach for the shoulder holster I’m not wearing. I listen, straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. There’s the tick of the freezer as a fresh batch of ice cubes falls into the automatic dispenser. The soft whoosh of the heat through the vents. Out on the lake, there’s the irregular chug of a boat trawling near shore.

Slowly, keeping to the shadows, I slip into the kitchen. I sift through the junk drawer, my hand brushing against the folding utility knife Javi and Kez gave me as a housewarming gift when we moved back from Knoxville. I slide it into my pocket, then unlock the secret compartment at the back of the drawer and pull out the .32 I have hidden there.

Now armed, I let out a breath of relief. I sweep through the house quickly, but it’s empty. I find myself back in the living room near the front door, trying to understand. Setting the alarm is like breathing—such an automatic reflex that we don’t even think about it. None of the kids or Sam would ever leave without resetting it.

He was here. I know he was. And then he left without resetting the alarm.

I don’t want to admit the thought that’s been nagging me since I talked to Lanny. It doesn’t escape me that within seconds of me telling Sam that Madison was the killer that he took off. He has every right to be furious with her for what she’s put him through—put us through—but I’m worried his rage might take over and get him into trouble.

I have to stop him before he does something stupid.

Keeping the gun by my side, I slip outside and race up the hill toward Madison’s cabin. As I near, I notice the front door hanging open, and my heart lurches. My first instinct is to race toward it, but I hold myself back.

Instead, I pull my phone from my pocket and hastily dial 911. The operator picks up and starts into the standard spiel, but I cut her off. “Stillhouse Lake. The old hunting cabin by Gwen Proctor’s house. Call Diakos, he’ll understand.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to slow down. Do you need ambulance, fire, or police?”

“Yes, send them all.”

“What’s the nature of the emergency?”

I’m still staring at the open door to Madison’s cabin, waiting for any hint of movement. There’s nothing. I don’t want to tell them that I think my partner might be armed and dangerous. That it might already be too late.

“I don’t know,” I tell them instead. Until I know for sure what’s going on, I’m not throwing Sam under the bus.

“Ma’am—”

“Detective Diakos will understand,” I interrupt. “Tell him Gwen Proctor called it in.” Then I hang up.

I approach the cabin in a crouch, cringing at the sound of my steps through old fallen leaves and sticks. I circle the property, trying to get a look inside, but the lights are all out. If I didn’t know better, I would say it was abandoned.

I slowly climb the stairs, keeping myself at an angle so as not to provide anyone a direct shot through the open front door. Though the reality is, if someone’s inside, they had plenty of opportunity to take me out already. Which means either the place is empty, or whoever is in there isn’t paying attention.

I slip through the open door, my steps light. Moonlight filters through one of the windows, providing enough light for me to see that not only is the main room empty, but it has also been trashed. A chair lies on its side, the coffee table is cracked, and a large planter has been shattered, spilling dirt everywhere.

It looks like there was a struggle. I’m familiar enough with the cabin that I’m able to clear it quickly. I end up back by the front door, my eyes skimming the destruction. There are footprints in the potting soil strewn across the floor. At least two sets—one larger than the other.

What the fuck happened? Where is Madison? Where’s Sam?

There’s something I’m missing. Some clue I overlooked. Think, Gwen, think!

Then it comes to me. The thing that’s been causing my internal alarms to spike: the engine I heard earlier. The uneven put-put-put of an old boat pulling away from the shore. It’s winter—dark and cold—and there’s absolutely no reason for anyone to be out on the water at this time of night. Not any good reason, at least.

I step outside and stare at the lake, a giant pool of darkness dominating the landscape. A small light flickers offshore—a boat slowly chugging away from the dock.

I think of Rowan, her body thrown into the water the night before. I think of the two women Lancel Graham killed four years ago, also tossed into the lake. I won’t let it happen again.

Sam may not be the one behind the Sicko Patrol murders, but that doesn’t mean he’s not willing to kill to protect us. I refuse to let him do it. I won’t let him kill her. Not to save Madison but to save our family.

No one else dies. Melvin’s legacy ends now.

28

GWEN

As I sprint down the hill toward the dock, I fumble with my phone, calling 911 again. The moment I hear a voice on the other end I start talking. “Tell Diakos they’re out on Stillhouse Lake. I’m going after them.”

At the dock, I don’t hesitate. The old boards tremble and groan under my feet as I race toward the ancient boats tied up at the end. I don’t take the time to untie one; instead, I toss the phone into the hull to free up my hands and grab the utility knife from my pocket, severing the rope tethering the sturdiest-looking one to the dock. I double-check the safety on the gun and slip it into my pocket.

Then, I jump aboard, bracing myself as the rickety boat lurches beneath me. I jam the knife in the ignition and turn. It takes several tries before the motor chugs to life. A sleek motorboat this thing is not. I open the throttle as much as I can, and the engine strains and protests, the boat pulling away at a painfully slow pace.

There’s no sneak approach out here on the lake. Sound carries over the water, and the moon hangs brightly in the sky overhead. I point the bow toward the other boat and urge it forward, my heart screaming in my chest. As the engine warms, I pick up speed until I’m moving fast enough that wind tangles my hair.

The light on the other boat grows sharper as I approach. I can see two figures standing near the stern, one larger than the other, but both little more than shadows. Still, there’s no question it’s Madison and Sam. They tussle and grapple with each other as the boat heaves and tips underneath them. Just when I’m terrified it will tip, dumping both into the frigid water, I hear a gunshot.

The sudden sound of it echoes across the lake’s surface, shattering the night.

My insides seize with panic. I watch helplessly as Sam stumbles back, his hand grabbing for his arm. His foot must catch on something in the bottom of the boat because he’s suddenly teetering, one arm pinwheeling to regain his balance but failing.

He falls, and I hear another loud crack as his head slams against the gunwale. He disappears from view into the boat.

“Sam!” I throttle down and yank the wheel sharply, turning the boat and allowing momentum to carry me sideways toward the other craft, where Madison stands, gun clutched in her hands, the barrel pointed toward where Sam fell.

I pull my own gun, flipping off the safety as I raise it. “Drop it, Madison!”

She spins to face me, the boat teetering at her sudden shift in weight. Her hair is disheveled, and her clothes are dirty and torn. Her eyes go wide when she sees me, her mouth parting slightly in surprise. Then she notices the gun aimed at her chest.

She draws in a sharp breath and swings her arms wide, her gun still gripped in her hands but pointed away from me. “Oh, thank God! Gwen!” She’s practically sobbing.

All I can think about is Sam lying at the bottom of that boat. Shot. Bleeding. I need to get to him. My heart trips against my ribs, panic pressing against my lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

“H-he was trying to kill me,” Madison blubbers.

“Drop the fucking gun!” I scream. I can’t get to Sam while she’s still armed.

She jerks her head back as though she’s been hit. She opens her mouth, seems to think better of whatever she was about to say, and closes it. With a flick of her wrist, she tosses the gun overboard. It hits the water with a splash, and I let out small breath of relief that she didn’t resist.

“Get to the back of the boat,” I order her. “Hands on top of your head.”

“Gwen,” she starts. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m not the enemy here. Sam came after me. I swear. He was trying to⁠—”

I don’t want to hear it. Not right now. “Move!” I growl at her.

She must see the terror and rage on my face because she swallows and nods. Without lowering her arms, she shuffles to the rear of the boat and sits.

It’s the best I’m going to get. Keeping my gun trained on her, I crouch and use my free arm to reach between the boats, grabbing the rail of the other and pulling us together. The sides collide with a screech of metal that sends both vessels tipping.

I get my first glimpse of Sam. He’s lying crumpled in the bow. Blood spills from a wound in his arm and collects in a puddle under his head from where it cracked against the gunwale.

His face is pale. His eyes closed.

He’s not moving.

All the breath leaves my lungs. No! I scream inside. Nonononono. This isn’t happening. He’s not dead. He can’t be. Not after everything we’ve been through together. After everything we’ve survived.

I scuttle into the other boat, dropping to my knee beside him. Trying to keep the gun on Madison, I press my fingers to the side of his throat with my free hand. Please please please please⁠—

There’s a pulse. Steady and strong. His chest rises and falls evenly.

He’s alive.

I want to collapse with relief, but I can’t. Instead, I let out a slow, tremulous breath.

“Get us to shore,” I order Madison.

She’s still sitting at the rear of the boat, hands on her head. She doesn’t move. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, Gwen. You have to believe me.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” I feel my control slipping. “Get this fucking boat started now!”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know how,” she wails.

“Prime the damn engine and pull the cord.”

She hesitates, then scrambles toward the motor.

While she’s focused on that, I try to assess Sam’s wounds, but it’s difficult one-handed. I glance again toward Madison, still fumbling with the motor. I calculate the distance between us, trying to determine whether it’s safe for me to set the gun down. If she lunges at me, can I grab it before she makes it across the length of the boat?

It’s a risk I’m willing to take. My eyes dart between Madison and Sam as I run my hands down his body. I find the wound on his arm—a through-and-through shot up near the shoulder. Not life-threatening.

The real issue is the gash on his head from where he hit the gunwale. I gently probe at the area. The bone feels intact, but it’s a bad sign that he’s still unconscious. His injuries aren’t immediately life-threatening, but he needs a hospital.

“I’m here, Sam,” I murmur, pressing my hand against his forehead. “You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

I still haven’t heard the cough of the engine and I look back to see what’s taking Madison so long. She crouches at the stern, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t,” she sobs. “Sam’s the one who started it the first time. I’m trying to remember what he did, but something’s wrong with it. I—I think it’s flooded or something.”

I curse under my breath. I consider crawling back there and starting it myself, but my gut tells me to keep my distance. She’s dangerous—despite her attempts to appear otherwise. I could try to haul Sam into the boat I used, but I dismiss that idea out of hand. It would be too dangerous and unwieldy.

But that does give me an idea. “Get in the other boat,” I tell Madison. If I can put some distance between us, I can get to the stern and start the engine. I can get us to shore and find help for Sam. It’s a risk, and it might give her a chance to escape, but right now, that’s not my biggest concern. Sam is.

Madison shifts to her knees, hands in front of her, pleading. “You have to listen to me, Gwen. Sam came to my house tonight. He swore he was going to kill me.”

As much as I don’t want to believe her, I realize there’s a solid chance she’s telling the truth. Not him threatening to kill her, but him going to her house to confront her. Obviously, whatever plan he had—if he even had one—backfired. I don’t know how she got the upper hand, but he clearly underestimated her.

If Sam were conscious, I would grab him and ask him what the hell he’d been thinking. Once we get to the hospital and he’s cleared by the doctors, I plan to do just that.

But I have to get him to shore first.

“Get in the other boat,” I tell her again, my voice menacing.

Except she won’t shut up. “He pulled a gun on me, Gwen. He forced me down here. He was going to drown me, just like he did Rowan. I saw him the night she was murdered. Through the window. I was up getting a glass of water and I watched him come home late. I saw the mud on his pants.”

I shake my head. “He had a flat tire,” I tell her, echoing the excuse he’d given me. Even I recognize how lame it sounds. That’s the problem with alibis—sometimes they’re so mundane they seem ridiculous.

“Look.” She shifts, holding up her right leg. There’s a thick rope tied around her ankle. The other end is attached to a concrete block resting in the stern. “He was going to drown me. Why would I do this to myself?”

My throat goes dry. She has a point. I glance at Sam, still unconscious by my side. I watch his chest rise and fall evenly. I know this man. I know his heart. I know he would do anything for our family. The doubts from before nip at the edges of my thoughts.

Could he kill to protect us? Yes.

Would he? Maybe.

That’s the problem, I can’t definitively say he wouldn’t.

But I do know he wouldn’t do it like this. Melvin dumped his victims in a lake after murdering them. Sam would never do anything to echo Melvin. Sam’s not cruel like Melvin was.

Sam isn’t a monster.

“You’re lying,” I spit at her.

She shakes her head. “I swear, I’m not! He was about to throw me in. Just like Rowan. But I was able to get his gun from him. That’s what you saw—me defending myself. You have to believe me, Gwen.” She tugs on the rope. “I wouldn’t do this to myself.”

She’s so convincing with her tangled hair and wide eyes. The expression, the cowering, the crack in her voice, the way her lower lip trembles. She looks young and afraid, and the mother in me wants to go to her, pull her into my arms, and tell her it will be okay.

Except it’s not real. None of it is. I have to remind myself that some of the deadliest creatures in the world are the most beautiful.

I want to tell her that I know she’s full of shit and that she was the one who dug up Melvin’s grave and killed those men. But I don’t because, more than anything else, I just want her gone so I can help Sam.

I shake my head. Steady my aim. “Get in the other boat.”

She blinks, setting tears streaming down her cheeks. She waits for me to waver. When I don’t, she heaves a trembling breath and crawls to the side. The boats have drifted apart slightly, and I shift my weight to keep us from tipping as she leans out over the water to reach for the other craft and pull it close.

Except instead of grabbing it, she shoves it away. Our own boat dips from her movement, and I throw myself to the other side to keep us from capsizing.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout, watching helplessly as the other boat drifts away. There’s no question that it was deliberate on her part. Rage and helplessness pour through me. I raise my gun, aiming it at her chest. “Start the engine. Now.”

She laughs, throwing her arms wide. “What are you going to do? Shoot me? Good! Go for it! I’ve been waiting for the real Gina Royal to show up for a while now.”

I grind my teeth. Am I willing to shoot her to save Sam?

My heart thunders against my ribs.

“Do it,” Madison says. Taunting me.

Something in her has snapped. It’s like she’s become a different person. Gone are the tears, the trembling lip, the Bambi eyes.

Now, I see it: her madness. This is the woman who killed all those men and set Sam up to take the fall. The psychopath who dug up Melvin’s grave. The woman who methodically found her way into my life so she could unravel it from the inside out.

How did I never notice it before? How was she able to fool me so completely?

Just like Melvin did.

People died because I fell for Madison’s deceit.

Just like with Melvin.

How, after all these years, after everything I’ve been through, am I still naïve little Gina Royal, who can’t even find the monster when it’s standing right in front of her?

Except when Gina Royal was confronted with a monster, she ran and hid.

That’s not who I am anymore.

I shift my grip on the gun, dropping my finger to the trigger.

I could do it. Pull the trigger and be done with her. Or, I could lunge for the concrete block and toss it overboard. I could argue self-defense.

But would it be?

I glance down at Sam and remember how recently I’d wondered how far he’d go to protect us. Whether he would kill for us. Whether he already had.

Except now, it’s me in that predicament, facing that question: What am I willing to do for my family?

Can I kill Madison to save Sam?

Absolutely I can.

But will I?

She watches me, and I wonder if she realizes that I’m weighing the value of her life. Wondering if she deserves to live. Maybe killing her would be a good thing—vigilante justice. Ridding the world of a brutal serial killer.

Except that’s not how it works. Whether someone lives or dies shouldn’t be up to me. Melvin thought he had the right to make that choice. Apparently, Madison does too.

None of us has that right.

We all deserve due process. Justice doesn’t exist without it.

I’m not like Melvin. I never will be.

I’ll have to find another way to save Sam.

Thankfully, just then something catches my eye past her shoulder—blue lights flashing in the distance, a police car turning onto the road that circles the lake. Another trails behind it. I nearly go weak with relief. Even if Diakos didn’t get my message about the lake, others would have heard the gunshot and called it in. It won’t be long before they have a police boat in the water.

I grab Sam’s hand with my free one and squeeze. Hold on, I urge him silently. I slide my fingers to his wrist, finding his pulse—still steady and strong. I start to feel hope that this whole ordeal will be over soon.

That doesn’t mean I drop my gun. I shift my finger back to the barrel and keep the muzzle trained on her in case she decides to attack. I wouldn’t put it past her.

“This isn’t going to end well for you, Madison,” I warn her. Now that I know the truth, I plan to make sure she goes down for all those murders, clearing Sam’s name in the process.

She stands with her legs wide, feet braced near the sides of the narrow boat. She begins to shift her weight from side to side, rocking the boat. I drop Sam’s hand and reach for the gunwale to keep my balance.

I try to keep my gun trained on her, but it’s difficult with the boat pitching beneath me. I may only be a yard or two away, but with all this motion it’s not a guaranteed hit.

“You know how easy it would be to flip this thing?” she asks.

“It would be suicide,” I point out. “You’re still tethered to the cement block.”

She grins. “Maybe it would be worth it to take out Sam as well. Would be hard for him to swim given how unconscious he is. You might try to hold him above water, but we all watched Titanic and know how that ends.”

I grip the side of the boat tighter, trying to counterbalance her movements. It doesn’t do much to stop the rocking. I glance down at Sam. If we tip, I need to be ready to grab for him.

“It would be really great if you could wake up about now,” I murmur to him.

She tilts her head to the side. “You know, I’ve never understood why you’re so loyal to that man.” She gestures toward Sam. “After everything he tried to do to destroy your family. He hunted you and your kids. He lied to you. He was a founding member of the Lost Angels. Yet, somehow, you’re okay with it all.”

“My relationship with Sam is none of your business.” I’m so damn tired of having my life and my choices scrutinized.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, God a fucking apologist. You’re better than that, Gina! You deserve more! I have to be honest with you. You have terrible taste in men.”

I grind my teeth, anger flushing my cheeks. “Why are you doing this, Madison? What do you want?”

She slows her rocking and meets my eyes. “You,” she says simply. “Gina Royal.”

I nearly laugh. Of any answer she could have given, I wasn’t expecting that one. “You want a milquetoast, naïve housewife?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s just us now, Gina. You don’t have to pretend.”

I shake my head. She’s not making any sense. “Pretend about what?”

She looks disappointed by my answer. I don’t care. My only goal is to keep her distracted until the police get here. Plus, the more I learn, the more ammo I have to use against her when all of this is over.

“I know you, Gina.” The continued sound of my old name on her lips makes my skin crawl.

“You know nothing about me.” I bite out.

She laughs. “You don’t understand. During your trial, I watched you in that courtroom. How well you played the victim, made everyone believe you knew nothing about Melvin’s crimes. That you weren’t involved.”

“That’s because I wasn’t involved.”

She ignores my outburst. “You gave me a look one day. It was during a sidebar, when your attorney was up arguing with the judge at the bench. You glanced around the courtroom and your eyes found mine and it was just…“ She pauses as if overcome with emotion.

She blows out a trembling breath and smiles. “You don’t understand. All my life, I’ve felt different than everyone around me. I thought maybe it was because I was an orphan, but even in college, when no one knew my history, I had trouble making friends and connecting with others. There was something always missing. There were times I’d get so angry and I would just—” She cuts herself off, opening and closing her hands into fists.

“That day. That moment—when you looked at me and held my eyes for so long. You saw me. I felt this…connection between us. I knew right then that you were like me. We were the same. That part of me that no one else understood? You got it.”

She sounds rapturous, like she’s describing a moment of spiritual conversion. “That’s when I knew the truth about you—that you’d been the mastermind behind all those murders. That Melvin was your patsy—the same way Sam’s your patsy now. I knew right then and there that I was going to follow in your footsteps. That one day I would prove myself worthy of you.”

I stare at her, dumbstruck. I try to remember the moment she’s talking about, but the entire trial is a blur. I remember nothing like she’s describing. More than likely, I was staring into space, and she happened to be in my line of sight, and I didn’t realize it.

Madison’s expression gleams with fervor as she leans toward me. “All of this, the men I killed, setting Sam up, it was to prove to you that I’m ready to be your partner. I’m ready to fulfill that promise we made to each other back then.”

I’m so stunned by everything she’s saying that I almost miss the confession. It’s like a gut punch: not just her admitting to all the murders and trying to pin them on Sam, but that they were all for me. That somehow, I was her inspiration.

I feel sick. I never wanted any of this.

I have no idea what to say—how to respond. I look at Madison. There’s such naked desperation in her eyes. She’s laid herself bare before me, hungry for my approval. I’m struck by the familiarity of it. How many times have I seen that expression on my kids’ faces? The desire to impress when what they really wanted was just to be seen and loved. Cherished.

For a moment, all I see is this lonely little girl who lost her parents and just wanted someone in her life to take care of her, to understand her. The mother in me aches for her and mourns what she’s become.

“I’m sorry, Madison,” I say softly. “That’s not who I am. That’s not who I’ll ever be.”

“You are,” she cries, petulant. Reminding me how incredibly young she still is. “You’re Gina Royal.”

“I’m not.” I say it gently, the way I would to a child when explaining that Santa isn’t real, knowing that you’re breaking some part of them in the process.

She stares at me, waiting for me to take it back. I don’t. Her eyes flood with tears.

In the distance, I hear the sound of a boat engine catching. The wail of a siren cuts through the stillness. It won’t be long before the police arrive.

Madison hears it too and knows what it means. She shifts, sending the boat rocking. I grab at the gunwale, terrified she might really tip us over. Instead, she reaches into the bottom of the boat and lifts up the cinderblock—the one that’s tied to her ankle. “We could have been partners. True partners.” She sets her shoulders and glances toward the water.

With a jolt, I realize what she’s about to do.

I lower my finger to the trigger, training the gun on her. “Don’t do anything stupid, Madison,” I warn her.

She smiles a little at that. “What are you going to do? Shoot me? Prove me right that you’re a killer?”

I clench my teeth. If I shoot her and she falls, she might capsize the boat, pitching Sam into the water as well.

“If I can’t be your partner, at least I know he won’t be either,” she says, nodding toward Sam. “He’ll go down for my murder. You can try to tell everyone what happened out here, but no one’s going to believe you. The first time you marry a serial killer, it’s a mistake. The second time…?” She shrugs.

I realize she’s right. “If you care about me at all, Madison, you won’t do this.” I’m desperate, willing to say anything to get her to stop. I look wildly around the boat, searching for anything I can use to stop her.

“It’s because I care about you so much, Gina. You deserve better than him. He’s not worthy of you. I thought I might be, but…” She trails off and shrugs mournfully.

“Madison, please—” I shift into a crouch, moving toward the stern where the rope is coiled, hoping maybe I can grab it. Even if she goes overboard, I can stop her from being dragged into the lake. I can cut the rope and save her.

She gives me one last sad smile. “Goodbye, Gina Royal.” With the cinderblock clutched in her arms, she jumps.

29

GWEN

The water swallows Madison in an instant. The coiled rope attaching her ankle to the cinderblock zips over the edge of the hull as the slack runs out. I drop my gun and lunge for it, barely managing to grab hold of it. It burns through my fingers, tearing the skin from my palm. I tighten my grip, trying to stop it, but I can’t.

Not in time.

I have a split second to decide what to do: whether to let go or hold on.

If I let go, Madison dies.

If I hold on, I have a chance to save her, but it means leaving Sam.

Sam is stable.

The police are on their way.

I can’t let Madison go.

I need her to prove Sam’s innocence.

I’m out of time.

The rope pulls tight, and I’m yanked in after her.

The water is pure darkness. Like being swallowed by a black hole. It’s a frigid vise, clamping around my lungs. Instinct demands I let go and swim for the surface.

I ignore it. Even as I’m dragged deeper and deeper—into an abyss that is the absence of light. Of sound. Of heat.

Already, the pressure on my ears becomes painful. We’re being pulled down too fast. The weight of the concrete too much. I kick against the momentum of the cinderblock, but it’s impossible.

Despite my efforts, we’re both dragged down, down, down. Too much farther, and it will be too deep. I’ll lose the battle with my screaming lungs.

I grab the knife in my pocket.

Flick it open.

Feel for the rope.

Cut.

There’s an instant release.

One end of the rope continues into the depths. The other doesn’t. That must lead to Madison. I follow the length of it until my fingers brush something foreign. Something featherlight.

Hair.

Madison’s ponytail.

I reach for it, letting my fingers tangle and twist in it. Then, I pull tight.

She doesn’t resist, and I realize I may already be too late. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I begin to kick. With everything I have, I fight for the surface.

Madison’s limp in my arms. I drag her with me.

I follow the path of bubbles from my expiring lungs—the only way I know what direction is up.

I don’t know when the water ends, and air begins. It’s all too dark. I think this is what infinity must feel like. An endless struggle.

My lungs burn. Scream. I desperately plead with my body to hold on.

It reminds me of all those nights with Melvin. All those times he choked me during sex, and I would tell myself to hold on.

To not let go.

I would tell myself I could do this.

I would tell myself I was a survivor.

I refused to let him win then.

I will not let him win now.

Melvin trained me for this. He trained me to fight against the strain of my lungs. He trained me to see past the darkness clouding my vision. He trained me to hold my breath longer than I ever thought possible.

My hand breaks the surface. Then my head. I suck in a gasp of frozen air that burns against my lungs. I gag and reach for the edge of the boat. I haul Madison up next to me, rolling her onto her back so she faces the sky.

She sputters and coughs. Drags in a breath. Then another.

For a moment, all we can do is struggle to breathe. Panting and coughing.

Madison groans and twists in my arms. We face each other, treading water.

“You saved me,” she says, her voice raspy. She stares at me with an expression of awe and wonder. “I knew you would. I knew I wasn’t wrong about you—that you’re like me.”

I shake my head. “I’m nothing like you,” I tell her. “I’m not a monster.”

Her expression breaks. Pure disappointment and regret and sadness.

She leans toward me. Presses her cheek to mine. I feel her hand on my arm. I brace myself, worried she’s about to push me under.

Instead, she murmurs. “Yes, you are, Gina.”

Her hand closes around mine. Before I understand, before I even realize that I still hold the knife in that hand, she raises it between us. Tries to turn it against me. I’ve practiced enough self-defense that I evade her attack easily.

Too easily.

She doesn’t resist when I twist our hands so the knife’s no longer pointed in my direction. When I thrust the blade away from my face.

I realize too late that her intention isn’t to attack me. I’m not her target.

She is.

While I push away, she leans in. The knife cuts clean into her neck.

I freeze, shock washing through me.

“No,” I whisper. “Nonononononono,”

Blood, hot and thick and warm, spills over my hand. My wrist. Down my arm. It streams into the water. Darkness meeting darkness.

I flex my fingers, immediately dropping the knife. It falls into the water. It’s too late. The damage is done. A puncture wound to her neck, gaping wide.

“No!” I shout. I try to press my free hand against the wound, hoping to hold it closed. It’s no use. She cut too deep, severed too much. Her breathing gargles. She tries to speak, but it’s impossible. She begins to convulse.

“I’m here,” I tell her. I remember holding a different woman when she died. Sheryl Lansdowne had done terrible things. She’d killed her infant twins, among others. Still, she hadn’t deserved to die the way she did: tortured and left to bleed out on a cold warehouse floor.

Tears stream from Madison’s eyes, and I push her hair from her face, leaving streaks of watery red across her forehead and cheeks. I have no idea if these are tears of rage or fear or regret. All I know is that her death is a waste. Another of Melvin’s victims, his reach spreading so far from the grave.

“I’m sorry, Maddie,” I whisper in her ear. It’s true. I’m sorry for the role I unwittingly played in bringing her to this moment. I’m sorry she saw something in me that wasn’t there. I’m sorry for her loneliness and desperation.

Slowly, the fight leaves her. Her limbs go still. Her fingers twitch, grasping at something she’ll never reach. “It’s okay,” I tell her. I realize that I’m crying too.

Her hand finds mine in the water. Her fingers wrap around my own. She reminds me of an infant grasping on to comfort out of blind instinct. And I’m just so, so sad for her. I’m sad for the lives she’s taken and for her own wasted life.

When she’s gone, I hold her a moment longer, but the water is frigid, and I’m still fully dressed, which makes it difficult to stay afloat. I’m holding on to the side of the boat, but my fingers are numb, and my grip falters.

My teeth chatter, my entire body shuddering against the cold. Everything around me is darkness, the sky bleeding into the water so that one becomes the other.

“Sam!” I cry out, trying to kick at the water so I can get high enough to look over the lip of the boat. I catch a glimpse of him. He’s rolled onto his side, one hand raised to his head. My heart leaps in my chest. He’s waking up, thank God.

A blue and red strobe flickers against the night, growing stronger as the police boat nears.

“Here!” I call. My voice comes out weak and raspy, easily swallowed by the roar of the police boat’s powerful engine. It throttles down as it approaches, turning at the last minute so that it pulls up alongside us. Waves from the wake set us in motion, ripping the lip of the gunwale from my fingers.

Suddenly, I’m going under. The frigid water claws at me, the dark depths of the lake trying to lay claim. Madison is dead weight, dragging me down as I fight to stay afloat. But my limbs are heavy and slow, and I slip below the surface.

30

GWEN

Everything after that becomes a hypothermic blur: the police boat arriving, Detective Diakos shouting orders as hands pull me and Madison from the water. Paramedics strapping Sam to a backboard, shining a flashlight in his eyes and exchanging worried glances. Officers crouching over Madison’s limp body in the bow.

When we make it to shore, I refuse to leave Sam’s side. I hold his hand in the ambulance, worried by the paramedics’ silence. At the ER, I try to follow Sam in, but a nurse stops me at the door.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, you can’t go in there,” she tells me.

I open my mouth to protest, and she says, “Do you want me spending my time here, arguing with you? Or in there, helping that man?” She points toward the sliding doors where they just took Sam.

She has a point. I nod. “His name is Sam,” I manage to tell her, my voice cracking.

“I’ll let you know when we have an update on Sam. For now, you need to take care of yourself.”

Only then do I notice the water still dripping from my clothes, creating a puddle on the hospital floor. I clutch the Mylar blanket around my shoulders, but it does little to warm me. My teeth are still chattering, and my entire body shudders.

“Thank you,” I tell her. She nods and turns to go where they took Sam.

“Why don’t you come with me?” Another nurse places her arm around my shoulders, guiding me toward a curtained triage area. “Let’s get you checked out and warmed up.”

“I need to call my kids,” I say, straining to keep my teeth from chattering. I reach for my phone, only to find it’s not in my pocket. I curse under my breath. It must have fallen out when I jumped into the water after Madison, meaning it’s long gone.

“Is there a phone I can use?” I ask the nurse.

She gestures to an empty triage room. “In here,” she tells me. “I’ll get you something to change into and some warm blankets.”

It takes concerted effort to dial Lanny’s number with how badly my hands shake. As it rings, I press my lips together and concentrate on trying to sound normal. Lanny doesn’t answer, and I realize that…of course, she wouldn’t. I’m calling from an unknown number. So, I call back again, let it ring twice, hang up, and then call back. It’s our prearranged signal.

Lanny answers immediately. “Hello?” I wince at the fear in her voice.

“It’s me,” I tell her. “Everything’s okay.”

She swallows back what sounds like a sob, then lets out a tremulous breath. “Mom! What the hell? The location app showed you and Sam both out in the middle of Stillhouse Lake. We’ve all been worried sick. What’s going on?”

I try to find the balance between telling her enough of the truth without triggering any alarms. I don’t want to send her and the others into a panic. “There was an accident, and Sam hit his head. We’re at the hospital getting it looked at.”

“Why were you out on the lake? It’s freezing outside.”

I can still feel the chill in my bones. “I know. It’s a really long story, and I promise I’ll tell you everything. But right now, I need to go check on Sam.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Her voice sounds small, scared.

“Yeah, he should be.” I close my eyes, hoping that what I just said wouldn’t end up being a lie.

“Are we still in danger?”

I press my fingers against my eyes. I wonder if the answer to that question will ever be an unequivocal no. But the current threat is over. At least for now. “No, we’re good. Sam and I took care of it.”

She waits. When I don’t say anything more she lets out a dramatic huff. “You’re not going to explain, are you?”

I glance toward the doorway, knowing that anyone could overhear whatever I say. I’m acutely aware of the fact that I was found clutching the body of a woman who’d been stabbed in the neck. The police are going to have questions for me, and I want to make sure I choose my words carefully when I answer them.

“Not right now. I’m sorry, I know that’s frustrating.”

“Ugh. Fine. I understand,” she grumbles begrudgingly.

“Is everyone okay there?” I ask.

“Yeah, Connor and Javi are out in the barn, putting together a bunk bed for one of the new guest rooms. Florida’s in the nursery, teaching Kez how to properly fold onesies. Apparently, the extended Belldene family has had lots of babies, so she’s had plenty of practice. I was pretending to read while trying not to freak the fuck out about the fact that you and Sam were out in the middle of a frigid lake for some fucking reason.” She isn’t able to hide her bitterness with that last statement.

I close my eyes at the anger and accusation in her voice. I can understand why she’s upset. “I’m sorry we scared you.” I mean it with every fiber of my being.

“Yeah, well…” She trails off. In any other family, the end of that sentence would be: Don’t do it again. Unfortunately, we’re not like other families, and that’s not a promise any of us can make.

As much as I wish I could race to Kez’s and pull my kids into my arms, I know I have a long night ahead of me. “I still haven’t had a chance to talk to the doctor about Sam. It might be a while before I can come get you all. You okay to stay there tonight?”

“Yeah, we already figured that. Kez and Javi said the three of us can stay as long as we want.” She pauses, then says, “You’re sure you’re okay? You’re not just saying that, so I don’t panic?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to infuse my words with as much sincerity as I can. “I’m okay.”

“Make sure you stay that way,” she says. “I may act like I’m ready to leave the nest—and in some ways, I am—but I’m not ready to leave you. So, you can’t leave me either.”

My throat tightens. “I won’t,” I tell her. “I promise.”

After my call with Lanny, a nurse comes in to take my vitals and drop off a pair of dry scrubs and a mound of warm blankets. She lets me know that Sam is stable, and they’ve sent him upstairs to get images of his head to make sure there are no fractures or internal bleeding. Once he’s been transferred to a room, they’ll let me know so I can see him.

I quickly change, my entire body shuddering with near ecstasy when I wrap myself in the heated blankets. I take a moment to breathe, trying to regroup after everything that’s happened.

Except I can’t stop feeling the boat rocking under me when Madison taunted me and threatened to capsize us. I can’t stop hearing the way she screamed when we were underwater, the concrete block dragging us into the depths. I can’t stop seeing the anguish in her expression when she realized I wasn’t who she wanted or needed me to be. I can’t stop remembering how warm her blood felt against the frigid water of the lake.

My stomach roils, and I shake my head, pushing myself up from the hospital bed. Enough. Madison murdered men in cold blood. She hunted them, tracked them, in some instances tortured them, then executed them. She’s a monster. Like Melvin.

She was only a monster because of you, a voice whispers in my head. She killed those men for you.

I press a fist against my chest, a familiar guilt settling heavily on my heart. It’s the same blame I still feel for not figuring out about Melvin earlier and stopping him. The same recriminations begin to pile up fast and hard in my brain. If I’d asked more questions, if I’d looked closer, if I’d connected the dots…

Thankfully, a doctor arrives, breaking the vicious thought cycle. He lets me know that Sam’s scans are clear—no fractures or internal bleeding. He does have a concussion, however, and since it’s not his first one, they want to keep him for a day or two to monitor him. He tells me it may take a while, but says Sam should make a full recovery.

I nearly weep with relief but force myself to keep it together as the doctor leads me to Sam’s room. When I get there, I pause in the doorway, overcome by the sight of him in the hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and monitors. He’s bare from the waist up, leads placed around his chest. A white bandage covers his arm, and another encircles his head. His eyes are closed and ringed purple, his face pale.

My heart hurts, and I press my lips tight, trying to stop the tears from clawing their way up my throat.

He’s alive, I remind myself. He’s going to be okay.

There’s a chair by the bed, and I pull it close, gently taking his hand in mine. His eyes flutter for a moment before slowly opening. He stares at me, and for the briefest second, I’m not sure he knows who I am. Then, the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s as close to a smile as I’m going to get.

He tries to talk, but it only comes out as a strained, “Hey.”

“Shhh,” I tell him. I squeeze his hand. “I’m here. I’m okay. We’re all okay.”

“The kids?”

“Safe,” I tell him.

There’s a slight delay as the information filters through his brain, then his face relaxes somewhat with relief. After a moment, he asks, “What happened?”

That’s a good question. One I would love the answer to myself. What in the hell was he thinking going after Madison? And how did he end up out on the lake? “What’s the last thing you remember?”

He closes his eyes, frowning, then winces. “It’s all—” He swallows several times. “Thinking makes me nauseous.”

“Shhh,” I tell him, laying a hand on his chest. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out later. Right now, the doctor said that rest would help your recovery the most.”

He lifts a hand and places it on top of mine. “You’re freezing cold,” he murmurs. “You been carrying around ice cubes?” He lets out a soft laugh. I don’t have the stomach to tell him how close to the truth his joke actually is.

“Something like that,” I say instead.

He smiles, and his eyes drift closed. “I love you, Gwen. Thanks for giving me a chance all those years ago.”

It takes a moment for me to be able to speak around the ache in my throat. “I love you too.”

I’m not sure if he hears me or not. His breathing has already fallen into the deeper, steadier rhythm of sleep. I sit, listening to the familiarity of it. How many nights have I lain awake in bed, the sound of him filling my ears?

How close did I come to losing that tonight? The thought alone threatens to doubles me over in pain.

“You shouldn’t have gone after Madison,” I whisper, not wanting to wake him. I clutch his hand tighter. “You can’t risk yourself like that. We need you.”

I realize this must be how Sam felt sitting by my hospital bed after I chased after Jonathan Watson and ended up nearly falling to my death: this same mixture of rage and pain and terror and helplessness.

“We have to find a different way to live our lives,” I tell him. “No more getting shot. No more hospitals.” Of course, if saying it could make it true, we’d have already found a way past all of this long before.

I run my thumb across his knuckles, slowly tracing the rise and fall of his bones. “I have a confession. There were times I thought you might have been the one behind the sicko murders. Maybe I should feel sorry for that, but I’m not sure that I do. A part of me feels like, as your partner, I should have trusted you and believed in you, but…that’s where I went wrong with Melvin. I gave him my blind loyalty, and look what happened.”

I continue tracing the bones of his hand, down the length of his fingers. “I’m not saying I don’t trust you. I do. I just think that perhaps trust isn’t about blind faith, but maybe instead it’s about allowing yourself to ask questions and facing the reality of whatever answers you find.”

I let out a soft laugh. “Though maybe this is a conversation to have when you’re actually conscious.” I lean forward, cupping his cheek gently. “What I know is this: I love you, Sam Cade. I believe in you. And I plan to live the rest of my life with you, so I need you to get better and then stay whole and safe so we can enjoy it together.”

I stay that way for a moment, my thumb tracing his cheekbone, the machines chiming and beeping, his chest rising and falling steadily. I promise myself that things will be different. This time, we’ll find a way through.

The exhaustion of the day catches up with me, and I’m hovering on the edge of sleep when my senses ping that something is off. I straighten immediately and swivel toward the door, just as it swings shut with a soft click.

Standing in front of it, blocking the only exit, is Lilah Belldene, matriarch of the Belldene clan.

My stomach jolts, my body shifting instantly into threat mode. I lunge for the emergency call button on the other side of Sam’s bed, but she steps forward and yanks it away before I can grab it.

I search wildly for a weapon, but there’s nothing useful. So, I push to my feet and tighten my hands into fists. I’m pretty certain Lilah knows her way around a fight and likely plays dirty. Given my exhaustion and recent dunk in the frozen depths of Stillhouse Lake, I’m not sure how much energy I have, but I won’t make it easy for her.

I assume she’s here because of the rumors that Sam and I are the ones responsible for the feds raiding their property. I don’t doubt she’s seeking retribution. I try to head her off. “I wasn’t the one who tipped off the feds,” I quickly tell her. “Neither was Sam.”

I glance toward the bed. Sam’s still asleep, oblivious to what’s going on around him. Right now, he’s between Lilah and me, and I don’t like how vulnerable that makes him. I shift to the side, moving away from him and drawing her attention away with me.

“I know,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We got word it was that reporter livin’ out by your place. Some folk might argue she wouldn’t’a been here if it weren’t for you. So, I ain’t got no problem laying a bit of blame at your feet. But this ain’t about that.”

I notice the bags under her eyes and the worry lines caked into the foundation covering her forehead. She doesn’t look as put-together as she normally does, which is understandable given the warrant out for her arrest. Which makes it even more strange that she’s here, where someone might see her and call the cops.

“What’s this about, then?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.

“I hear you’re the one who picked up my girl and been taking care of her.”

So that’s what this is about. Florida. Does she think we kidnapped her? That we’re somehow holding her against her will?

“She asked us for help,” I tell her, bristling.

“And you gave it to her. She okay?”

I hear the worry in her voice. As a mom, I know that feeling well. I don’t plan on telling her where Florida is, but I can give her this at least: “She’s safe.”

She nods once, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Have the feds come ’round to talk to her?”

My stomach sours, wondering if Lilah’s here hoping to intimidate Florida into keeping her mouth shut. I refuse to let Florida be any kind of pawn. “Not yet. When they do, they’ll have to contend with our lawyer first. I don’t plan on letting the authorities get anywhere near Florida without legal representation.”

She smiles. “Good. She never did nothing wrong. She wasn’t a part of any of this.”

“I know.”

“She tell you she got into college?” She smiles faintly, admiration gleaming in her eyes. “She’ll be the first of us to go. She’s always had her head in the clouds, that one.” I hear the pride in her voice. It’s the same as I’ve felt for Lanny.

We may be different in almost every way, but there is one thing Lilah and I share. We’re both mothers who care for our families above all else. I think that’s one reason she never followed through on taking us out.

“Florida’s a good kid,” I tell her.

A look of sadness crosses her face. “She is. We offered for her to come with us, but…” She trails off. Clears her throat. “You’ll take care of her?”

“As if she were my own,” I say without hesitation.

“Even if she and Lanny ain’t together no more?”

I’m surprised to hear that she knows about Lanny and Florida’s relationship. I search her face for any judgment, but don’t find any.

“Florida saved Connor’s and Sam’s lives when they were kidnapped before. She encouraged Lanny to go after her dreams. I owe her. So yes, I’ll take care of her regardless of what happens between her and my daughter.”

“I don’t want any of what’s going on with the rest of us gettin’ in the way of Florida’s dreams. You hear me?” She leans in, eyes meeting mine to make sure I’m listening. “You tell her she comes first. Whatever it takes, she comes out of this clean. If that means cooperating with the feds, then that’s what she’s to do.”

My smile is a bit sharper than I intend when I say, “Trust me, I’ve got no problem making sure she saves herself at your expense.”

The corner of her mouth lifts at that. “Jasper’s taken off already,” she tells me. “Feds won’t find him. I’m on my way to join him.”

“Isn’t that going to be a little tough with a warrant out for your arrest?”

She waves a hand. “We been good to the citizens of Norton. That buys a lot of goodwill. They tend to show appreciation for that kind of thing.”

That’s one way of saying they bribed the hell out of anyone who might stand in their way.

She looks at me pointedly. “I’m sure there will still be plenty of folk willing to do us favors after we’re gone.”

Which means, if she wanted to continue her reign of terror over us, she could. We both know all I would have to do is open my mouth and shout, and I’d probably bring down enough trouble that she couldn’t escape. But I also recognize that she’s offering me a truce of sorts.

We help take care of Florida, and they let us live in peace.

I tell her, “You’re lucky to have lived in a community that cared so much about you. I hope we find that same level of belonging once you’re gone.”

It’s my way of laying claim. Letting her know we have a right to stay if we want.

She smiles tightly. “I’m sure you will.”

She hesitates for a moment and then lifts a hand, running a finger along the side of her mouth as though wiping away an errant speck of makeup. “You tell her…” Her voice cracks. “You tell her we love her and to take care.”

“You could always tell her yourself,” I offer. “Turn yourself in. Let her come visit you.”

She twists her lips. “We got folk who depend on us. Can’t do much for ’em behind bars.”

“The feds aren’t going to give up on finding you. Being on the run isn’t a great life. Take it from someone who lived that life for several years.”

She looks at me with pity. “I’m sure you tried your best, but you ain’t exactly the type to know how to work the system. We knew this day was coming. We’ve been planning how to get out for a while. We’ll be okay. We’re retiring early—gettin’ out of the game. You tell Florida not to worry about us.”

She steps closer and places a hand on mine. Her touch is gentle, but her fingers are calloused and rough. Working hands that have seen tough times and made it through. “We ain’t even, Gwen.” It doesn’t escape my notice that she calls me Gwen. The first time we met, she was relentless in calling me Mrs. Proctor.

I stiffen, waiting for the inevitable threat.

“You taking care of Florida means we owe you one. Say the word, we’ll repay that debt.” She meets my eyes and smiles. “Just think if you’d known us back in the day. We’d have taken care of that Melvin problem of yours right quick.”

She pats my hand, then turns to make her way out of the room. “You be good now, y’hear?”

The moment she’s gone, I swing to check on Sam. He’s still asleep. He missed the entire confrontation. I’m not even sure he’ll believe me when I tell him.

I’m still marveling at Lilah’s complete about-face several moments later when there’s a knock at the door. At first, I think it might be her returning to tell me she was just kidding and that my family and I have twenty-four hours to leave town or else. Instead, it’s Detective Diakos.

He’s usually so put-together that it’s strange to see him in jeans and a sweatshirt with a Norton Police Department windbreaker. His hair is still windblown from the boat, and there’s a day’s growth of stubble on his jaw.

I wait for him to smile. When he doesn’t, my stomach sinks. His expression has me worried.

“How’s Sam?” he asks.

“Concussion,” I answer succinctly. “He doesn’t remember anything that happened,” I add. I want to make it clear that Sam is in no shape to be interrogated.

He nods. “The doctor said that was a possibility and to give it time. But I’m not here for him.” The implication is that he’s here for me. I steel myself, waiting.

“Some new evidence has come to light,” he says. “I think it’s time we talk.”

31

GWEN

Diakos agrees to wait for me to find a lawyer, and I immediately text Kez for a suggestion since our usual attorney, Claudia, is already representing Sam and can’t represent us both. Thankfully, the woman Kez recommended answers on the second ring, which is how I find myself in an unused hospital conference room with a woman named Victorinne Johnson next to me and Detective Diakos across from me. A small camera sits on a tripod at the end of the table, recording everything.

We go through the night’s events, and I tell him everything, repeating the same story I shared with my new lawyer. Diakos listens, taking notes, and occasionally asking questions. For the most part, though, he just lets me talk.

When I’m done, he finishes writing something in his notebook and then sets his pen on top of the page before sitting back in his chair. He considers me for a moment. I try to hold on to the fact that Kez thinks highly of Diakos and considers him fair and reasonable. He had his doubts about Sam after Leo’s blood was found in the Stillhouse Lake house, but he held off on recommending charges because he knew there wasn’t enough evidence.

He didn’t try to push for a conviction just to increase his numbers. He actually cares about the truth.

Diakos taps his fingers against the table a few times as he seems to consider his next move.

“There’s something you should know,” he finally says.

The tone of his voice causes my stomach to churn with anxiety. I’m not going to like whatever comes next.

He pulls a small recorder from his pocket and places it between us. He presses play. There’s the click of a phone line picking up. The moment I hear the voice, I recognize it from earlier tonight. “911, what’s your⁠—?”

The emergency operator is cut off by my frantic voice. “Tell Diakos they’re out on Stillhouse Lake. I’m going after them.”

It’s the call I made while chasing after Sam and Madison earlier. In the background, I hear my feet pounding against the old wooden dock. A shiver traces down my spine as I recall the panic I felt in that moment.

“I remember the call,” I tell Diakos. I’m not sure why he feels the need to replay it.

He holds up a hand, indicating I should wait and keep listening.

The 911 operator continues calling out, “Ma’am? Ma’am, are you there? Can you hear me? Ma’am?”

There’s a loud clatter that confuses me at first. Then I remember…I dropped my phone in the boat before jumping in. That’s why I didn’t have it on me when I wanted to call Lanny earlier. At least that means it’s not at the bottom of the lake.

Suddenly, I understand the implications of what we’re listening to. I never hung up the call. So, unless the emergency operator did—which is incredibly unlikely—it would have continued recording. Which means, it would have caught the conversation I had with Madison.

My heart begins to pound so hard in my chest that my entire body thrums with it.

Madison confessed before she jumped into the lake. And we have a recording.

I shift to the edge of my chair, barely breathing as I listen. There’s the catch of the motor, the slap of the hull against the lake’s surface as I sped after Madison and Sam. I know what’s coming and brace myself. Even so, the gunshot causes me to jolt. I swallow, my throat thick at the memory of Sam stumbling back and falling.

On the recording, I scream. I swallow thickly, listening as I cut the engine and shout for Madison to drop her weapon. Then another splash.

“That was her gun hitting the water,” I inform them. I glance toward Diakos. He nods, saying nothing—not wanting to interrupt the playback.

I note the way he watches me and try to school my features, but I can’t. I’m nearly giddy with relief. This recording will prove Sam’s innocence. Mine as well.

I lean back in my chair as the conversation between Madison and me plays out. Some words are drowned out by the splash of water against the metal hull, but not so much that we can’t hear most of what’s said.

I hear myself shout at her to get in the other boat. I hold my breath, seeing it all in my head. The way she moved toward the side, how she leaned out over the water. Then the push that sent my boat drifting away.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I hear myself scream. I wince at the rage in my voice. It’s even more evident when I demand again that she start the engine. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m saying; it’s harder to hear, the words drowned out by the waves hitting the hull.

The next part comes through clearly though, at least enough of it: Madison saying, “Are you going to…shoot me?”

Diakos’s focus on me is razor sharp. I realize that it’s impossible to hear the taunt in her voice on the recording. If you can’t see the way she’s holding her arms wide, the way she’s standing and waiting, practically crooking her fingers at me in invitation, then you might miss the implication of her words.

In fact, if you don’t know what you’re listening for, you might just think she’s begging for her life. Which is really, really bad for me.

After that, it’s hard to hear much of anything. The lake slaps against the boat, the sound of it echoing in the small conference room. I know Madison and I were still talking at this point. This is when she ended up confessing to all the murders.

Except the boat with my phone has drifted too far away.

I squeeze my eyes shut as I move closer to the recorder, struggling to make out our conversation.

I might hear voices, but it’s difficult to tell, and I certainly can’t pick out any words. My stomach churns, my breathing tight.

Diakos reaches forward to end the recording, but I pull the machine out of reach, clutching it to my ear. “She confessed,” I tell him. I sound desperate because I am. “This is when she said she killed all those men for me.”

From his expression, I can tell Diakos wants to believe me, but I’m not sure he actually does. I shake my head as the hope I’d felt earlier congeals into something sour. “There has to be something you can do. Some sort of audio filter you can run this through to amplify our voices.”

He takes the recorder from me. “We already did. This is the best we could get.”

I press my fingertips against my temples and take a deep breath. I’d hoped the recording would be the easy way out of this mess. But if anything, it only makes things worse.

I swallow back bile, my stomach churning.

“I’ve already spoken to the DA,” he says. He taps his fingers against the table again, and I wonder if he recognizes it’s a tell—something he does before delivering bad news. I brace myself.

“I’m sorry, Gwen. The DA plans to press charges against Sam.”

Anger and frustration rise up my neck, burning my cheeks. I expected Sam to be a suspect, but I figured that would just mean an investigation. That once the police sorted through all the evidence, they would realize Sam’s innocence. “For what?”

“Kidnapping. Assault. Attempted murder.”

I gasp in shock and outrage. “What?!” It’s worse than I thought it might be. “But he didn’t do any of that,” I argue. “Weren’t you listening to what I said earlier?”

Diakos looks at me with pity. “We have it on tape.” He gestures to the recorder on the table. “Madison, in her own words, saying that he came to her house and held her at gunpoint. We have the rope tied around her ankle, and your own admission that the other end was tied to a cement block.”

“She did that to herself,” I protest.

Diakos presses his lips together. I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “A jury won’t believe she did it to herself.”

“But that’s exactly what happened!” I shout. “I thought you cared about the truth, not what you could get a jury to buy.”

His expression folds into a frown. I’ve offended him.

Beside me, Victorinne rests a hand on my arm. Her way of telling me to cool my emotions and be careful what I say. I don’t have to be careful, what I’m saying is the truth. “Madison Westcott was a psychopath who was obsessed with me.”

“Obsessed enough to kill herself? If she cared about you so much, why would she set you up to take the fall for murdering her?” He lets that hang in the air.

I want to answer, but Victorinne’s grip tightens on my arm. “Is there anything else you need from us?” she asks crisply.

Diakos holds my eyes for a moment longer before breaking contact. “No. Not right now.”

She nods. “Then we’re done.”

He takes his time reaching over to turn off the video recorder.

“Gwen, I know you’re upset about the DA bringing charges against Sam,” he starts.

I snort, cutting him off. “Because he’s innocent. She set him up.”

“I get that’s your story, but I need you to listen. Off the record. You’ve got to start worrying about yourself. The DA wanted to include you in the indictment, and I talked him out of it. For now. But it’s coming. Don’t spend so much of your time and energy trying to protect Sam that you forget about protecting yourself.”

With that, he stands, packs up his equipment, and leaves.

Victorinne and I sit in silence for a moment. Shockwaves from Diakos’s revelations still echo through me. He wouldn’t be arresting Sam unless he was damn sure it would end in a conviction.

He wouldn’t be warning me if he didn’t think the same would be true for me.

My insides burn with anger, fear, and uneasiness. I’ve already been through this before: investigation, indictment, jail, trial. All for a crime I didn’t commit. Unfortunately, I worry this verdict might turn out different than the first.

The thought makes me nauseous. What will that mean for my kids? If both Sam and I are convicted, they would be on their own. It’s a realization that nearly causes a panic attack. I can’t let that happen.

“The knife used to kill Madison,” Victorinne finally says, leaving the statement open-ended.

I nod. “It was a gift from my friend Kez. The detective who works with Diakos.”

“What happened to it after Madison was injured by it?” I notice how carefully she’s choosing her words, not saying that I stabbed her.

I shrug. “I dropped it. It’s probably at the bottom of the lake by now.”

She chews her lip in concentration. “They’re going to find it,” she says. “No way they’re going to let that go. When they do, whose prints will they find on it?”

“Mine.”

“What about Madison’s?”

I close my eyes, trying to remember those final moments with Madison. It all happened so fast and was so unexpected. I picture her there in front of me. Lunging for me in the water. Her hand wrapping around mine.

But did she touch the knife itself?

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

Victorinne grimaces. “That’s likely how Diakos was able to get them to hold off charging you. They’re waiting on that. Once they have proof you were the only one holding the knife, they’re going to pick you up for first-degree murder.”

She says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s obvious. I open my mouth to protest, but the problem is that I know she’s right.

“What do we do?”

“First, if you have any plans to marry Sam, I would accelerate those. Spousal immunity is pretty difficult to pierce.”

I flinch. I’m not getting married as a defense strategy. “Not an option,” I tell her succinctly. She studies me for a moment and then nods, accepting that she’s unlikely to change my mind.

“Second, you could try to cut a deal, but⁠—”

I cut her off. “No. No deals. I’m not admitting to something I didn’t do. Neither will Sam.”

“Technically, we could seek an Alford plea, where you don’t take responsibility but⁠—”

“No,” I tell her again. “You’re talking like we’re guilty. We’re not.”

She shifts in her seat, her fingers smoothing down her long, dark ponytail. “I haven’t had a chance to give you my whole defense-attorney spiel, so let me do so now: I don’t care if you’re innocent, guilty, or all or none of the above. My job is to hold the prosecution accountable. If they have the evidence, and they crossed all their Ts and dotted their Is so that evidence is legit and admissible, there’s not much I’m going to be able to do for you. At least not until the sentencing phase.”

“But we’re both innocent,” I protest.

She looks at me a little sadly. “I really do wish that mattered. The problem is that innocent people go to jail all the time. Oftentimes, it’s due to ineffective assistance of counsel, so at least that’s one thing you won’t have to worry about.”

I consider her words. I appreciate what she’s saying, but I’m not sure how I feel about it. “I’m not sure I can work with someone who’s still questioning my guilt.”

She looks me square in the eyes. “Then find me evidence to prove your case, and we shouldn’t have a problem.”

When I get back to Sam’s hospital room, it’s the very early hours of the morning, and the hallways are quiet. Sam is still asleep, his room dark but for the monitors surrounding his bed. The doctor told me rest is the best thing for him right now—the brain has a chance to heal during sleep. So, I take care not to wake him. Instead, I sink into the chair by his bed and watch him in the scant light, wondering how the hell I’m going to keep us both from going to prison.

This can’t be how it all ends. Madison can’t win. I can’t lose Sam, after everything we’ve been through. I can’t lose my kids. Being separated from them for the rest of my life would kill me.

I think through everything I know about Madison, reconsidering every conversation and interaction with the new understanding of who she really was and what she wanted. There’s so much I still don’t understand. How did she know so much? How was she able to break into our house? How did she find Leo and have the time to murder him?

If there’s one maxim to murder, it’s that the more complicated it is, the more chances there are for failure.

Madison must have fucked up at some point. No one is that perfect of a serial killer. Everyone makes mistakes, especially killers like Madison, who think they’re too smart and clever to ever be captured.

Melvin was the same way. The arrogance of that man! I shake my head, still marveling at how close he came to getting away with the bulk of his murders. Initially, he was only charged with killing Callie—that was the one victim they had.

Then, I’d stumbled across evidence of a storage unit he’d been keeping outside of town. Turned out, that’s where Melvin had been burying his secrets. That’s where he kept the trophies from his kills. He even had journals detailing each and every gruesome, torturous death.

He’d left us a roadmap to his depravity, and it’s what ultimately sent him to death row.

If only Madison had done the same. But I’m not holding my breath. There’s no way she was stupid enough to keep incriminating evidence lying around. It would have been too much of a risk. What if I’d gotten suspicious of her and decided to go digging? What if I broke into her house while she was out, or got ahold of her computer during one of our recording sessions?

At the same time, a plan as involved and complicated as hers would require planning. It would necessitate documentation. So, where is all that paperwork?

A storage unit like Melvin’s, probably. But there must be a million of those in the country. How in the world am I supposed to narrow it down? I only found Melvin’s because he was stupid enough to list our home phone number on the rental application, and the company called when Melvin stopped paying the bills.

If I were Madison and wanted to stash things away where no one could find them, where would I go?

When it hits, the answer is so blindingly obvious that I’m sure it can’t possibly be right. Except that I can’t get the idea out of my head. And I know the only way I’ll be able to move past this is to check it out for myself.

I grasp Sam’s hand and press it to my cheek, trying not to wonder how many times we’ll be able to touch each other so freely if either of us ends up in jail. I won’t let that happen. “I’m going to fix this,” I whisper, not wanting to wake him. It’s a promise I intend to keep.

It takes three flights with ridiculously tight connections, but I land in Wichita late that morning. Within an hour, I’m standing in front of the storage locker I visited only once before, but whose location is seared in my memory.

It’s the exact same one Melvin used: the same company, the same location, the same unit. I admit I was surprised to find it still in use. I guess part of me assumed that maybe the storage company would want to retire the locker used by one of the country’s most notorious serial killers. Though, more than likely, I’m one of the few people in the world who knows this unit’s past history.

You’d have to dig pretty deep into the evidence presented at Melvin’s trial to find out about the provenance of this locker. It doesn’t surprise me that Madison did just that.

I study the unit, noting the combination padlock on the door. It’s the kind that requires a six-digit code, and I try some of the basics: 123456, 111111, 654321, but none of those work. With a huff of frustration, I crouch and stare at it for a moment longer before it comes to me.

I swivel the dials until they read 820724. The lock clicks open. I let out a laugh. Of course. The same number as Melvin’s gravestone.

My heart hammers with anticipation, causing my hands to tremble slightly as I tug the lock out of the D ring and pull open the storage locker door. My mind slips back to a similar moment all those years ago when I first learned about this place and came to investigate. It had been the middle of the night. I’d had no idea what to expect and was in no way prepared for what I found.

This time, though, I brace myself. The door clatters open, and the motion sensor light inside flickers on. It casts everything in a dull, sickly yellow. But it’s bright enough that I can see most of the locker with one sweep of my eyes.

The déjà vu is instant. The layout of the locker is almost exactly as it was the first time I visited: Stacks of plastic storage bins line the wall on the left side while the right side contains cubbies piled with a bizarre array of personal effects. In the center, sitting on a table, is a neat stack of journals.

If I hadn’t known that Melvin’s locker had been emptied after it was turned over to the authorities, I’d have sworn this was his. The storage bins with trophies, the journals on the table, the cubbies. It’s all the same.

I nearly vomit at the recognition.

“How is this possible?” I ask out loud.

It occurs to me that they showed photos of Melvin’s locker at his trial, since it was where they uncovered evidence of his other murders. Madison must have seen them and copied them when setting up her own trophy room. It’s creepy as fuck and causes my skin to crawl.

The back wall, though, is different from Melvin’s. There are two enormous corkboards mounted side by side. One is covered with photographs of me along with dozens of notecards filled with writing. In the center is a photoshopped image of Madison and me, side by side, our arms around each other like we’re best friends.

Partners in Crime is written across the bottom in bold Sharpie. I shudder at the thought and turn my attention to the other corkboard. This one is filled with photos of Sam. His eyes have been gouged out in every one.

I move deeper into the locker, careful not to touch anything, and take a closer look. Sam’s work schedule is pinned to the board, along with a list of planned flights. Several are circled in red, with names scribbled in the margins.

I recognize the names instantly: Cooper Kuntz. Forrester Blakeny. Devin Pedowitz.

All in Madison’s handwriting. In fact, all the notes pinned to the board are in her handwriting. I recognize it from the notepad she’d used to write down questions for our podcast interview.

Then I see another set of images that make me so nauseous I’m afraid I might actually puke. They’re photos of our rental house in Knoxville—the inside of it. The angles are a little weird, and it takes me a moment to realize why: They were taken from outside, through the windows.

I pull my sleeve over my hand to cover my fingers as I push the top several photos aside. There are dozens more, maybe a hundred. All taken over the course of weeks. Several are shots of the alarm system keypad in the front hall.

With a sinking stomach, I suddenly understand how she figured out our alarm code. She hid a camera and watched through the window, waiting for one of us to shift to the side just enough to get a view of our fingers punching in the code.

Once she got that, she had full access to our lives. She could come and go in our house as she pleased. My knees feel weak, and my breathing suddenly turns shallow. How many times did she enter our home without us knowing? What information had she gotten access to this way?

I think of my office, the window behind the desk. It would have been easy for her to hide a tiny camera up in the eaves. With that, she’d have seen everything on my screen. She’d have been able to watch me work, sort through Sicko Patrol, text Sam, check his work schedule.

She’d have even been able to watch me digging into her past after I called her—the hours I spent analyzing her Instagram account, tracking down her old college articles on my trial, all of it.

Still stunned by the revelation, I turn to the journals stacked on the table. Keeping my hand tucked in my sleeve, I start flipping through them. They’re filled with her dense, familiar handwriting, and it only takes reading a couple of passages for me to realize that they’re a complete fucking roadmap to everything.

I shake my head, nearly laughing with disbelief at the arrogance of it all. She wrote down everything: her obsession with me, her desire to prove herself worthy of being my partner, her plans to take out my enemies and set Sam up to take the fall.

It’s stunning. I wouldn’t believe it if Melvin hadn’t done the same damn thing. He’d had a table in this exact storage unit, the top of it covered with journals that chronicled every detail of every murder. It’s what eventually took him down.

The same way these will take Madison down.

Sam will finally be exonerated.

Will it be enough to clear my name?

That depends on the Norton DA. It’s going to be hard for him to get much sympathy for Madison’s death after all of this comes to light. A jury would be more likely to thank me than convict me.

I’m turning to leave, already pulling out my phone to call Mike to report to the FBI what I’ve found, when something on a shelf by the door catches my eye.

It’s a skull. I know immediately who it belongs to. Melvin fucking Royal. There are three neat little bullet holes in the forehead. I’m the one who put them there.

Gutierrez mentioned they’d recovered only partial human remains from our burned out rental. It would have been nice if he’d noted they were missing the skull. Clearly, Madison had kept that for herself.

My stomach roils with disgust at the sight, but still, I force myself to approach him. It’s the closest I’ve come to Melvin Royal since I shot him dead. I take a moment to consider him. To think about all the turmoil he’s caused in my life.

But there’s been good too.

I’m the one who’s thriving. I’m the one who gets to feel the love of an amazing man and watch my two incredible kids grow up and live beautiful lives.

I’m the one who survived. Who will keep surviving.

Who will do more than survive: who will live.

I smile as tears track down my cheeks. “I win,” I tell him.

Then I walk out the door, leaving Melvin in my past for good.

EPILOGUE

One Year Later

“Happy birthday, dear Saraaaaahhhh… Happy birthday to you!” We sound horrendous—not a singer among us except, perhaps, for Kez. That doesn’t matter to the guest of honor. One-year-old Sarah sits in her high chair, pudgy fingers flexing and reaching for the giant cake in front of her.

We finish the song with a round of applause that has little Sarah squealing and clapping gleefully. Kez crouches next to her high chair, puffing out her cheeks dramatically to show Sarah how to blow. This only causes Sarah to place her hands on Kez’s cheeks and squeeze, like deflating a balloon.

“Bueno, mi vida,” Javi says, dropping a kiss on both his wife’s and daughter’s heads. “Time to make a wish!” He waves his hand around the table. “Everyone!” he commands.

He and Kez crouch on either side of Sarah and pause for a moment, eyes scrunched in concentration. I take a moment to look around, watching as everyone else does the same.

We’re in Javi and Kez’s barn, which Javi has slowly been converting into their future house with Sam and Connor’s help. The first floor is almost complete, and we’re crowded around a large, homemade dining room table just off the kitchen.

Sarah sits in her high chair at one end, her parents flanking her and her grandfather perched on a stool next to her. Detective Diakos—or Andreas, as I now think of him since we became friends once the Norton DA decided not to bring charges against me for Madison’s death—brought his new girlfriend, the infamous Kathy of Kathy’s Kakes. Though I’m not sure he could have avoided inviting her, given that she provided the birthday cake.

Connor is here with his friend-who-is-a-girl named Patricia from the barn where he still works part-time. He claims they’re not dating, and I don’t push him on it because I know he’s still working through trust issues. But she’s over at our house all the time, and I hear them laughing a ton, so whatever their relationship is, they’re enjoying each other, and that’s what matters most.

Lanny drove up from Duke with Florida last night. It’s ACC basketball season, and while neither of them has ever shown much interest in sports in the past, there have still been a few snide comments now that Florida is a Tarheel and Lanny is a Blue Devil. Given that I’ve barely seen them not holding hands or giggling with each other, the ribbing is clearly all in good fun.

The two stopped by Knoxville on the way here and picked up Vee so she could join us. Vee offered to steal a car and drive herself, but I told her I didn’t think that was the best idea. She said she was joking, but it’s always hard to know with her. She’s shaved one side of her head since I saw her last, and dyed the other side a light gray bordering on lavender. Despite the cold outside, she’s wearing a short-sleeved prairie dress and combat boots. Her entire left arm is covered in a tattoo of a dark, ominous, hauntingly beautiful forest. It’s her own work, and with Connor’s help, she’s set up a social media profile to promote herself. According to Connor, she’s got a waiting list several months long.

Then there’s Sam. He stands beside me, his arm wrapped around my waist. When I look over at him, his eyes are closed as well, and I wonder what he’s wishing for.

A year ago, that would have been an easy answer. We both would have wished for the same thing: to be free of Melvin Royal.

It’s amazing how much can change in a year.

In the end, Madison was actually right about a podcast changing people’s minds. As the dust settled after Madison’s death and Sam’s exoneration, Connor approached me with the idea of finishing the podcast I began with Madison. I’d been hesitant, not wanting to stir the pot. But Connor was persistent, and it was the first time in a while I’d seen him so excited about a project. I decided to give it a chance.

I’m glad I did. He called it Beyond the Royal Shadow, and it was an instant hit. He held nothing back in making it, and neither did the rest of us. The episodes were raw and honest. I discussed my guilt over not recognizing who Melvin really was, and Connor talked about what it was like to worry that something of the monster in Melvin might have been passed down to him and how it sometimes caused him to second-guess himself.

Lanny opened up about the rage and powerlessness she felt when she watched her entire family get torn apart by the legal system, only for it to nearly happen again with Sam. In a painful episode to listen to, Sam admitted the difficulties he still sometimes faced while trying to reconcile his grief over Callie with the fact that he lived with her murderer’s family.

Throughout those episodes, Connor wove the story of Melvin’s crimes and the subsequent accusations against me. He dedicated an entire episode to walking through the process of escaping an abuser, chronicling the specifics of our lives post Melvin and going into detail about how we changed our names, what we kept in our bug-out bags, and how we buried caches of money and IDs across the country in case we needed them.

He covered the case against Sam as well, walking through the evidence they discovered in Madison’s storage unit that explained how she was able to set him up for the murders she committed. How she paid a hacker on the dark web to help track down Melvin’s grave. How she snuck into Rowan’s house one night and found physical letters from Leo Varrus that led her right to him. How she sat on that information for months, just waiting for the right time to pounce. Connor even read off the names from Madison’s hit list.

All the people she planned to kill just to impress me. To prove to me that she was worthy of being my partner. It still makes me sick to think about it. Recording that episode was difficult for me—recounting what happened out on Stillhouse Lake and my confrontation with Madison. While Sam recovered some of his memory, there were still frustrating gaps. He’s never been able to remember how she was able to overpower him, though he assumes she pulled a gun on him and disarmed him before he could defend himself.

Connor began and ended each episode with quotes from letters Melvin sent me over the years, and the vile threats I’d collected via Sicko Patrol. He wanted people to understand what it was like for us. For me. He wanted people to know what it was like to live in Melvin Royal’s shadow for so long.

The podcast was such an enormous success that it helped turn the tide of public opinion. I still had my haters. Most of them pointed to Madison’s murder as proof that I was complicit in Melvin’s murders as well. They thought the episode where I described my confrontation with Madison out on the lake was self-serving.

Of course, it was. That was one of the points of the podcast: to reframe the narrative and gain sympathy. Madison may have been a psychopath, but she was also pretty damn smart. When she pitched the idea of a podcast to keep Sam out of jail, she knew what she was talking about. Though I doubt she ever realized we’d use it to keep me out of jail as well. She’d probably have been pretty pleased about that.

The other point of the podcast was to direct the vitriol where it belonged: at Melvin Royal and Madison Westcott. With that, we were also pretty successful.

Since the podcast’s debut, several media companies have approached Connor with job offers, despite the fact he hasn’t even graduated high school. For now, he’s decided to remain an independent journalist. Plus, he doesn’t have the same free time he used to, now that he’s returned to school in person. Over the summer, he reconnected with his old Dungeons and Dragons buddies. They started up a new campaign and gather in our living room every Thursday, just like they did when we first moved to Stillhouse Lake all those years ago.

He still carries emotional scars and continues seeing his therapist, as do the rest of us, but I can see him slowly reclaiming himself. He’s allowing himself to trust people again, to open up, and make friends. To build a community. He’ll still say “fine” when I ask him how his day went, but more often than not, it’s just a typical teenager response and not one borne of any moodiness. Usually, he ends his day in the kitchen with me, helping prep dinner as he tells me about whatever he’s found interesting lately: books, podcasts, games, videos. It’s my favorite time of the day.

He also used the proceeds from the podcast to buy himself an old truck, the kind he’s not afraid to get dirty hauling equipment around when he’s working at the barn. He appreciates the independence of having his own vehicle, though he still always makes sure to tell me where he’s going when he leaves the house.

With Sam’s name cleared, his old boss called to offer him his job back. Sam politely declined. He already had a new job of sorts. A few weeks after Rowan’s murder, we got a rather confusing call from a lawyer out in California. It turned out that in the process of probating Rowan’s estate, they realized she hadn’t made any arrangements for the disposition of the Lost Angels.

Technically, Miranda’s ownership interests transferred to Leo Varrus upon her death. And at his death, they went to Rowan Applegate. Her will was silent on the matter, which meant the founding documents controlled who got ownership.

According to the attorney, that meant full ownership of the Lost Angels, including its substantial endowment, reverted to its co-founder, Sam Cade.

Finding that out had been quite the shock, and our first instinct had been to say hell no, we wanted nothing to do with the organization that had dedicated itself to my persecution for so many years. Then, we reconsidered.

The charter of the Lost Angels was to help those grieving the loss of a loved one. At its inception, it was meant for the loved ones of the victims of Melvin Royal, but nothing prohibited broadening that mandate. So, that’s what we decided to do—but in our own way.

Sam took over the Lost Angels and reshaped it into a force for good. The first thing he did was change its name to Wings Mended. At his core, Melvin Royal refused to see the humanity in people, so that’s become Wings Mended’s core mission: ensuring the humanity of all. There’s a victim advocacy group, a support hotline, and plans for a network of safehouses for those escaping untenable situations. They’re in the process of establishing funds for medical care and grants for research. Eventually, they plan to purchase a fleet of air ambulances to provide transport for those who can’t afford to travel for care. Sam would, of course, volunteer as a pilot.

It turns out that Miranda Tidewell was an exceedingly wealthy woman with an estate worth hundreds of millions, all of which now belongs to Wings Mended. Her daughter, Vivian, had loved birds and had a hand-drawn tattoo of a pair of wings just beneath the ankle on her right foot. That became the logo for Wings Mended.

I like to think that Miranda would be proud of how her money is being put to use.

As for me, I’m still working for J.B. I don’t have to. With the money from the podcast and the salary Sam earns running Wings Mended, we’re plenty comfortable. Plus, several publishers have approached me about a possible book deal. The numbers they’ve mentioned are staggering. I wasn’t interested at first—I don’t feel like giving Melvin Royal more attention and oxygen than he deserves—but then one of the editors flew to Stillhouse Lake and pitched the idea to me in person.

As she explained, it wouldn’t be a book about Melvin Royal, but about Gwen Proctor. A testament to my strength and perseverance and a road map for others to find their own path to self-discovery. While I know I won’t be able to write that story without resurrecting Melvin in some way, turning it down would give him more power than he deserves.

If I can be the spark in the darkness for someone else, it will be worth it.

It’s the reason I keep working for J.B. There are still those out there who need me. So long as I can offer help, I will.

I’m pulled from my thoughts by the sound of clapping. I glance down the table and find a plume of smoke drifting from the candle in front of Sarah. She already has fistfuls of icing in each hand, smearing both down her face. Kez and Javi laugh, watching their daughter with awe and adoration.

Sam leans toward me, whispering in my ear, “What did you wish for?”

I smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Come on, your secret’s safe with me.”

I poke him lightly with my elbow. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?” he teases.

At the end of the table, Kez and her father get into a debate about whether it’s best to cut the cake into slices or squares. Everyone else starts to weigh in with their opinion, but I keep my focus on Sam. “Why haven’t you asked me to marry you?”

He shrugs. “I did. You said no.”

“I said not yet,” I clarify.

He laughs. “There’s not a lot of daylight between no and not yet. Both of those answers meant I wasn’t getting married anytime soon.”

“You weren’t ready,” I point out. “You were looking for a way to numb the pain.”

“I’ve always been ready,” he corrects me.

I blow out a breath. “Well, then, I wasn’t ready. I had to make sure I wasn’t marrying you for the wrong reasons—because I needed to be rescued, or as a distraction from everything we were going through. I needed to know I was well and truly done with Melvin, emotionally and psychologically first.

He lifts his eyebrows. “Are you?”

That’s the million-dollar question. I think of the role Melvin has played in my life over the years. Boyfriend, husband, lover, father, abuser, torturer. I still hear his voice sometimes and feel his derisiveness over who I and the kids have become.

For so long, I wanted to silence that voice and erase him from my past. But I know that will never be possible. He’ll always be there. That’s okay.

He played his role, forcing me to grow and adapt. Now, that role is over.

I’m no longer haunted by his voice anymore.

I’ve made him irrelevant.

Am I done with Melvin Royal?

“I am,” I tell Sam.

Then, to the delight of everyone around us—and my embarrassment—Sam drops to one knee. When he asked me to marry him before, it had been an impulsive, almost casual mention. We’ve never been the sunset-cliff-kneel-down-ring kind of people.

Yet, here we are.

And I realize in that moment, surrounded by everyone I love, by so much happiness and joy and optimism for the future, that we’ve found the light at the end of the tunnel, and it is glorious and warm.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

On behalf of Rachel Caine, R. Cat Conrad, Lucienne Diver, and Sarah Simpson-Weiss extend our heartfelt thanks to her faithful readers for the overwhelming success of this series. We would also like to thank Carrie Ryan for taking up the mantle to complete Rachel's vision. Carrie's dedication to finishing this series for her has earned our eternal gratitude and provides readers the closure they wholeheartedly deserve.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to Rachel’s fans and readers for loving Rachel and her books so very much. Rachel truly adored each and every one of you.

For those who may not know, Rachel passed away in November 2020 after battling soft tissue sarcoma, a rare and aggressive cancer. She left behind a partial draft and notes for the future of the series, which I used to complete Gwen’s story. Writing the final two books in the Stillhouse Lake series has been a gift and an honor. Thank you for continuing down this road with me. 

Thank you to Rachel’s husband, R. Cat Conrad; her agent, Lucienne Diver; and her right-hand woman, Sarah Simpson-Weiss for their unwavering support and dedication in bringing the Stillhouse Lake series to a close.

Thank you to Tiffany Yates-Martin, who edited every book in the series, including the final two. Her immense wisdom and deep understanding of the series and Rachel’s characters were invaluable.

Thank you to Chelle Olson for her eagle-eyed copyediting and Teresa Patterson for proofreading.

I’m incredibly grateful for the love and support of my friends and family, especially my criminal defense attorney husband who regularly fielded mid-day texts from me asking, “What if…” about police procedure. (All errors, of course, are mine.) Thanks also to my Lucy Lennox, for sharing her plotting wisdom and publishing expertise.

I’ve thanked Sarah Simpson-Weiss already, but she deserves thanks again. Sarah embodies the same love, support, kindness, and wisdom that Rachel did. I’m so grateful Rachel brought us together.

Rachel Caine hated lakes—more specifically, she hated dark water. She didn’t like being unable to see the bottom and not knowing what might be lurking beneath. When planning writing retreats, we knew to avoid lake houses. And when choosing a park to locate her memorial bench, her loved ones knew to find one that didn’t include a lake or pond in it.

So, of course, Rachel set her final, bestselling series next to a lake—specifically one that held many secrets (and dead bodies). And of course Gwen would ultimately face her demons and fight for her happily ever after in that dark water. Rachel loved to put her characters through hell, but she never took away their hope, or their capacity to love and be loved.

May we all carry that same capacity through our own lives. I know Rachel did.

~Carrie Ryan

RACHEL CAINE

Rachel Caine is the NYT, USA Today, and #1 WSJ bestselling author of more than 50 books in several categories and genres, including adult thriller and adult urban fantasy/SF as well as books for young adults ages twelve to eighteen.

Rachel lost her fight with a rare and aggressive cancer, soft tissue sarcoma, in November of 2020. With over 56 books in print and millions of copies sold, she was a frequent guest at conventions in the United States and around the world. Her popular book series include the young adult Morganville Vampires novels, the Great Library series, and the #1 bestselling Stillhouse Lake novels in adult thrillers.

CARRIE RYAN

Carrie Ryan is the New York Times bestselling author of the Forest of Hands and Teeth series, the Map to Everywhere series (written with her husband, John Parke Davis), Daughter of Deep Silence, Infinity Ring: Divide and Conquer, and Dead Air (written with Gwenda Bond and Rachel Caine), as well as the editor of Foretold: 14 Tales of Prophecy and Prediction. Her books have sold in over 22 territories, and her first book is in development as a major motion picture. A former litigator, Carrie now lives in Charlotte, NC with her husband, two kids, and various pets.

ALSO BY RACHEL CAINE

STILLHOUSE LAKE

Stillhouse Lake

Killman Creek

Wolfhunter River

Bitter Falls

Heartbreak Bay

Trapper Road

THE GREAT LIBRARY

Ink and Bone

Paper and Fire

Ash and Quill

Smoke and Iron

Sword and Pen

MORGANVILLE VAMPIRES

Glass Houses

The Dead Girls’ Dance

Midnight Alley

Feast of Fools

Lords of Misrule

Carpe Corpus

Fade Out

Kiss of Death

Ghost Town

Bite Club

Last Breath

Black Dawn

Bitter Blood

Fall of Night

Daylighters

Midnight Bites

THE HONORS (with Ann Aguirre)

Honor Among Thieves

Honor Bound

Honor Lost

RED LETTER DAYS

Devil’s Bargain

Devil’s Due

WEATHER WARDEN

Ill Wind

Heat Stroke

Chill Factor

Windfall

Firestorm

Thin Air

Gale Force

Cape Storm

Total Eclipse

OUTCAST SEASON

Undone

Unknown

Unseen

Unbroken

REVIVALIST

Working Stiff

Two Weeks’ Notice

Terminated

STAND-ALONE TITLES

Prince of Shadows

Dead Air (with Gwenda Bond and Carrie Ryan)

Exile, Texas

Bridge of Shadows

Copper Moon

The Undead

Cold Kiss

Slow Burn

Athena Force: Line of Sight

ALSO BY CARRIE RYAN

STILLHOUSE LAKE

Trapper Road

THE FOREST OF HANDS AND TEETH

The Forest of Hands and Teeth

The Dead-Tossed Waves

The Dark and Hollow Places

STAND-ALONE NOVELS

Daughter of Deep Silence

Dead Air (with Rachel Caine and Gwenda Bond)

THE MAP TO EVERYWHERE

The Map To Everywhere

City of Thirst

Shadows of the Lost Sun

Iron Tide Rising

INFINITY RING

Divide and Conquer

EDITED BY CARRIE RYAN

Foretold: 14 Tales of Prophecy and Prediction