THE COLLECTOR

DARKWATER COVE SERIAL KILLER SUSPENSE THRILLER

BOOK 9

DAN PADAVONA

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1

The city sleeps, but Michael Torres is wide awake. He walks along the damp pavement in the predawn hours, when the streets are empty, save for a blinking traffic light and a distant car engine. Torres pulls his jacket around his wiry frame, his breath misting in the humid air. It feels like rain. Best to get inside before the deluge strikes.

He approaches the Grayson Gallery. Sleek lines and black windows stand out against the weathered brownstones that line the block. Torres fishes a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks the front door. When he steps inside, the door thuds shut. A familiar feeling of being locked in returns to him.

The gallery holds the scents of paint and varnish. Torres turns on the lights, wincing as the illumination burns his eyes. A myriad of art pieces adorn the walls and pedestals. Abstract sculptures, grotesque paintings, each a reminder of the human mind’s disturbing depths.

As a devout Catholic, he finds the art that Eleanor Grayson collects to be an affront to his faith. Contorted bodies, blasphemous iconography, and nightmarish visions mock the foundations of his beliefs. He crosses himself and mutters a prayer.

Duty calls. He retrieves his cleaning supplies from the storage closet and dons a pair of rubber gloves. With night at the windows, he begins his rounds, dusting and polishing, scrubbing and mopping. As he cleans, Torres tries to ignore the art that looms around him. It presses close. Distorted faces leer at him from every angle. He feels a creeping sense of unease, a prickling at the back of his neck. When he is alone, the art comes alive.

Torres pauses before a disturbing painting, a grotesque depiction of a crucifixion scene. The figure on the cross is not Christ, but a malformed creature, its flesh melted. Bile rises in his throat. He turns away and swears he’ll find another job before the month ends.

From deep inside the gallery, something heavy hits the floor. He freezes as blood rushes into his ears.

Another sound. Closer this time.

Torres steps back. Rats? The noise sounded too loud for vermin.

A call comes in. His wife is awake early today.

"Maria, now isn’t the best time."

"Michael? You don’t sound like yourself."

"Just cleaning at the gallery."

Above his head, the ceiling creaks, as if someone is on the second floor.

"There’s something wrong, mi amor. Tell me the truth."

Torres glances at a painting of a demonic figure rising above the cityscape. "It's this place, Maria. The art. It's not right. It goes against everything we believe in. I can't keep working here, surrounded by these abominations. They’re getting inside my head."

There's a pause on the other end. "I know it's difficult, but we need this job. Eleanor Grayson pays you well, better than any other cleaning position you've had. We have bills to pay and mouths to feed."

"I know, I know." Torres rubs his forehead. "But at what cost, Maria? What price are we paying for this money?"

"The price of keeping a roof over our heads and food on the table. The price of giving our children a better life than we have. I know it's difficult, but think of our family."

Torres closes his eyes. "I'll make it work like I always do."

“I love you,” she says. “God is with you, even in the darkest of places.”

"I love you too, mi corazón. I'll be home soon."

The call ends. Torres continues down the endless corridor and steels himself for what lies ahead. Since speaking with Maria, he has heard no sounds inside the gallery. Surely they were in his mind. This place does that to him.

Torres picks up his cleaning supplies and grips the mop’s handle, as if it were a weapon.

A shadow shifts in the periphery of his vision, a sudden movement behind a sculpture. Torres opens his mouth to call out, but his voice dies in his throat. He doesn’t carry a weapon and has no way of defending himself. Contact the police? Leave the building and risk Grayson will fire him?

Torres takes a tentative step. He approaches the sculpture, a mass of metal and wire that writhes and contorts as if it were real. With a shaking hand, he reaches out and pushes the sculpture aside.

But nobody is there. Just an empty space. It was just his imagination, his mind playing tricks on him in this unsettling place.

He turns back to his work, determined to finish his duties and leave the gallery as quickly as he came. As he moves through the rooms, a section of the wall pulls his attention. A series of paintings by Damon Haldane hang beneath a row of spotlights.

Haldane, a once-acclaimed artist, gained notoriety eight years ago after being convicted of several murders. His crimes shocked the art world, even as his popularity exploded.

Torres pauses before one painting, a massive canvas that dominates the wall. The piece is a nightmarish landscape, filled with screaming figures trapped in a state of eternal agony. At the center of the painting stands a lone figure, tall and gaunt, with piercing blue eyes stare that into Torres's soul.

Blood covers the figure’s hands, and at its feet lie the mutilated bodies of its victims. Their faces contort in screams. Haldane’s painting isn’t a work of morbid imagination, but a glimpse into the mind of a monster.

The devil’s work.

Haldan lured victims to his studio and tortured them for days before ending their lives. The paintings were more than a reflection of Haldane's dark fantasies. They became a blueprint for the horrors he would bring to life.

Torres shudders. He wonders how Eleanor Grayson can bear to have such disturbing works of art in her collection, how she can stand to surround herself with Haldane’s creations.

But it is not Torres’ place to judge. God will have the final say.

As he moves on to the next room, Torres hears another noise, this time coming from the rear of the gallery near Grayson’s office. A creaking, like the sound of footsteps on an old wooden floor. Is the owner here at this hour? If so, why didn’t he see her car in the parking garage?

Torres is the only one with a key, and Grayson never arrives before nine. His palms grow slick with sweat as whispers travel from the rear of the gallery.

As he moves down the corridor, his shoes stick in invisible mud. Legs heavy. Hands trembling.

He reaches a velvet curtain that separates a private viewing area from the rest of the gallery. This is where he heard the whispers, though there are no sounds now.

Torres hesitates, his hand hovering over the fabric. With a cry, he parts the curtain.

At first, he sees nothing out of the ordinary. The room lies in shadow, the only illumination coming from a single spotlight trained on a canvas at the far end of the room. Torres squints, trying to make out the details.

Then he sees her.

Eleanor Grayson sits in a high-backed chair, her back to him, fixated on the canvas. He feels a wave of relief wash over him. It's just the gallery owner. He opens his mouth to apologize for the intrusion.

But the words die in his throat. Something is wrong. Grayson isn’t moving. She only stares at Damon Haldane’s masterpiece, “The Descent.” He remembers reading about it in the news and the controversy it sparked when it was first unveiled.

Grayson has studied this piece hundreds of times. Why now? Why engross herself in depravity before the first light of dawn?

“Ms. Grayson? It’s me, Michael.”

The woman doesn’t respond. Another step closer.

“Are you ill? Should I call a doctor?”

His shoe lands on a slick spot on the floor. He catches the back of her chair to stay upright. But now they are both falling, both hurtling toward the floor.

Torres smashes his back against the hardwood. Black liquid sticks to his palms.

Grayson’s toppled frame lies unmoving to his side. Depthless sockets look accusingly at him. Her eyes are gone.

In the silence of the Grayson Gallery, Michael Torres screams.

2

The calendar says it’s autumn, but true fall won’t come to Genoa Cove for weeks. To anyone used to cooler climates, the season is an extended summer with shorter days.

Darcy Haines sits at her desk in the home office. The hum of the air conditioner and the distant slosh of the cove filter through the open window. She sips her coffee and settles in to review the case file. It's a straightforward insurance fraud investigation, the bread-and-butter work that keeps the lights on and the bills paid.

The client, a local insurance company, suspects that a claimant is exaggerating the extent of his injuries from a car accident. They want Darcy to dig into the man's background and find evidence that he's not as hurt as he claims to be. It's not glamorous work, but Darcy doesn't mind. After the Genoa Cove murders, these mundane investigations are the balm that soothes.

She starts with the basics and pulls up the claimant's social media profiles. It's a common tactic, one that has yielded results more times than she can count. People have a tendency to overestimate the privacy of their online lives and forget that the things they post can come back to haunt them.

As she scrolls through the man's Facebook feed, Darcy looks for inconsistencies. She seeks signs that he's more active than someone with his reported injuries should be. A photo of him out hiking with friends, a check-in at a local gym—anything that might suggest he's not being entirely truthful about his condition.

But nothing jumps out at her. The man's posts are sporadic, mostly shared articles and memes. She finds a few photos of him with his family, but they're all from before the accident.

Darcy frowns and taps her fingers on the desk. She knows better than to rely on social media. The absence of incriminating evidence on Facebook doesn't mean there's nothing hidden.

She pulls up the accident report. The claimant was rear-ended at a stoplight; his car sustained significant damage. An ambulance transported him to the hospital, where he complained of neck and back pain. Subsequent medical reports indicate ongoing issues with mobility and chronic pain.

It's a common enough scenario. Some people struggle to recover from even minor accidents. Their bodies betray them in ways that are hard to quantify or prove.

Others see an opportunity, a chance to game the system and milk their injuries for all they're worth. It's Darcy's job to figure out which category this claimant falls into.

She makes a note to request the man's medical records and look for red flags. She'll also need to conduct on-the-ground surveillance and ensure his daily activities match up with his reported limitations.

It's tedious work that requires patience and persistence. But Darcy has always been good at digging out the truth. She takes pride in knowing her efforts might help to right a wrong and balance the scales of justice. The desire to make a difference and to help those who can't help themselves led her to the FBI all those years ago. It fueled her pursuit of The Full Moon Killer and his acolytes.

As Darcy immerses herself in the case, a knock on the door breaks her concentration. She looks up to see her husband Julian leaning against the doorframe. He wears a soft smile on his face.

"Hey there, workaholic," he says. "I thought we agreed you were going to take the day off."

Darcy sighs and rocks back in her chair. "I know, but this case won’t solve itself."

He perches himself on the edge of the desk. "You've been working non-stop for days. Give yourself a break. Take some time to breathe."

She protests, but the words die on her lips. Because she knows he's right. She's been pushing herself too hard, too fast.

Ever since the Genoa Cove murders, ever since they finally brought Loomis and Barnett to justice, she's tried to outrun the memories by burying herself in work. She doesn't wish to face the scars the mirror of her mind reflects.

Yet she can't keep running forever.

"Okay," she says. "You win. I'll take the afternoon off."

Julian pumps a fist in Damony. "Great, because I have fun plans for us."

He takes her hand, leading her out of the office and into the sunlit kitchen. Through the sliding glass doors, she can see their backyard and the lush green of the vegetable garden. During the spring, she worked her fingers to the bone to get the garden in shape. You reap what you sow.

"I thought we could spend time harvesting," he says. "Get our hands dirty and reconnect with the earth. It always helps me clear my head."

Outside, a warm breeze caresses her skin. She takes a moment to breathe it all in. The scent of the tomato plants, the hum of the bees as they flit from flower to flower—it's a world away from the murders.

Weeks later, she still hasn’t convinced herself that the nightmare is finally over. Every murderer who sought vengeance for Michael Rivers died trying. No killers hunt her. Not anymore.

Darcy and her family survived and came out the other side.

Julian kneels to tend to the tomato plants. He’s at peace, and so is she.

Darcy crouches beside Julian. Her hands sink into the soil.

“We have a sucker,” he says, clipping a rogue shoot that saps the plant’s strength.

“Here’s another.”

She pinches the offending shoot between her nails and gives the tomato plant a chance to produce a second harvest.

"I've been thinking about Jennifer," she says.

Her daughter. With her son Hunter back in college, the focus is on the moody teenage girl.

Julian yanks out a weed and tosses it into the grass. "What about her?"

"I think it's time we let her have a life. She needs to be a normal teenager, without the constant fear."

"I agree. It's just hard to let go. After everything that happened, the thought of letting her out of our sight terrifies the hell out of me."

"And me. But we can't keep her locked away forever."

She replays Hunter and Jennifer calling him Dad for the first time as he lay in a hospital bed, recovering from the killers’ attacks. For months, the real-life detective played the role of good cop to her bad cop, always fighting for Hunter and Jennifer to have more leeway. Now he’s a protective father.

"Okay. We’ll give her the freedom she deserves and the chance to live life on her own terms."

"Jennifer will be so happy. She's been dying to go to the mall with her friends. Before long, we’ll be hosting sleepovers and movie nights. Heck, she might even get a boyfriend."

Julian chuckles, shaking his head. "Not until I run a background check on every candidate."

“You would do that, wouldn’t you?”

They lapse into a comfortable silence as they work side by side.

"I've been thinking about Pat running for chief." Officer Pat Wolpert helped save their family and is a leading candidate to win the vacant chief position at the Genoa Cove PD. "Pat has a shot at winning. He has the experience and the respect of the community. People trust him."

Darcy brushes off her hands. "He'd make a great chief."

"Genoa Cove could use a leader like him."

"Have you talked to him about his chances?"

“I'll speak to him tomorrow, see where his head's at.”

As Darcy digs into the soil, she notices the weeds springing up. At first glance, they’re innocuous. But as she looks closer, she can see them creeping in, their tendrils snaking around the base of the plants, choking off their nutrients and stunting their growth.

Julian grabs a shovel. "Damn weeds. They just don't quit, do they? Should I buy weed killer?"

“You’ll poison the soil. No, we need to pull them out by hand.”

“If you say so.”

A shadow falls over her shoulder, and she looks up at one lone cloud, gray and churning as it blots out the sun.

“Did the forecast say anything about rain?” she asks.

“Not that I recall.”

The wind begins to blow.

3

Darcy steps into the house. Dirt cakes her hands as she makes her way to the bathroom. As she scrubs her palms and fingers, her mind wanders to the conversation with Julian about Jennifer's newfound freedom. The thought of her daughter out in the world, no longer under the constant watch of security cameras and motion detectors, makes her wonder if they’re doing the right thing. She can hear her daughter behind a closed door. From the animation in Jennifer’s voice, Darcy surmises the girl is talking to her best friend Kaitlyn.

As Darcy dries her hands, the phone rings. An unfamiliar number appears.

"Darcy Haines?"

The voice on the other end is professional and tickles her memory, yet she can’t place it.

"Speaking. Who is this?"

"This is Special Agent Lisa Monroe with the FBI. We worked together on the Damon Haldane case."

Darcy's grip tightens on the phone. "How long has it been? Eight years?"

“Almost to the day. I'm afraid I have some disturbing news. There's been a murder at the Grayson Gallery in Vestal, Illinois, just outside of Chicago. The victim is Eleanor Grayson, the gallery owner.”

"I'm sorry to hear about the murder, but why are you calling me?"

"The crime scene, Darcy. It's reminiscent of Haldane's work."

Ice forms in Darcy's veins. Before The Full Moon Killer, there was Damon Haldane, a brilliant artist who lost his sanity and killed dozens before the FBI tracked him down. Before Darcy tracked him down.

During the investigation, Agent Lisa Monroe was early in her career and lacking experience. Darcy took the woman under her wings. Now Lisa is among the most respected profilers at the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

"What do you mean? Damon Haldane is serving a life sentence."

“The killer positioned the body to mimic one of Haldane's paintings. ‘The Descent,’ I believe it's called.”

Darcy closes her eyes. The artwork flashes in her memory.

“That's not all,” Monroe says. There was a message left at the scene. It says, 'The student seeks the master's approval. The game begins anew.' We believe it's from the killer.”

Darcy leans against the bathroom wall. "Are you asking me to consult? I only recall so much about Haldane."

That’s a lie. Were it not for Michael Rivers, Haldane would forever haunt her dreams.

"We're hoping you can come to Vestal and look at the scene. Your insight was invaluable in the Haldane case. We could use your expertise."

"Lisa, I appreciate your confidence in me, but I'm not sure I can do this. You’re aware of what happened in Genoa Cove?"

The agent’s voice falls. “Yes, and I feel terrible. But I need you. This killer, whoever he is, believes he’s another Haldane. You're the one who caught him. You know his mind better than anyone.”

Darcy closes the door, afraid Jennifer will overhear. "That's just it. I don't want to know his mind or dive into that darkness. It nearly destroyed me last time."

There's a pause on the other end. When Monroe speaks again, her voice is softer, more personal. "Darcy, do you remember what you told me when we first started working together? You said that we do this job not because it's easy, but because it's necessary. Because if we don't put ourselves on the line, people will lose their lives. We’re here to stop the preventable."

"I remember."

"You've built a good life for yourself, and I wouldn't ask if I had any other choice. But this killer won’t stop. He’ll keep killing."

Darcy remembers the families shattered by Haldane's cruelty. Some scars never heal.

"I'm not the same agent I was back then."

"You're not the same agent, Darcy. You're better. We’re all aware of what you did to stop Parham, Loomis, and Barnett. You have the experience and the instincts. But more than that, you care about the victims. That's what makes you the best."

"Okay, I'll come to Vestal. But I need to make some arrangements first. I need to talk to my husband Julian, and find someone to care for my daughter."

"I'll send you the details, and we'll see you in Vestal. And Darcy? Thank you. I know this isn't easy, but you're doing the right thing."

Quiet envelopes the room. She glances in disgust at the smudge her hands left on the towel. What will Julian say? She can’t hide this investigation from him, not like she did when Parham lured her to California.

Darcy finds her husband on the back deck. He watches the darkening sky as storm clouds gather.

She settles into the chair beside him and sets her hands in her lap. "Julian, I need to talk to you."

He turns to her, his eyes searching her face. "Problem?"

"I just got a call from an FBI agent named Lisa Monroe. She and I worked together on a case years ago, long before you and I met."

Julian picks a clump of dirt off his shirt and hurls it into the yard. He senses where this conversation is heading. "What did she want?"

"There was a murder outside of Chicago. The killer staged the crime scene to mimic the work of an artist named Damon Haldane. I helped put away Haldane eight years ago."

"And this Lisa Monroe person wants you to consult on the case?"

"She thinks my insight could be valuable in catching this new killer."

“So you’ll send her a profile and concentrate on your private investigation work.”

“Julian, she wants me to come to Illinois.”

He almost topples off his chair. "No, you can't do this. We just survived the Genoa Cove murders. Don’t put yourself through this again."

Darcy sets her elbows on her knees and stares at her sneakers. "This is different. Haldane was unlike anything I'd ever seen before. His crimes were abominations of art, a way for him to express his madness. If this new killer is following in his footsteps, I have to catch him."

Julian stands and paces across the deck. "And what about us? What about Jennifer? You're just going to leave and put yourself in danger again? Call Lisa back. Tell her you’ll construct a profile, but you can’t join her in the field."

"I already told Lisa I would go to Vestal."

His mouth hangs open. "You what? Darcy, how could you make that decision without first talking to me?"

“Please try to understand. Haldane's crimes were a warped reflection of classical art. He would stage his victims in ways that mirrored famous paintings or sculptures. 'The Descent' was one of his most notorious works, a grotesque take on the hands of God and Adam from the Sistine Chapel.”

"And you think you're the only one who can stop this new killer?"

"No, of course not. But I have experience that Lisa and the others lack. I know how Haldane's mind worked, how he saw the world. That knowledge could be the key to catching this new killer before he takes another life."

Julian stops. His shoulders slump. "I don't like this, Darcy. I don't like it one bit. But I also know that once you've set your mind to an idea, there's no stopping you."

She steps closer and rests a hand on his arm. "I'm not abandoning you and Jennifer. This won’t take long."

His anger fades into resignation. But as Darcy pulls away, he grasps her hand. "If you're determined to do this, then I'm coming with you."

Darcy blinks. "Julian, you can't. What about your job?"

"I have vacation time. I'll take a leave of absence. But I won't let you walk into this alone."

His decision doesn’t surprise her. It’s why she loves him.

"Are you sure? I don't want to uproot our lives any more than I already have."

"Darcy, you're my everything. Your battles are my battles. If you're going to Illinois, then I'm going to be right there beside you."

She leans into his embrace and draws strength from his support. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

He chuckles softly. "I ask myself the same thing every day."

They stand there for a moment, content in each other's arms, until reality intrudes once again. "What about Jennifer?" Darcy asks, pulling back to look at him. "We can't take her with us."

"We decided Jennifer needs to act like a teenager. What if she stays with Kaitlyn's family for a bit? They’re as thick as thieves."

Darcy considers the idea. "I can ask Kaitlyn's mother. If not, I'll call my sister Laurie in Georgia. She's been wanting to see Jennifer again."

“Then it’s settled.”

As the logistics settle into place, thunder rumbles.

A storm is coming.

4

Maxwell stands before the canvas. Swirling colors dance across its surface. The studio is a sanctuary of order and precision, every brush and palette knife arranged in perfect alignment. He breathes in the scent of oil paint and turpentine. It’s a heady mixture that fuels his imagination.

He dips his brush into the paint. Red is the color of passion. With a steady hand, he applies it to the canvas. The painting is a work in progress, nothing he would share with another. Not until it is ready. Never until then.

A noise shatters his concentration. Maxwell stops and sets aside the brush, careful to align it with the others, and moves to the window. The street below is empty, save for a lone figure walking a dog. He watches them pass. The dog's barking grates on his nerves. The sooner it moves on, the better.

When quiet returns, he examines the painting, but the moment is lost. The colors seem lifeless. His composition appears flawed, though he can’t say why.

Maxwell retrieves the brush. Now, if the fates don’t intervene, perhaps he can find where he left off. He takes a breath, hoping to recapture the vision that lurks just beyond his reach.

But before he can make another stroke, the sound of footsteps clomping up the stairs to his studio interrupts his process. His eyes jump to the clock. 10 AM. How can it be so late? He lost track of time.

His new model Sandra Finlay is arriving. The agency recommended her, as had Chloe Rowan, another model he uses. But Maxwell has never seen Sandra, never even looked at her face. He prefers to be surprised, to let the model's features and form reveal themselves to him in the moment of creation.

Without making a sound, he turns to face the door. His hands curl and uncurl in a mixture of anticipation and unease. Meeting people always sets him on edge. It disrupts the balance of his existence.

A knock at the door.

Maxwell hesitates before crossing the room in six quick strides. He knows the number is six because he counted. Opening the door, he falls back on his heels.

Sandra Finlay stands before him, a vision of beauty and grace. Her blonde hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders and frames a face that is both delicate and strong. Her eyes meet his with a hint of curiosity.

"Mr. Sterling?" she asks. "I'm Sandra. The agency sent me for the modeling session."

His throat goes dry. He steps back, gesturing for her to enter. "Yes, Ms. Finlay. Please, come in."

As she wanders past him into the studio, he catches the scent of her perfume. A light floral fragrance fills the air. He closes the door and turns the bolt. If this bothers her, she doesn’t protest.

Sandra admires the paintings that line the walls.

"Your work is stunning, Mr. Sterling," she says.

“Please, call me Maxwell.”

"I can see why Chloe spoke so highly of you."

Chloe is beautiful, but she can’t compare to this new girl.

"You know her well?"

"She’s a friend and mentor. Chloe got me into modeling. We've worked together a few times. She tells me that working with you is an experience like no other."

Chloe can be difficult. Very much so. Maxwell hopes the more experienced model’s personality hasn’t sullied Sandra. His eyes roam over her face, her form. She is even more striking up close, with a complexion that seems to glow from within. How will he light this specimen? He longs to reach out and touch her, and feel the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips.

He holds back, keeping a careful distance. "I'm glad to hear that Chloe enjoyed our sessions. She's a wonderful model, very professional."

"I hope I can measure up."

The statement catches him off guard, and he feels heat enter his face. "I don’t doubt that you will, Ms. Finlay. You come highly recommended."

She giggles, the sound musical. "If I’m to refer to you as Maxwell, please call me Sandra. I hope I can live up to your expectations."

"Tell me, Sandra, what drew you to modeling? Have you always had an interest in the arts?"

"The way creators see the world fascinates me. I love how a gifted artist captures beauty and emotion. When I first started modeling, it was a way to pay the bills. But over time, I've come to appreciate the collaboration between artist and subject. I love to collaborate and create."

Extraordinary. How will he capture her essence on canvas?

"And what was your favorite modeling experience?"

Sandra thinks for a moment. "There was one man, a sculptor, who had me pose as a Greek goddess. He worked in marble, and seeing him coax the figure out of the stone was like watching magic happen before my eyes."

"I can only imagine how inspiring that must have been. To see yourself transformed into something timeless, something eternal."

"And what about you, Maxwell? What do you hope to create?"

The question hangs in the air, charged with tension.

"I want to capture your essence, Sandra—the fire and the grace that I see in you. I wish to create something that will stand the test of time and speak to the ages."

"Then let's see what magic we can create together. You understand I’m still new to this?"

“No worries. I will teach you.”

He gestures for her to sit. As she takes her place on the model's stand, an anticipatory thrill races beneath his skin.

Maxwell takes a moment to study Sandra's face, taking in the play of light and shadow across her features. With a few deft strokes, he lays down the preliminary shapes and colors that will become their first collaboration.

"How do you decide where to start?" she asks, breaking his concentration.

Maxwell pauses, considering his answer. "I always begin with the eyes. They're the window to the soul and the key to capturing a subject’s essence."

"How long does a portrait like this usually take?"

"It varies. Sometimes hours, sometimes days. It depends on the complexity of the subject and the mood I'm capturing."

Please be quiet. I can’t create like this, he thinks.

As he works, Sandra's gaze wanders around the studio, taking in the masterpieces. "Are these yours?" she asks, pointing at a striking piece depicting a woman in red.

"Yes, that one is mine. It's part of a series I did last year. They explore the themes of passion and desire."

"It's beautiful. The use of color, the brushwork. It's like nothing I've ever seen before."

"That piece is on display at the Grayson Gallery, along with several others from the same series."

"Strange, but I’ve visited that gallery many times and don’t recall seeing them."

How could she not know of his art? How could she be so ignorant, so uninformed? He steadies himself.

"It's a well-received series," he says.

"I'll have to check them out. It’s a passion of mine to discover new artists."

New artists? How dare she deny his popularity?

"I'm sure you'll find the series enlightening."

He pushes the frustration aside. He will show her, he thinks, and create a portrait so stunning, so powerful, that she will have no choice but to recognize his genius.

“Sit still and allow me to create,” he says.

After she complies, he loses himself in the flow of color and form taking shape on the canvas. The world falls away, and there is only the vision that drives him forward. Her likeness emerges from the chaos of brushstrokes.

This will be very good. Not his best work, but the first step toward their ultimate creation. Yet something is missing, some final touch that will elevate the piece from mere representation to visionary art.

"I need you to do something for me," he says. "Something that will make this portrait special."

Sandra shifts. "What do you need me to do?"

Maxwell smiles. "Trust me," he says. "And allow me to guide you."

“It depends. I won’t do anything lurid.”

“Nor would I ask you to. Lie back, Sandra. Peel the shirt down your neckline and show vulnerability.”

“If you think it will help.”

His eyes narrow.

“Yes, it will help a great deal.”

5

The hum of the jet provides a backdrop as Darcy connects to the in-flight Wi-Fi. She texts back and forth with Jennifer, reassuring herself that her daughter will be fine while she and Julian are away.

Julian flips through a magazine. “What’s the latest?”

"Jennifer says she and Kaitlyn are about to start a movie marathon. Apparently, they stocked up on enough popcorn and candy to feed a small army."

Julian chuckles, leaning over to peek at the screen. "Sounds like they're having more fun than we are. I'm glad Jennifer has a friend like Kaitlyn. It's good for her to have that support system when we're not around."

Darcy agrees, but a nagging worry tugs at her to call off this investigation and return home. It's the first time they've left Jennifer since the ordeal with the Genoa Cove murders, and even though she knows her daughter is safe with Kaitlyn's family, the protective instinct never leaves her.

Julian seems to sense her unease. "She's going to be okay, Darcy. We've taken every precaution, and Wolpert is just a phone call away if anything comes up."

"I know. I just hate being so far away."

"Speaking of far away," Julian says, his tone shifting to something more curious, "you never told me much about this Agent Monroe. How well did you know her?"

Darcy leans back in her seat and remembers the agent’s early days at the FBI. "Lisa was in the training class I taught at Quantico. I worked one on one with her during the physical and tactical exercises, so we got to know each other pretty well." She smiles at the memory, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. "She was always the top of the class, the one who could shoot better than everyone else on the range. I learned a lot from her, both in terms of technique and raw determination."

"The student teaching the teacher. So what happened after training? Did you two work together in the field?"

"A few times, yeah. We were on a couple of task forces together, mostly focused on serial crimes and cold cases. Lisa had a real knack for getting inside the minds of the unsubs and figuring out what made them tick. The came the Haldane investigation. The work took a toll on her, like it does for a lot of us. She started having nightmares and flashbacks to some of the more gruesome scenes we witnessed."

Julian stuffs the magazine into the seat pocket. "That's rough. I can't imagine dealing with that kind of darkness day in and day out."

"It's not for everyone. She eventually took a step back from active field work to focus more on research and consulting. Last I heard, she was teaching criminal psychology at the academy."

"And now she's reaching out to you for help. She must believe in you if she's calling in a favor after all this time."

"Lisa isn’t the type to ask for help unless she's at a loss."

Julian is quiet for a moment as he stares into the endless sky. "You think Haldane is directing this guy?"

Like so many killers had when Michael Rivers was alive. Julian doesn’t point out the similarities. He doesn’t have to.

"We're about to find out."

As if on cue, the captain's voice comes over the intercom and announces their impending arrival. Darcy feels a jolt of anticipation mixed with dread, the familiar rush of adrenaline that reminds her of too many FBI investigations. She looks out the window, watching as the city grows larger beneath them. Skyscrapers glint in the sunlight.

Somewhere in the city, amid the traffic and the noise, a killer hunts.

The Uber navigates the streets of downtown Chicago. Darcy’s mind remains on the plane and the conversation about Jennifer. As the car pulls up to the curb, she takes in the FBI field office, a monolith of glass and steel.

Julian grabs his bag off the floor. "You ready for this?"

"Did I make the right decision, Julian?"

“Trust your instincts.”

They step out of the car and enter the crisp autumn air, so different than Genoa Cove’s extended summer. The familiar scent of the city fills her lungs with a mixture of exhaust fumes, hot dog carts, and the tang of Lake Michigan.

As they approach the entrance, Darcy notes the security cameras and the reinforced glass doors. She knows that behind the unassuming exterior lies a fortress of technology, all dedicated to keeping the country safe.

They pass through the first set of doors and enter a small foyer. A security guard sits behind a desk. His eyes assess them.

Darcy steps forward, her consultant credentials in hand. "Darcy and Julian Haines to see Agent Lisa Monroe. She's expecting us."

The guard checks his computer. After a moment, he seems satisfied that they are who say claim to be.

"Place metal objects in the tray. Keys, phones, belts."

Darcy and Julian comply. The routine should be second nature after years in law enforcement, but she thought she’d left this world behind. They pass through the metal detector and collect their belongings on the other side.

The guard hands them each a visitor's badge. "Agent Monroe is on the fourth floor, room 412. The elevators are down the hall and to your left."

She thanks the guard and clips the badge to her jacket as they make their way through the building. The halls are a maze of muted colors and fluorescent lights. Agents in suits and ties pass, some with their heads down and focused on files, others engaged in heated phone conversations. She catches snippets of their words as they walk—references to cases and suspects. The name Damon Haldane makes her squirm.

As they step into the elevator, Julian crosses his arms over his chest. "Brings back memories, doesn't it?"

"Sometimes I miss it, being in the thick of things like this."

Julian raises an eyebrow. "But?"

"But then I remember the cost. The toll it takes, not just on us but on the people we love."

Darcy thinks of Hunter and Jennifer and the sacrifices her family made because she challenged The Full Moon Killer.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal a nondescript hallway. Room 412 is halfway down the corridor. The open door reveals a face from Darcy's past. Lisa Monroe looks much the same as she did eight years ago: keen eyes, the same air of coiled intensity. But there's a weariness there too, borne of the horrors a criminal profiler endures. One can’t enter the mind of a killer without losing a bit of their humanity.

"Agent Darcy Haines," Lisa says, hopping out of the chair. "You made it."

"Just Darcy now, Lisa. I don’t want anyone to think I’m rejoining the Bureau."

Lisa turns to Julian. "And you must be Julian. Darcy mentioned you before, but I wasn't aware you'd be joining us."

Julian offers a polite smile, but Darcy can see the confusion in Lisa's eyes. She knows that bringing a civilian, even a seasoned detective, into an active FBI investigation is unorthodox.

"Julian and I are a team," Darcy says, brooking no argument. "Where I go, he goes."

Lisa hesitates for a moment, then nods, seeming to accept the situation. "We're just glad to have you here, Darcy. Your expertise in profiling and understanding the mind of a killer is invaluable in a case like this."

The agent gestures for them to take a seat beside her desk. Files and photographs litter the top. Darcy spies the crime scene photos. Her stomach turns over.

"The evidence struck me," Lisa says. “The M.O. has Damon Haldane’s stamp all over it.”

Darcy leans her elbows on the table. "Walk me through what you found. What do we know so far?"

Lisa describes the scene and fans out the photographs. Darcy feels as if she stepped back in time to the Haldane murders.

“The unsub posed Eleanor Grayson before Haldane’s ‘The Descent.’ At first glance, it’s a recreation of the murders from eight years ago.”

“Except?”

“The killer removed Grayson’s eyes.”

Julian rolls a knot out of his back. He holds his attention on the photos, but Darcy knows he feels sick and wants to look away. Her husband has entered her world before, but never waded in so deep. This is a level of brutality she hasn’t encountered since Haldane ran amok.

"Were the eyes removed post-mortem?" Darcy asks.

Lisa slides a file across the table. "According to the coroner's report, yes. The cuts were precise, almost surgical. Whoever did this knew what they were doing."

Julian studies the photos. "What about forensic evidence? Did the killer leave anything behind, anything we can use to identify him?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. We found three hair fibers at the scene, but none yielded a DNA matches in our database. Ligature marks on her neck prove the unsub strangled Grayson before posing her."

"What about the ligature marks? Any identifying materials?" Darcy asks.

"Plain white nylon rope, available at any hardware store in the country. No way to trace it. This is where you come in, Darcy. Your unique perspective from working on the Haldane case."

“You were there too, Lisa.”

The FBI agent glances out the window, as if searching the streets below for the killer. Then she fixes her attention on Darcy.

“But you were the one who caught him.”

6

The Grayson Gallery remains closed as the authorities investigate the curator’s murder. Three blocks away, The Fuse Art Gallery is a haven of serenity on the streets of Vestal. Soft light filters through the skylights and washes the polished hardwood floors. Paintings break up the monotony of the white halls. Here, the air is cool and hushed, filled with the murmured appreciation of the patrons.

David Miller stands before a large abstract painting, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. To the casual observer, he appears lost in thought, absorbed in the colors and brushstrokes. But a closer look reveals tension in his shoulders and tightness around his eyes.

His sister Cary Ann approaches from behind. Her heels click on the floor. She stops beside him and looks from the painting to his face.

"What do you think?" she asks, her voice lowered so as not to disturb the others.

At first, David doesn’t answer. His eyes never leave the canvas. When he finally speaks, his voice is distant, as if he's not quite present.

"It's chaotic," he says, his head tilting to the side. "Violent, almost. Like the artist was trying to exorcise something or purge some inner darkness."

"That’s pretty deep from a guy who claims not to care about art."

“Just an observation.”

“Are you sure? You seem off your game.”

He blinks and returns to himself. "I'm fine." His response comes too quickly. "Just tired. I haven't slept well over the last week."

She knows better than to push or pry into the secrets he keeps locked away.

"Maybe we should take a break. Want a coffee or a bite to eat?"

But David already immerses himself in a corner sculpture. It's a mass of metal and wire. Jagged edges jut out at odd angles.

"Look at this one. Reminds you of a wound, doesn't it? It’s like something torn open and left to bleed."

Cary Ann suppresses a shudder. She's seen this side of her brother before. Everything appears dark to his eyes. It’s a scar left behind by the horrors he saw, the things they asked him to do.

The things he still can't talk about, even to his own sister.

"David, we should get that coffee, don’t you agree? I think we could both use a break from all this intensity."

He looks at her. For a heartbeat, she sees a flicker of the old David, the one who used to tease her mercilessly and sneak her candy when their parents weren't looking.

Then it's gone, replaced by the stranger he's become—the man with shadows in his eyes and ghosts in his heart.

“You talked me into coming here. No reason to leave when we haven’t been here for twenty minutes.”

“If these pieces bother you⁠—”

“Why would they bother me?”

She doesn’t answer. If he wants to be stubborn, let him.

Still, she wishes he would change his mind. This was a terrible idea. They could have caught a movie or, better yet, taken a walk in the park.

Her unease grows. The paintings on the walls leer at her. She finds herself drawn to a particular section, a series of works by an artist she's never heard of before.

"Damon Haldane," she reads aloud. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

David stops beside her. "He was that serial killer, remember? The one who fancied himself an artist. They caught him years ago, but not before he murdered a bunch of people and posed their bodies like some sick installation piece."

Cary Ann feels her pulse quicken. "That was David Haldane. I remember the news stories. Why would they have his work here?"

He snorts, a humorless sound that echoes off the white walls. "I heard they're planning a retrospective of Haldane's work at the museum. Unbelievable. I guess murder is a surefire way to make people pay attention to your half-baked attempts at art. What a joke."

She flinches at the bitterness in his tone. She has seen his anger boil over when the memories came flooding back.

"We should move on. There's plenty of other art to see."

But he doesn't seem to hear her. His attention fixes on a gruesome painting. It depicts a figure in agony, its body contorted in ways that seem inhuman.

"Haldane's so-called art is nothing more than the depraved scribblings of a madman," he says. "It's not even fit to line a birdcage. I can't believe anyone would waste their time analyzing this garbage."

She takes a step back. Why is he so upset?

"David, please. We should go somewhere else. It was my fault for suggesting the Roberson Gallery."

That seems to snap him out of it. His head jerks as if he just remembered she's there. Confusion and regret slides across his face.

"I didn’t mean to raise my voice." He runs a hand through his hair. "Looking at this stuff brings back memories."

She can't even begin to understand the pain he carries. Some wounds run too deep to heal.

"I get it. We can go. This place is giving me the creeps, and I’d really like to see the sun after all this."

"Yeah, let's get out of here. I need some fresh air. Breathing in all this trash will make you sick."

As they walk towards the exit, Cary Ann feels the hair stand on the back of her neck. She turns and scans the crowd.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, shifting into protector mode.

“It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

She looks between the sculptures, half-expecting to see Damon Haldane staring at them. But the serial killer is locked away and serving a life sentence.

“I’m positive,” she says. “The first round of coffee is on me.”

For the first time since they arrived, he grins.

“You’re on, Sis.”

Standing beside “Crimson Revelations,” Maxwell Sterling drinks in the brilliance of Damon Haldane's work. Each composition speaks to him on a level few can understand.

One day, he would like to bring Sandra here. How would she react? He could teach her to see the beauty behind the rage.

As he pauses before another piece, an unknown man speaks to a woman.

"Haldane's so-called art is nothing more than the depraved scribblings of a madman."

Maxwell's head snaps around. He zeroes in on the source of the blasphemy. They stand before another of Haldane's paintings.

How dare they? How dare these ignorant fools dismiss the work of a true visionary, a man who had the courage to plumb the depths of the human psyche and expose the rot that festers there?

Maxwell wants to confront them and make them see the error of their ways.

But he knows he can't. Not here. He mustn’t draw attention.

Attention is the last thing he needs.

So he bites his tongue and swallows the vitriol. He watches as the man and woman move on. Their voices fade into the crowd.

But he doesn't allow them to escape his sight. He follows at a distance, slipping between the gallery-goers. He's done this before. As long as he remains careful, trailing a subject is easy.

As he tails them, he strains to catch snippets of their conversation. Most of it is mundane. It’s the inane chatter of simpletons.

But then his ears prick up. The woman asks if he wants dinner tomorrow.

"I'll be at the animal shelter until late," the man says. "I promised I'd clean the cages and help with the adoptions."

The animal shelter sits a mile south of Maxwell’s studio. He knows the place and drives past every day. It's a nondescript building on the outskirts of Vestal, isolated and poorly lit.

As the man and woman leave the gallery, Maxwell hangs back until they disappear into the streets. He's not worried about losing them. He has all the information he needs.

Maxwell will teach the man a critical lesson. A lesson written in blood and agony, a masterpiece of suffering that will make Damon Haldane weep with envy.

For he is more than a fan, more than a mere acolyte. He is a visionary who will carry on Haldane's legacy and take it to new heights.

The world will know Maxwell Sterling’s name.

7

Achilling rain douses the Grayson Gallery. Darcy views the structure from the backseat of Special Agent Lisa Monroe’s SUV while Julian cranes his head for a better look. Yellow police tape cordons off the entrance.

Umbrella in hand, she steps onto the sidewalk. The gallery's darkened windows give no hints of the horrors that await. She feels Julian's presence beside her, though she can’t pull her eyes away from the doors.

“Are you certain you're ready for this?” he asks. “It's okay if you need more time.”

A flood from the Haldane investigation sweeps over her. She recalls the countless hours spent poring over crime scene photos and autopsy reports, trying to make sense of the senseless. It's a part of her past that she wants to bury. Standing on the threshold of another killer's work, she can't run from her fears.

"I'm ready," she says. "If we're going to catch this guy, I need to understand him."

Julian’s jaw tightens. He understands the toll that this work takes on her.

Lisa pockets her keys. The agent appears haggard. Her face drags with the weight of too many sleepless nights. "I fought the locals to keep the scene as pristine as possible. They won’t wait much longer. We should get to work."

They follow the agent to the gallery's entrance, where a uniformed officer stands guard. Monroe flashes her badge, and he steps aside, allowing them to duck under the police tape and enter the building.

The moment they cross the threshold, Darcy feels it. Malevolence runs like blood off the walls.

She closes her eyes and pictures the crime scene photos. The placement of the body and careful arrangement of the limbs. The ritualistic nature of the mutilation lent an artistic flair to the violence, but it’s still murder.

This killer is a man who sees himself as an artist. No, more than that. A visionary. He believes he is creating something transcendent. His canvas is human flesh, and his paint is blood and viscera.

She surveys the gallery through the killer's eyes. The spotlights form a stage to showcase his genius.

"Let's start from the beginning," Lisa says. “Security cameras show that Eleanor Grayson was the last to leave on the night of the murder. She set the alarm and locked up at 8:47 PM, then returned at 2:45 AM, but didn’t disarm the alarm. Nobody else entered during this time.”

“The killer must have already been inside when Grayson departed,” Darcy says. “He could have entered during business hours and posed as a patron.”

Julian steps around a sculpture. "But wouldn't someone have noticed him? Grayson was a high-profile target, and this place doesn't offer a lot of hiding spots. What about an employee instead of a visitor?"

“It’s possible,” Lisa says, though she appears unconvinced. “We interviewed the staff, and several of them mentioned a maintenance worker who started a few weeks ago. He kept to himself.”

"Let me guess. He didn't show up for work the day after the murder."

"Bingo. And when we checked the employee records, we found that his ID and social security number were fakes. He used the name 'Juan Smith,' if you can believe it."

Darcy wants to laugh at the audacity. “But just because he faked his identity doesn’t make him the killer. What about the worker who found Grayson’s body? Have we ruled him out?”

“Michael Torres. And no, we haven’t. The issue is, the cameras caught him unlocking the doors at 4:07 AM. He contacted the police at 4:24, which gave him only 17 minutes to murder Grayson, pose the body, and conceal any evidence which would have implicated him. It doesn’t compute.”

“What about the new guy, the one who calls himself Juan Smith?”

“The worker’s true name is Miguel Arozarena, and he’s not a legal citizen. We got two bank card hits on Arozarena between midnight and 2 AM. Both came from Brooklyn, New York. No way he made it back to Vestal in two hours. Plus, there’s no footage of him entering the building.”

Darcy turns her attention to the gallery. Except for the flashlight beams, it’s pitch black. She pictures the killer moving from one sculpture to the next as he follows the curator.

“Any idea why Grayson arrived in the dead of night?” asks Julian.

“Everyone we interviewed says Grayson was a workaholic who suffered with insomnia,” Lisa says. “It was common for her to show up at all hours.”

"The unsub needed a place to hide," Darcy says. "Somewhere he could watch Grayson without being seen." Her gaze lands on a small door, half-hidden behind an abstract sculpture. A placard beside the opening reads Maintenance Closet. "There. That's where he waited. It's out of the way and often overlooked."

Julian moves to the closet. A gloved hand rests on the knob. He glances back at Lisa, who nods her assent. He eases the door open.

The closet is cramped. Shelves hold cleaning supplies and stacks of paper towels.

Darcy's attention falls to the floor, where a stain mars the concrete. Someone spilled a chemical cleaner. "Did your team dust for prints in here? Any forensic evidence that could give us a lead?"

“We went over every inch of this closet,” Lisa says, “but the killer was meticulous. No prints, no fibers.”

"What about DNA? Surely he must have left something behind, a hair follicle or a drop of sweat?"

"We found a single hair strand caught on the edge of a shelf."

“Have you run it through the database?” Julian asks. “Any hits?”

"We're still waiting on the lab results. It's a long shot. If this guy is as careful as he seems, he doesn't have a record."

Darcy imagines the killer crouching here, like a spider in its web.

How long did he wait? All night?

It's a short walk to the staging area near Grayson’s office. The chair where the victim sat lies on the floor. According to the police reports, the chair fell when Torres tried to awaken Grayson. A Damon Haldane painting rests on an easel.

The murder reminds Darcy of Haldane, but there are differences. The removal of the eyes—what does this symbolize?

“He wants us to see his work and appreciate his artistry,” Darcy says. “He's killing to create something that will outlast him and make him immortal.”

“That tracks with what we know about Haldane,” Lisa says. “He saw his murders as art and a way to express his inner darkness.”

Julian rubs his chin. "But this guy isn't copying Haldane. He's taking it to a new level. The missing eyes tell me he's trying to one-up his idol."

They're dealing with a devil with no boundaries. Even now, the killer is planning his next masterpiece.

Darcy stands in the center of the gallery. “The removal of the eyes deviates from Haldane's MO. Haldane was all about the presentation and staging the bodies as living works of art.”

Lisa snaps a picture with her phone. “Why take the eyes?”

"It could be symbolic. In many cultures, the eyes are windows to the soul. By removing them, the killer is stripping the victim of her humanity."

Julian's face twists with disgust. "Or he could just be a sick bastard who gets off on mutilation."

"No, it's more than that. Every action has a purpose. He's not indulging in a fetish. He's creating a narrative only he can read."

“Now we need to determine what that story is.”

"The unsub believes he is Haldane's successor. But he wants to surpass his idol."

Lisa mulls over Darcy’s words. "How do we figure out when he plans to strike again?"

A cold certainty settles in Darcy’s gut. She knows what she has to do and the lengths she must go to in order to unravel the killer's psyche. "I need to talk to Haldane. I have to hear his words and see the world as he views it. Only then can I understand his protégé."

Julian's reaction is immediate and visceral. "No," he says, his voice hard with anger and fear. "Absolutely not. I won't let you do that, Darcy. I won't let you subject yourself to a maniac's mind games."

"It's a wise idea," Lisa says, holding up a hand to forestall Julian's protest. "Haldane is the key. If anyone can give us insight into the killer's motives, it's him."

Darcy feels caught between duty and her love for her husband. She knows the toll that facing Haldane will take on her. To catch a killer, she must confront the terror that started it all. Even if it means staring into the heart of madness.

“Think it over,” Lisa says, sensing the tension between Darcy and her husband. “Don’t make a critical decision on the spur of the moment. Whatever you choose, I’ll support you.”

8

The drumbeat of rain hammers against the Uber vehicle’s rooftop. Its steady patter fills the hush between Darcy and Julian as they wait for the driver to drop them off at the hotel. Beyond the windows, neon lights blur together, obscured by the water droplets that drizzle down the glass.

She steals a glance at Julian. The passing streetlights illuminate his face. Her husband is lost in thought, wrestling with how to approach her. He needs his space and time to process her willingness to throw herself into the fire.

Waiting for him to talk, she turns back to the window and watches the city rush by in a kaleidoscope of color and motion.

"The forecast calls for more rain tomorrow," she says. “Maybe we should pack an extra umbrella, just in case.”

But Julian doesn't respond. He’s looking at some distant point across the city. The driver meets her eyes in the mirror and averts his gaze. She feels a pang of frustration at the wall that sprang up between them.

He's upset about her decision to visit Damon Haldane and sees it as an unnecessary risk. Part of her understands his fears and the desire to protect her from the serial killer’s taint. She has no choice. Confronting Haldane is the only way to gain the insight they need. The priority is catching this new murderer. Even if it means staring into the face of pure evil.

The car slows to a stop outside their hotel, and the driver hops out to help them with their belongings, but Julian is already out of the vehicle and waiting for her on the curb.

She scrambles to follow, thanking the driver with a distracted smile as the rain soaks her clothes. In the lobby, his finger jabs at the elevator button. He doesn't look at her as she falls into step beside him.

"Julian," she says. "We can talk about this."

“Seems like you made up your mind.” A muscle ticks in his neck as the elevator chimes and the doors slide open. He holds the keycard as he strides towards their room on the fifth floor.

As they enter the room, Darcy takes a moment to absorb the surroundings. The hotel is upscale, with plush carpets and tasteful, modern décor. The king-size bed dominates the space. Its crisp white linens seem inviting after a long day. A desk sits against one wall, while an armchair occupies the corner, perfect for reading.

"I can't believe you're actually considering this," he says, tossing his bag on the bed. "Damon Haldane? Why would you allow that psychopath to corrupt your mind?"

She sinks onto the edge of the bed. He's right. Haldane is a master of psychological warfare, and no profiler has cracked his code since the imprisonment.

"I realize what Haldane is capable of."

"What about the toll this will take on you? Haven’t you suffered enough?"

Darcy feels a lump rise in her throat. He's speaking from a place of love, of genuine concern for her well-being, even though his tone is caustic. Fear can’t dictate her actions.

"I'm not going into this alone," she says. "I want you with me, Julian. Be my anchor when I speak to Haldane."

He looks down at their clasped hands. "I don't like it. I can’t stand the idea of you anywhere near that monstrosity. He’ll manipulate into thinking he is helping. But he’ll only get inside your head."

"I don't pretend that it will be easy, and I’m aware of how Haldane operates. But I promise I won't let him worm his way into my head like he did to the others."

Julian stares at the blank television screen. "If this is how things have to be, I’ll support you. But only if you keep your promise and take me with you."

“Deal.”

"If it gets to be too much, if you feel yourself slipping, tell me. I’ll get you out of there. Special Agent Lisa Monroe can deal with Haldane on her own. That’s what the government pays her to do."

“I can agree with that.”

While he unpacks his belongings, she falls into the armchair and watches the storm pelt the windows. She wants to stop a killer, but is visiting Haldane the only way? She's heard the stories, whispered behind the closed doors of Quantico and passed from one haunted agent to another like macabre folklore.

There was Agent Santos, a rising star in the BAU, who had interviewed Haldane shortly after his capture. The agent had been cocky in his ability to crack the killer's defenses.

But after three sessions, Santos emerged from the prison a broken man. He turned in his badge and gun the next day.

Then there was Detective Leighton with the DC Police. She volunteered to take on Haldane, convinced that her years on the force had inured her to the worst of humanity's depravities. But the serial killer saw through her façade. He zeroed in on the cracks in Leighton’s armor and taunted her with intimate details of her life she never dared to voice aloud. How had he known?

One year later, the officers found Leighton in her apartment with a single gunshot wound to the head. The suicide note read, "I can't take his voice in my head anymore."

After people repeat a story enough times, exaggerations ingrain themselves in the narrative. Yet Darcy believes. Can she be arrogant enough to think she will fare better and resist Haldane's machinations?

She closes her eyes. Her head falls back against the chair as she tries to quiet the arguments that clamor for attention in her mind. This is a high-stakes game of psychological roulette with her sanity as the ultimate prize.

Is she strong enough to face to dance with the devil in hell?

Opening her messages, she realizes she hasn’t heard from Jennifer or Hunter since arriving in Vestal. While Julian lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling, she texts her daughter.

Hey, sweetie. How's everything going with Kaitlyn and her family?

The reply comes seconds later.

Everything's great! We just got back from the movies. Saw that new superhero flick. It was EPIC!

Darcy smiles. Since when did her daughter like action movies?

Sounds like you're having a blast. What's on the agenda for tomorrow?

Kaitlyn's mom is taking us shopping! Can't wait. Though I think her dad's dreading it, LOL.

Poor guy. He doesn’t know what he's in for with you two. Remember, stick to the budget we discussed, okay?

I promise I won’t drain my savings. How are things with you and Dad? Catch the bad guy yet?

Darcy hesitates, her fingers hovering over the screen. She can't burden her daughter with the truth.

Not yet, but we're working on it. Your dad says hi, by the way. He misses you.

Tell him I miss him too. And you, of course. When are you guys coming home?

Darcy didn’t expect Jennifer to miss her. Staying with Kaitlyn is the best vacation her daughter has had in years.

Soon. We just have a few things to take care of here. But we'll be back before you know it.

Okay. Stay safe, Mom. And don't let Dad work too hard. You know how he gets.

Don’t worry about Dad. Have fun with Kaitlyn. I love you to the moon and back.

Love you too, Mom. To infinity and beyond.

Darcy sets aside her phone. God, how she misses her son and daughter.

On aching legs, she rises from the chair and crosses the room to her husband. She wraps her arms around him and rests her cheek against his chest.

"Thank you," she says, her voice muffled by his shirt.

Julian stills. His hands come to rest over hers. "For what?"

"For supporting me, even when you don't agree with my choices."

He turns in her embrace. "I'll always be here, Darcy. I just want to ensure you take care of yourself."

“Believe me, I’m considering my options.”

“Second thoughts?”

“I’ll speak with Lisa.”

“Don’t agree to anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

City lights flash beyond the storm’s blur. Darcy allows herself a moment of peace. When the time comes, they'll face the monster.

But tonight, they have each other. And that's enough.

9

David Miller kneels beside a wounded falcon and examines the bird's injured wing. The animal shelter is quiet at this hour. The only sounds are the rustling of feathers and the hum of highway traffic beyond the walls.

He cleans the wound and applies a splint to immobilize the wing. It's a delicate process, one that requires patience and a steady hand.

"Okay friend, let's get you taken care of," David says as he opens the carrier door.

The hawk eyes him, puffing out its feathers in pain and distress.

"I know you're hurting, but we'll make it better."

He gently takes hold of the bird. His calloused but gentle hands wrap around its body to immobilize the wings. The hawk struggles before growing still. He examines the damaged wing.

"Just a simple fracture, that's good news," he says as he strokes the hawk's head. "We'll get you all wrapped up and, with a little time, you'll be ready to fly free again."

David administers pain medication and wraps the broken wing.

"You just focus on healing up, okay? I'll be right here to give you whatever you need."

As he moves on to the next enclosure, he recalls the sound of gunfire, the screams of the wounded and dying. He can still feel the heat of the desert sun on his skin and the weight of his gear pressing down on his shoulders.

Running. Surviving.

David forces himself to push aside his military background and focus on the present. He reaches into the enclosure and scoops up a trembling rabbit. The animal is thin and malnourished, its fur matted and dirty. He carries the animal to the examination table and checks for injuries. The rabbit's heartbeat is rapid, its eyes wide with fear. But as David cleans its fur and administers fluids, the animal calms.

It’s not lost on him that he feels closer to wildlife than he does people. Cary Ann wants him to trust people more, but it’s a challenge.

Shifting from one enclosure to the next, he changes bedding, refills water dishes, and prepares meals for the animals in his care. Each task is a meditation that quiets the noise in his head. But even here, in this sanctuary of his own making, the memories linger. He sees the faces of his fallen friends. He remembers the IED that nearly took his life and the shrapnel that tore through his flesh and left him broken and bleeding on the sand.

David rests against the wall. It's a battle he wages every day—a war that knows no end.

His phone vibrates. He fishes it out of his pocket and sees Cary Ann's name on the screen. With a sigh, he answers the call.

"Hey, Sis. What's up?"

"Just checking in on my favorite brother," Cary Ann says. "How are things at the shelter?"

"Same as always." He cradles the phone between his shoulder and ear as he prepares a syringe of antibiotics for a sick raccoon. "Lots of animals in need of help."

"I was thinking, maybe we could do something fun next week."

He thinks of the art gallery. "I don't know, Cary Ann. I'm pretty busy."

"Come on, David. It doesn't have to be anything big. We could catch a movie, or maybe go for a hike in the park. You love nature."

He can't deny the appeal of a quiet hike, away from the noise and chaos of the city. “I'll have to see how things are going here.”

"And I was also thinking, maybe we could invite some friends along. It would be good for you to socialize."

He stiffens. "I'm not great with people."

“You used to be, or have you forgotten? Remember serving on the student council?”

“High school was a million years ago.”

“More like 15, but who’s counting? It's important to put yourself out there.”

"I'm not hiding," David snaps, his tone sharper than he intended. "The shelter needs me."

Cary Ann is silent for a moment, and he can hear her choosing her next words. "I'm proud of what you do. But you need to take care of yourself. Learn to trust people as much as you do the animals."

David closes his eyes, fighting back a surge of frustration. "It's not that simple. No animal ever tried to kill me."

No one speaks for a long time. Then she diffuses the situation with levity.

"Well, that's because you don't hang out with crocodiles."

Despite himself, David snickers. "Fair point. Although I had a close call with a snapping turtle once."

Cary Ann laughs, and for a moment, the heaviness lifts from his heart.

"See? You still know how to chill, big brother. At least think about taking a break next week. Even if it's just for a little while."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Great. I'll call a few friends from the office. You’ll get along great with them. Love you, David."

"Love you too, Sis."

As David hangs up the phone, a sound catches his ear. Mewling.

He frowns and glances around the room at the cages that line the walls. All the cats are accounted for and curled up in slumber.

The mewling comes again. He crosses the room and listens at the front of a darkened corridor. There shouldn’t be any animals loose inside the facility.

He flicks the wall switch and illuminates the hallway. At a window halfway down the corridor, the sound grows more insistent.

It's coming from outside. Somewhere beyond the metal door that leads to the alleyway.

It could be a stray. Yet the sound unnerves him.

When the mewling takes on a desperate, almost human quality, he drops the cleaning supplies and follows the sound.

The door swings open and reveals a narrow alleyway bathed in shadows. It’s too cold for fall. Clouds form with each exhalation.

Outside, the alleyway seems to stretch forever. The mewling stops, leaving only the hooting of an owl.

As David nears his truck, a shape huddled underneath catches his eye. Concern overrides his apprehension, and he crouches down for a better look. A cat, its black fur matted and soaked, stares back at him. The creature's eyes are wide with fear. It lets out a weak, pitiful meow. It's clear the cat is in distress, unable to move from its spot beneath the vehicle.

"Hey there, little one. Are you trying to steal my ride? Let's get you inside where it’s warm."

As he reaches under the truck, his fingers brush against something unexpected. A leash, attached to the cat's collar. His confusion grows as his fingers follow the leash to the other end. Someone tied the cat to the bumper.

Bait.

The word pops into his head. Before he can react, pain explodes in the back of his skull. He pitches forward, searching for the source of the attack.

Run. Survive.

A man’s silhouette covers the moon. Disoriented, David rolls onto his back. The attacker wears black clothing. A grotesque Venetian masquerade mask hides his face.

In one gloved hand, the assailant grips a crowbar. The weapon rises.

David has experienced dangerous situations before. But this is personal, a targeted attack by someone who knows him.

He gropes for the hunting knife he keeps in his back pocket. His fingers are clumsy and uncoordinated. Before he can close his hand around the hilt, the crowbar whistles down.

David rolls, feeling the rush of displaced air as the weapon misses his head and strikes the pavement. He is vaguely aware of the cat clawing free from his grip and tugging at its leash.

Dizzy. Can’t see straight.

He staggers to his feet and raises his forearms in a defensive stance. Protect the head. He can overcome a strike to his midsection.

The masked figure advances. David feints left, then darts to the right. The alleyway is too narrow. Nowhere to hide.

The crowbar catches him on the shoulder. He can’t feel his arm, which dangles and bleeds.

David needs to end this. He can't take much more punishment, not in his already weakened state. With a burst of desperation, David launches himself at his attacker.

The crowbar smashes against his head and sends him down.

Again.

Again.

Now there is only darkness.

10

The chatter inside the Vestal Police Department makes it difficult for Darcy to concentrate. Along with Julian, she’s relegated to a desk in the corner, while Special Agent Lisa Monroe confers with the lead detective handling the Eleanor Grayson murder.

Darcy evaluates the crime scene photos and reviews the staff interviews at the Grayson Gallery. She's been at this for hours, trying to piece together a profile of the killer. But the more she digs, the more elusive the answers become.

One thing seems obvious. Michael Torres is not their killer. He had neither the time nor the motive to murder Grayson. By all accounts, Damon Haldane’s art repulses the cleaner. Torres considered quitting because of his religious beliefs.

She knows Lisa is waiting for her to bring up Haldane, to draw the connections between this new killer and the man who haunted her past. It's not that she doesn't see the similarities. The staging of the crime scenes, the artistry of the kills—this new murder bears the hallmark of Haldane's depraved genius. But something about this case feels different.

Darcy sips her coffee. She's running on fumes. Why did she accept this investigation? She could be home, researching an insurance fraud case from the comfort of her study or the back deck. Until now, she hasn’t realized how much she misses her daughter. Yes, she misses Hunter as well, but she’s used to her son attending college. Jennifer is a fixture in their home. When she graduates from high school and leaves, the house will feel empty.

"There talking about you," Julian says, lifting his chin at Lisa and the detective.

“Because they avert their eyes whenever I look their way?”

“You noticed too?”

“I’m a profiler, Julian. It’s my superpower.” Darcy sets down her mug and rubs her tired eyes. "I'm thinking this killer is more than a copycat. He corresponds with Damon Haldane."

“Is that possible? Doesn’t the prison monitor Haldane’s communications?”

She gives her husband a sideways glance. “You don’t know Haldane the way I do. He always finds a way.”

"What does the Grayson murder tell you?"

Darcy leans back in her chair. "It tells me this is personal. He worships Haldane, yet there’s an undercurrent of jealousy that I can’t ignore."

“How so?”

“Impossible to say without more information. Call it a hunch, but I believe our unsub wishes the world paid him the same attention it gives to Damon Haldane.”

Julian sets his ankle on his knee. "Haldane has been locked up for eight years. What could have triggered this sudden obsession?"

"I’m not sure. Until I figure it out, expect more people to die."

As she reaches for another file, Lisa catches her eye from across the room and approaches.

“How is the profile coming along?” the agent asks, stirring her own coffee.

“It’s preliminary,” Darcy says, “but I’m ready to present my findings.”

“Perfect. Detective Müller is gathering the officers. The conference room is ready when you are.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

After Lisa returns to Müller, Julian lowers his voice. “Are you sure about Special Agent Lisa Monroe?”

“Lisa is trustworthy.”

“She’s leaning on you pretty heavily.”

“See things from her perspective. The last time Lisa and I worked together, she was a junior agent trying to fit in. When the Haldane murders escalated, the FBI threw her into the deep end, and she could have drowned. From day one, she needed me to support her.”

“That was a long time ago, Darcy.”

“I understand, but Lisa still views me as her mentor, though she undoubtedly has the chops to catch this unsub by herself.”

“Just don’t let Lisa or anyone with the FBI use you.”

As Darcy gathers her files and makes her way to the conference room, she can feel the officers’ expectations. They crowd the interior, their faces a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

She sets up her laptop with trembling hands and connects the projector. The inevitable whispers begin and set her teeth on edge.

"That's her, isn't it? The one who caught The Full Moon Killer?"

"Yeah, Darcy Gellar. Or is it Haines now? I heard she is some kind of profiling genius."

"She got inside Damon Haldane’s head. What do you think that does to a profiler?"

Darcy blocks out the chatter as Detective Müller introduces her. Straightening her spine, she turns to face the room. The officers fall silent. Their eyes hold an intensity that makes her skin crawl.

"Good morning," she begins, her voice sounding thin and reedy to her own ears. "As you all know, we're here to discuss the murder of Eleanor Grayson and the connection to the convicted serial killer, Damon Haldane."

She clicks to the first slide, a crime scene photo that draws a collective groan from the assembled officers. The image is gruesome, the victim’s body posed to admire Haldane’s “The Descent.”

"As you can see," Darcy continues, "the killer went to great lengths to honor one of Haldane's most infamous works, 'The Descent.' This suggests a deep familiarity with Haldane's oeuvre, as well as a desire to pay homage to the serial killer’s vision."

She moves through the slides, outlining the key points of her profile. She knows her presentation will be met with some resistance, but she's confident in her analysis.

"Based on the crime scene and the killer's choice to mimic Damon Haldane's work, we can infer several key characteristics. The unsub is a white male between the age of 35 and 45. This individual is highly intelligent, with a deep understanding and appreciation of art, particularly the morbid aspects embodied by Haldane."

She pauses, letting the words sink in before continuing. "The killer's actions suggest a psychopathic personality, with a lack of empathy, a tendency towards manipulation, and a grandiose sense of self. The meticulous planning and execution of his crimes indicate an organized and detail-oriented individual."

A hand raises from the back of the room. It’s an officer who appears too young to carry a gun. "What makes you think this killer has a background in art?"

"The choice to mimic Haldane's work suggests more than just admiration. It points to a desire to communicate through art and turns his crimes into a canvas. To achieve this level of detail and resonance, the killer likely has a background in art history or a related field."

She clicks to the next slide, a list of bullet points outlining the killer's potential motivations. “This individual seeks recognition and validation, but not in the traditional sense. His actions suggest a need to surpass Haldane. He views himself as an unrecognized genius deserving of attention and respect. Without question, his lack of success angers him.”

Another officer chimes in with a skeptical voice. "If he’s so smart, why draw attention to himself? Wouldn't he want to avoid getting caught?"

"He believes himself superior and untouchable. Targeting Eleanor Grayson shows a desire to shock and provoke a response from both the public and law enforcement." She moves on to the next slide, outlining the killer's social behavior and criminal history. "This individual is a loner, not out of inability to socialize, but by choice. The unsub may be charming and persuasive when interacting with others, but his relationships are superficial. He views people as tools and obstacles."

Darcy pauses, letting the information settle in before continuing. "As for criminal history, the killer may have a clean record or a minor infraction. He understands the importance of remaining anonymous."

She clicks to the last slide. "The recent auction and sale of several Haldane pieces may have served as a trigger, challenging the killer's sense of supremacy and prompting him to rise above his mentor. This is not an impulsive act, but the culmination of years of planning and obsession."

Darcy looks around the room, making eye contact with each officer. "It's crucial that we investigate individuals with connections to the art world, especially those with a known interest in Haldane. Monitor art forums, exhibitions, and auctions for unusual behavior or views aligned with Haldane."

The officers jot notes.

"And consider the possibility that the killer may attempt to insert himself into the investigation, either through direct communication or by offering help. Be vigilant as you proceed."

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what she knows she has to say next. "There is one more thing. Our unsub may be in direct communication with Damon Haldane."

The room erupts in a buzz of whispers. Darcy holds up a hand.

"Haldane is a manipulator who thrives on attention and adoration. It's not beyond the realm of possibility that he could have cultivated a disciple, someone to carry on his work from behind bars. I realize this is a lot to take in. But if we're going to catch this killer, we need to be open to every possibility."

Darcy closes the presentation. "I'll be working closely with Special Agent Monroe and Detective Müller. We'll need everyone's help to bring this killer to justice."

The officers file out of the conference room and give Darcy space, but Detective Müller hangs back. While Darcy folds the laptop and places it under her arm, Julian taps her shoulder and gives her a look of warning. Müller approaches.

“Excellent presentation,” the detective says.

“It was the best I could do, given the short notice,” she says. “Understand that the profile will change as we collect more information.”

“Do you really believe that stuff about the unsub working with Damon Haldane?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Müller considers her answer before replying. “The city is panicking, and the mayor wants us a press conference. Something to assuage people’s fears.”

Darcy hopes the mayor doesn’t expect her to speak. She’s a consultant, not the lead investigator.

“What do you need me to do?”

“I’d like you to be there.”

Darcy glances at Julian, who shrugs. “That’s it?”

“I’m not asking anything else of you. We’ll handle the media.”

“When is this happening?”

“Tomorrow morning at ten. Front steps of City Hall.”

11

The fall breeze prods and pushes Darcy as she waits with Julian and Special Agent Lisa Monroe for the press conference to begin. A crowd of reporters and citizens gather outside City Hall, where a podium stands on the steps, ready to topple if the gale increases. The community demands answers in the wake of Eleanor Grayson's murder. Detective Müller and the chief of police, a stern-faced man named Raymond Novak, take their places and test the microphone.

The murmur dies down as Chief Novak clears his throat, his voice amplified by the microphone. “Good morning, everyone. Thank you for coming. As you know, our community mourns the death of Eleanor Grayson, a respected member of the art world and a beloved figure here in Vestal.”

He turns the microphone over to Müller, who does his best to present the facts without giving away too much. The police don’t want the media to connect the murder to Damon Haldane, and Darcy agrees. That would be like throwing a lit match on a pool of gasoline.

“I assure you that the Vestal Police Department, in cooperation with the FBI, is doing everything in its power to bring the person responsible for this crime to justice,” Müller says.

The detective requests help from the media and public. He releases a hotline number, which the authorities will monitor 24 hours a day. It’s a wise idea. Darcy feels certain someone will recognize the killer from the profile.

No sooner does the detective conclude speaking than hands shoot up from the sea of reporters. Voices fight for attention.

Chief Novak nods at a reporter in the second row. "Go ahead, Michael."

The reporter, Michael Thompson from the Vestal Daily News, raises his voice. "Chief Novak, can you tell us if there are any suspects in custody?"

"We don't have any suspects in custody. However, we are following up on several leads and are confident that we will apprehend the individual responsible."

Another reporter, a woman with short blonde hair, raises her hand. "Chief, what measures are being taken to ensure the safety of the community, especially those in the art world who may feel targeted?"

Novak leans forward, his expression serious. "We understand the concern and fear that this crime has generated, particularly within the art community. Vestal PD is increasing patrols in the areas surrounding galleries and museums, and we are working with the FBI to develop a comprehensive security plan. We encourage anyone who notices suspicious activity to report it immediately."

Chief Novak points to a young woman in the front row. "Yes, Jessica?"

The reporter, Jessica Alvarez from the local news station, stands. "Chief Novak, can you confirm reports that the crime scene bore similarities to the work of convicted serial killer Damon Haldane?"

Darcy stares at Lisa. Who leaked the information?

Novak coughs into his hand before responding. "While there are certain artistic elements to the crime scene, there is no connection to Damon Haldane. As you know, Jessica, Haldane is serving a life sentence. Our focus is on following the evidence and identifying the individual responsible."

Another reporter, a man with graying hair, chimes in. "But isn't it true that Haldane's artwork was recently sold at auction? Could this have been a trigger for a copycat killer?"

Seeing the fluster on Novak’s face, Detective Müller takes his place at the podium. "We're exploring all angles, but it's important not to jump to conclusions. As Chief Novak pointed out, Damon Haldane is behind bars and can no longer harm the public."

The crowd buzzes. Speculation can be dangerous.

As the questions intensify, Darcy’s arms ripple with goosebumps. It’s not from the cold. Something is wrong.

She cranes her head and looks over the people, searching for whatever unsettled her. She spots a figure shifting through the crowd and touches Julian’s shoulder. He squints and follows the shadow, which disappears into the throng.

“If you were the unsub, wouldn’t you show your face at the conference?” she asks.

Overhearing, Lisa sits forward. “You think the killer is here?”

Darcy doesn’t respond.

Chief Novak raises his hands, calling for quiet. "I understand this is a frightening time for our community. But we have the best people working on the case, including the FBI's top profiler, Darcy Haines."

Why did Novak mention her?

Darcy senses the reporters staring. Curiosity and expectation form in their eyes.

A knot tightens in her stomach, fearing she may be called upon to address the crowd. It's a responsibility she's shouldered before, but this isn’t her investigation.

Or is it?

The chief looks at her expectantly, and she prepares herself for the inevitable.

Until a scream rips through the air from the end of the block.

Heads snap toward the sound. A ripple of unease passes through the crowd. People begin to point and murmur, their voices rising in a crescendo of terror and confusion.

Julian and Lisa climb onto their chairs for a better view. Darcy pushes through the crowd, knowing what she’ll find. The killer struck.

Before she disappears, Julian grabs her arm.

“Slow down. You’re not going anywhere alone.”

“It’s him,” she says. “The unsub is here.”

Police radios amplify the officers’ raised voices. With Julian and Lisa flanking her, Darcy struggles through the crowd, moving down the block. As they draw closer, the murmurs give way to cries of horror and disbelief.

Somehow, the officers pass them and race ahead. Some members of the public make room for the authorities, but most are too stunned to notice.

“What’s happening?” Julian asks.

Darcy bounces off a rotund man in a parka. “Can’t tell. Keep going.”

“Stay with me. Novak spoke your name. If the killer is here . . .”

He doesn’t need to finish the thought. She’s a target now.

Then Darcy sees it.

In the middle of the sidewalk stands a parody of one of the world's most famous works of art. Two statues stand facing each other, their poses an echo of Michelangelo's "The Creation of Adam."

But where the original depicts the divine spark of life passing from God to man, this imitation perverts the sacred moment into the profane.

The statue on the left, a towering figure draped in black cloth, extends its arm towards its counterpart. But instead of the gentle touch of fingertip to fingertip, there is only a jagged stump, the sculpted hand severed at the wrist.

In its place, grafted onto the stone with a crude precision, is a human hand. The fingers curl in a rictus of agony. Dried blood crusts the ragged edges where the killer sawed the hand off its owner's arm.

Darcy turns and covers her mouth. Julian is right there to console her as Lisa marches through the onlookers.

“He did it again.”

That’s all Darcy can say without regurgitating breakfast.

“I’ll get you out of here,” Julian says.

“No, I need to see.”

Straightening, she looks at the abomination. She's seen death before and witnessed the aftermath of violence.

But this is different.

It’s a statement, a challenge, a declaration of intent from a mind so warped and broken that it sees beauty in unspeakable horrors.

Around her, the crowd erupts in screams and sobs. The shock and terror of the moment ripples through the gatherers in a physical force. Some turn away, unable to bear the sight. Other people point, transfixed.

Julian pulls Darcy to the side. "We need to get you out of here. It's not safe."

"I can't leave, not now. We have to coordinate with the police and lock down the area before the killer escapes."

Darcy searches for Lisa or Detective Müller in the chaos. She spots them several yards away, their faces grim as they try to restore order to the panicked crowd.

"Detective Müller, set up a perimeter. The unsub is still in the area!"

But a swarm of reporters surround the detective, their cameras flashing and microphones thrust in his face. He can't hear her.

In the distance, the same figure she spotted in the crowd vanishes down an alley.

“West Street and Fifth!” she shouts into her radio.

Unintelligible voices respond.

It’s too late. The killer is gone, but he will return.

He knows Darcy’s name.

12

The scene outside City Hall descends into chaos as police officers struggle to control the panicked crowd. Uniformed men and women push against the tide of terrified onlookers. Their voices go hoarse with shouted commands and pleas for calm. It does no good.

Darcy and Julian fight their way through the throng. The progress remains agonizingly slow. Someone shoves her from behind, and it’s Julian who catches her before she topples. If she falls here, the crowd will trample her. They're buffeted on all sides by screaming, sobbing people.

"Move aside!" Julian yells, his arm held out to shield Darcy from the worst of the jostling. "FBI and police coming through."

But his words vanish into the din. It's like swimming in flood waters, each step a battle against the current of humanity. After what feels like an eternity, they break through to the other side. Lisa stands at the center of a knot of police officers. Her face is flushed and her hair sticks up in multiple directions. She's shouting into a radio.

"I need units at every exit point. Do it now. No one gets in or out without authorization."

Darcy pushes her way to the agent’s side. "Lisa, we need to lock this down. The unsub was here all along."

"I’m doing everything I can, but this is a disaster."

Around them, officers fan out, their weapons drawn and their eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of the killer. They establish a perimeter and herd the onlookers back from the crime scene.

It's not enough. The unsub wouldn't have pulled this stunt without an escape plan.

Darcy leans close so Julian can hear. "We're too late. He’s gone."

Julian surveys the block. "We don't know that. He could be an onlooker."

Darcy wants to believe him, wants to cling to the hope that they can still catch this monster. But the killer is too intelligent. The unsub used the pandemonium to his advantage. With the police scrambling to restore order and the crowd in a frenzy, he had the perfect cover to escape.

She turns back to the crime scene. This is the killer’s new masterpiece. The statues stand erect, their grotesque parody of creation a mockery of all that is pure.

Detective Müller wipes the sweat from his brow. "Evidence techs are on their way. They'll process the scene. We just need to keep everyone back."

“How did the killer stage this with no one noticing?” Darcy asks. “It must have taken time to set up those statues and place the hand.”

Müller points to a huge, discarded cardboard box lying on that sidewalk. "We found that nearby. Looks like it was used to conceal the statues until the right moment. Everyone who noticed the box figured it was a furniture delivery."

Julian frowns. "So, what, the unsub just walked up, whipped off the box, and disappeared into the crowd?"

"That's my theory. He set this up overnight, when the streets were empty. Probably took his time arranging everything."

“Street cameras?”

“They don’t cover this section of the sidewalk. I checked.”

How many times has the killer walked these streets, another face in the crowd, while he planned this display?

"He’s getting bolder," she says. "Staging this in broad daylight is an enormous risk."

Lisa scans the buildings. “He’s taunting us. And like the Eleanor Grayson murder, he followed Damon Haldane’s playbook.”

"We need to widen our net. Canvas the area and talk to everyone who lives or works nearby. Someone must have noticed this guy."

Müller reaches for his radio. "I'll get my people on it. We'll shake every tree. I don’t intend to let this guy kill someone else."

“Where is the victim’s body?”

“I don’t know, but I have a feeling we’ll find out soon.”

As Müller strides away, barking orders into his radio, a fleet of unmarked vehicles pulls up. The evidence technicians arrive, their faces stoic as they gather their equipment.

Darcy waits outside the perimeter as they photograph the statues. The camera flashes remind her of lightning.

One technician, a young woman with short dark hair, approaches the severed hand. She snaps a series of close-up shots. The lens of her camera hovers inches from the appendage.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" Julian murmurs.

"Not since Haldane," Darcy says.

The technician lifts the hand with gloved fingers and places it in a clear evidence bag. Her face is a mask of professional detachment.

"They'll run prints on the hand," Lisa says. "We need to identify the victim."

"Any mention of missing persons in the last week?"

"We’re a stone’s throw from Chicago. People disappear all the time."

As the technicians continue their work, Darcy wonders again about the victim. Where is the rest of his body? Is this man alive and suffering? Tortured?

"What do you think this means?" Lisa asks, gesturing to the grotesque statues. "Explain the symbolism."

"Michelangelo's 'The Creation of Adam' depicts God giving life to man," Darcy says. "It's a symbol of divine power. But by replacing Adam's hand with a victim's, the unsub is subverting that meaning. He's not just playing God; he's declaring himself a deity."

"He's deciding who lives and who dies," Julian says.

"He's declaring himself the ultimate creator. If he wishes to surpass Haldane, this is the path. It's a statement of supreme ego and a declaration that he has the power to create and destroy."

Lisa shakes her head, disgust etched into her face. "He's a narcissist with a God complex. A dangerous combination."

Darcy says, "I want everything the prison has on Damon Haldane. Has he communicated with anyone? Can they trace his internet activity?"

“I’ll get my office on it.”

As the evidence technicians finish their work and pack their gear, Darcy breaks away from Lisa and Julian. The young woman who collected the hand appears to be in charge.

"Excuse me," Darcy says, catching the technician's attention. "I'm Darcy Haines, a criminal profiler consultant with the FBI. I’m working with the local police on this case."

The technician brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. "Linda DeMezza. I'm the lead forensic technician on this scene."

Darcy gestures to the evidence bag containing the severed hand. "What can you tell me about the condition of the hand? Is there any sign that it came from a living victim?"

"It's difficult to say without a full examination, but there are a few things that stand out." She holds up the bag, pointing to the ragged edge of the wrist. "You see where the hand was severed? The cut is relatively clean, suggesting it was done with a sharp, precise instrument. A surgical saw or a very sharp knife."

Julian falls in beside Darcy. "And the blood? It looks fresh."

"That's another indicator that the victim may have been alive when the hand was removed. If the unsub took it from a corpse, the blood would be darker, more congealed."

Darcy’s head spins at the thought of someone enduring mutilation. "Signs of trauma or a struggle?"

"Bruises and abrasions on the knuckles and fingers." Linda points to the faint marks on the skin. "They’re consistent with defensive wounds, like the victim fought back. Without the rest of the body, it's impossible to say for sure."

If the victim was alive when the unsub removed the hand, it means the killer is a sadist who takes pleasure in the suffering of others. This is someone with intimate knowledge of Haldane's crimes, someone who has studied his methods with obsessive detail.

Just as Darcy opens her mouth to ask another question, a shout rings out from down the block. She whirls around. The voice came from an alley.

“Did they catch the unsub?” Lisa asks.

Darcy presses her lips together. “I don’t think so.”

Radios come to life. A wave of police officers rush toward the call. There’s nothing to do but follow the commotion to its source. Linda signals to the other technicians. More work lies ahead.

As Darcy, Julian, and Lisa join the rush of law enforcement officers, one of them looks up and catches Darcy's eye.

“What’s happening?” she asks.

"We found the body."

13

The stench hits Darcy before she reaches the alleyway.

She runs to catch up to the officers, with Julian and Lisa close behind. The smell of garbage and decay grows stronger as they approach the cluster of law enforcement surrounding a dumpster.

"Stay back," an officer commands, holding up a hand to stop the bystanders.

"Crime scene techs are on their way," Julian says, standing on tiptoe to peer over the crowd.

Darcy looks past the officer and glimpses the open dumpster. A man's body lies contorted among the refuse. He’s naked, with his limbs splayed at unnatural angles.

“Let her through,” Detective Müller tells the officer. “She’s with the FBI.”

Darcy squeezes between the police as the technicians arrive to document the scene. Cameras flash. One technician, a man with salt-and-pepper hair, leans in to examine the dead man. Discarded boxes and food containers cover the body. Flies buzz, and maggots crawl over the victim’s skin.

More officers arrive, cordoning off the alley with yellow tape. They push back the gathering crowd.

Julian muscles past another officer to reach her. "He's creating a spectacle."

Darcy nods, her eyes never leaving the body. "Our unsub craves validation and wants the world to see his brilliance. The narcissism and delusion are obvious, but he's lost touch with reality. The rage behind these acts, the brutality, tells me this was personal."

“That can help us. The killer knew the victim.”

“I agree.”

The unsub's obsession with Haldane's crimes suggests a level of intimacy that goes beyond mere admiration.

"We need to get ahead of this," Lisa says. "If we don't find a lead soon, he'll strike again."

Darcy knows the agent is right. The unsub's escalation is a dangerous sign. Each murder displays a growing hatred for a world that refuses to acknowledge his greatness.

Darcy watches as the lead technician Linda DeMezza, still in protective gear, reaches into the dumpster. Working with her assistants, she begins the painstaking process of extricating the victim's remains.

Until the dumpster's contents shift and settle.

A collective gasp escapes from the gathered officers. Then a cascade of rancid refuse spills onto the pavement. Darcy's eyes water. She turns and gags.

Amid the rotting food scraps and soiled papers, something pale and glistening catches her attention. With a sinking feeling, she realizes it's a portion of the victim's intestines, torn and tangled like a grotesque bundle of Christmas lights.

Linda curses under her breath and motions for a evidence bags.

“You don’t have to see this,” Julian says, pulling her away.

Darcy stands her ground. “I need to.”

By their sides, Lisa leans over with a palm pressed to her mouth. Somewhere in the back, an officer vomits.

The lead technician lifts the organ, her gloved hands slick with blood and decay. This is more than a murder; it’s desecration. The unsub isn’t just killing his enemies. He's dismantling them. This is a level of sadism she hasn’t encountered since Haldane, and even the master would have blanched at this.

Afraid of what will spill out next, the techs sift through the dumpster's contents.

“Can you move the body?” Detective Müller asks.

Linda shoots him a glare that makes the man wither. “Are you kidding me?”

“We need to get the body to the morgue. The sooner we identify the victim and establish a connection to the killer, the better our chances of stopping this from happening again.”

“This isn’t a body. It’s a jigsaw puzzle.” Linda nods at the public, which is encroaching on the police tape. Media members stand on the front lines and shoot photographs of the carnage. “If you want to help, get those people out of my face. I can’t work under these conditions.”

"Alright, everyone, back up!" Detective Müller shouts, waving his arms at the crowd. "This is an active crime scene. I need you to clear the area."

The officers push the onlookers back as the media members protest, their cameras still clicking. Against the surging crowd, the police stand firm. The forensic investigators appear too flustered to continue.

Attempting to regain control over the situation, Linda turns to her team. "Let's do this by the book. Document everything before we move the evidence."

One technician, a young man with a camera, steps forward. "I'll start with the overall scene, then move in for close-ups."

"Be thorough. We can't afford to miss anything."

As the technician photographs the dumpster, its grisly contents, and the spillage blackening the pavement, another member of the team approaches Darcy. "Agent Haines, right? I'm Mike Contento, a forensic specialist. Can you tell me what you know about the victims so far?"

Darcy swallows the acid in her throat, trying to compose her thoughts. “We need an ID on this vic. It’s the second murder this week.”

“The first was Eleanor Grayson, correct?”

“Yes,”

“I didn’t work that scene, but I’m familiar with the investigation.”

“We believe both murders have something to do with the serial killer Damon Haldane. The unsub is recreating past crimes.”

Mike's face pales. "Haldane? The guy who turned his crime scenes into art exhibits?"

"This unsub wants to follow in his footsteps, but with a greater level of brutality."

Linda, overhearing the conversation, chimes in. "We'll be meticulous with this one. If the killer is modeling his crimes after Haldane, he might have left deliberate clues or signatures."

Lisa recovers from her sickness. "Haldane incorporated elements of his crimes into his artwork. It's possible this unsub is doing something similar."

As the technicians document the scene, Detective Müller returns, his face grim. "We’re keeping the crowd at bay, but the media is going to be all over this. We need to get the remains out of here before this scene ends up in the tabloids."

“We're working as fast as we can, Detective,” Linda says. “It’s the officers’ jobs to maintain control over the situation. We can't rush this. One misstep, and we’ll compromise the investigation. Then you’ll never catch this guy.”

Müller runs a hand across his forehead, the frustration clear on his face. "This is going to cause a panic. The public's already on edge after the last murder. When they find out what happened here . . ."

"Handle the media, Detective. Our priority is preserving the evidence and identifying the victim." Linda gestures to her team. "Collect everything and get the body bag ready. We'll need to transport the remains to the morgue in sections."

A thought strikes Darcy. She scans the crowd, her eyes narrowing. All this time, she assumed the unsub had escaped after revealing the statues. What if the killer is among the onlookers and watching the chaos unfold?

She whispers to Detective Müller. "Detective, I need you to do something, but remain discreet. Have your officers photograph the crowd and the media. Get as many faces as you can."

Müller squints. "You think the killer is here?"

"He thrives on attention, and what better way to bask in his brilliance than to witness the aftermath?"

"I'll get my people on it right away."

As Müller moves to relay the instructions to his officers, Lisa approaches. "Darcy, I think it's time we consider a more direct approach."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember your suggestion? I think you should visit Haldane in prison. He must know who is behind these murders."

The thought of facing Haldane, of crawling into the mind of the man who still haunts her nightmares, makes her want to scream.

"No," Julian says. "Absolutely not. Darcy is a consultant, not a full-time agent. She’s gone through enough."

"This isn't about what's comfortable. It's about stopping a killer before he strikes again."

"And you think subjecting Darcy to Haldane's mind games is the answer? He'll twist everything she says and use it against her."

"We don't have a choice. Haldane is the closest thing we have to an expert on this unsub's behavior."

Lisa is right. They're running out of options, and if talking to Haldane can help them catch the unsub before he kills again, Darcy has to try.

"I'll do it," Darcy says.

Julian whirls around. "You agreed to think this over."

"And I did."

Lisa lifts her phone. "I'll make the arrangements. We'll get you in to see Haldane as soon as possible."

14

The lobby of the coroner's office is a lonely space, all cold tile that reflects the lighting. The air carries disinfectant. It’s a feeble attempt to mask the odor of death.

Darcy sits on a chair in the corner with her head in her hands. Julian paces while Lisa leans against the wall. The FBI agent messages someone on her phone.

The agitation won’t abate. Julian's discomfort grows by the second. He hasn't spoken to Lisa since they left the crime scene.

The agent is all business. She's already made the arrangements for Darcy to visit Haldane, and this only fuels Julian's resentment.

"There has to be another way," he says.

Darcy lifts her head. "There isn't. We both know that."

“Look what happened after you challenged Michael Rivers. He was behind bars, but still had the power to hurt you. What do you think will happen if you visit Damon Haldane?”

"I can handle it."

"Really? What about Hunter and Jennifer? They don’t need another army of copycat killers targeting them."

Lisa ends the call. Her expression hardens. "This isn't about you, Julian. It's about catching a killer. If Darcy's willing to do what it takes, we need to support her."

Julian whirls on the agent. "By sending her into the lion's den? Haldane will eat her alive."

"Enough." Darcy's voice is quiet but firm. "I'm doing this, Julian. I have to."

She sees the pain in his eyes, the fear and the helplessness. But beneath it all, there's something else: respect. He knows the depths of her determination.

Yet she also worries that Haldane is another Rivers. She won’t put her family in the crosshairs. Never again.

As the tension lingers, Darcy blocks out Julian and Lisa. She hates these places. How many times has she waited in a coroner’s office to examine a killer's handiwork? They always reminds Darcy of her failures. Could she have prevented this murder?

She knows she's not infallible. She's only human, with all the flaws and weaknesses that come with it. Yet the guilt remains, a constant companion that chews at her insides, whispering in her ear that she's not good enough, that she'll never save them all.

The door to the lab swings open, and Linda DeMezza steps out. "We're ready for you."

Darcy rises, her legs feeling like lead. They don booties, gloves, and masks. Julian's hand finds hers, and Lisa falls into step beside them.

As they make their way down the hallway, Darcy imagines what awaits her inside the lab. Though it feels as if she’s walking through sludge, the room appears too quickly.

The victim's remains lie on the stainless steel table in a jigsaw puzzle of flesh and bone. Linda's team works on the corpse. Darcy forces herself to look, to take in the horror of what this man endured. His tortured body holds a clue, a whisper of the killer's identity.

"The victim knew our unsub," Darcy says. "The way he dismembered the body makes the murder personal."

Lisa directs a spotlight over the victim’s remains. "Agreed. This wasn't a random victim. The unsub chose him for a reason."

"What could this man have done to deserve this?" Julian asks. “We don’t know a thing about him.”

Linda looks up from her work, her gloved hands stained with blood. "I might have an answer to that." She points to a tattoo on the victim's shoulder. It’s a faded emblem that speaks of a life lived in service. "He was military. Special Forces, if I had to guess."

Excitement lights up Lisa’s eyes. "The unsub could be ex-military too. It would explain his knowledge of anatomy and his ability to move undetected."

“Not ex-military,” Darcy says. “Our killer doesn’t respect human life, and there’s no chance he could work under authority figures.”

Darcy examines the tattoo. It’s a symbol of honor. This man deserved better.

“Our victim dedicated his life to serving his country,” Darcy continues. “He lived by a code of honor. That's not something you just walk away from.”

Julian seems to follow her train of thought. "Unlike the killer. He has no honor."

"Precisely. Look at the way he treated this man's body. As with Eleanor Grayson, he shows no respect for human life. That's not the mindset of a soldier."

Lisa looks at Darcy from the other side of the table. "But the tattoo and the unsub's knowledge of stealth suggest a connection exists."

“But that connection has nothing to do with the Special Forces. Yes, the unsub knew his victim, but anything could have set him off. A chance encounter, perhaps.” She turns to Linda. "Can you zoom in on the tattoo? I need a closer look."

Linda adjusts the camera. The image appears on a monitor and pulls out the emblem’s details. “Better?”

“Yes. That’s definitely a Special Forces tattoo. Lisa, can you contact the FBI? Have them fast track a missing person’s search. Narrow the list to military and ex-military. That should give us a manageable list.”

Lisa removes her phone. “I’ll call the Chicago office.”

As the agent steps away to make the call, Julian studies the tattoo with a critical eye. "If this guy was Special Forces, he must have made some dangerous enemies over the years. Are you positive the killer wasn’t in the military?"

Darcy’s eyes move over the man’s remains, searching for another identifying mark. “No chance. This encounter occurred while our victim was a civilian.”

Linda gestures at the brutalized flesh. "Whoever it was had a score to settle. I’ve never seen anything like this."

“I have.”

“Damon Haldane?”

Darcy doesn’t answer.

Linda turns to a team member. "Terry, I need you to take samples from under the fingernails. Mark, photograph the defensive wounds on the hands and forearms."

Mark’s camera holds a high-powered lens that renders the wounds in sharp detail. Except for the shutter clicks and occasional clang of metal, the only sound is Lisa’s voice from the far side of the lab. The quiet makes Darcy clench her teeth. She wishes she was anywhere but in this place, examining a murder victim and tracking another psychopath. Tonight, when she finds respite from the madness, she’ll contact Jennifer again. This time, maybe she’ll organize a group call between the entire family, Hunter included. More than anything, she needs a piece of home. Something to make her human again.

Linda turns back to the body and scans the mottled flesh. "Terry, once you've gotten the fingernail scrapings, I want you to inspect the ligature marks on the wrists and ankles. See if you can determine what restraints the killer used."

Terry reaches for a new set of gloves. "Got it. I'll check for fibers and trace evidence."

As Terry begins his examination, Linda moves to the head of the table and probes the victim's skull. "Mark, get detailed shots of the facial injuries. I want to determine the sequence of the blows."

Mark adjusts his camera. The lens focuses on the victim's battered face. "I'm on it. I'll start with the mandible and work my way up."

The sound of the shutter fills the room as Mark documents each injury.

As Darcy observes, Linda moves down the body. Her hands skim over the victim's torso. "Hand me the magnifying glass. I want to examine these wounds."

Lisa’s conversation with the Chicago office only lasts five minutes. She snaps her fingers and points at Darcy. "I've got a name. David Miller. Ex-Special Forces, just like you said."

"Any family?" Darcy asks.

"A sister named Cary Ann. She reported him missing two days ago."

Julian curses under his breath. "He survived God knows what in the service, only to end up like this."

“The police are contacting his sister now,” says Lisa. “We need to know every move Miller made in the last week, every person he talked to.”

Darcy wonders how David Miller ran afoul of his murderer. "We know the unsub is an artist, but that’s it."

Julian says, "You'd think a Special Forces vet and an artist would run in pretty different circles."

“Veterans readjust to civilian life in different ways. Some turn to art as therapy, a way to process their experiences.”

Did David Miller meet his killer in the art community?

15

Maxwell Sterling's hands move with purpose as he molds the clay. A pedestal stands before him. He works in the half-light of his studio, where shadows cling to the walls. Beyond the sphere of his focus, Sandra Finlay shifts and squirms. A swath of chiffon drapes over her body. The fabric does little to hide her nervousness.

"Stand still," he says. The memory of their first encounter needles at him—her blank expression when she admitted ignorance of his renown artistry. Impossible. Afficionados discuss his paintings and sculptures from Paris to Tokyo. To not know his name is an affront.

"I’m sorry." Sandra bites her lip. "Like this?"

"Arch your back more. And lift your chin." He watches her adjust while the line of her neck stretches into vulnerability. She's raw and unpolished, unlike Chloe, who poses with an air of defiance he can't stomach.

"Good. Now hold it."

His gaze traces the curves of her jaw. She’s striking. The sight calms the storm and channels the anger into creation.

"Is this better? Am I doing okay?"

Uncertainty threads through her voice.

"Better than last time." He gives nothing away. His attention returns to the clay; it yields under his touch. "Remember, Sandra. Art requires more than simply showing up. It demands a piece of your soul."

"I'll try to remember."

A lock of hair falls across her face.

"Stop fidgeting," he says without looking up. There's no room for softness here, not when he's on the cusp of transcending art, as the world knows it.

She hesitates. "Chloe says it's weird, the way you work. But I don't think so. I think there's something beautiful in the process."

"Chloe understands little of what I do. Beauty is often misunderstood, even feared. You're not afraid, are you, Sandra?"

"No," she whispers. "But I’m a little cold."

"I’ll adjust the thermostat." A smile threatens to break on Maxwell's lips, but he quells it. "But not too much. Comfort will spoil the purity of your form. And we wouldn't want that."

"Of course not."

The innocent eagerness in her eyes is intoxicating.

"Stay exactly like that," Maxwell instructs, moving around her to capture the angle. "Yes, that's the essence I seek."

The minutes stretch on, marked by the rise and fall of Maxwell's sculpting tool and Sandra's shallow breaths. In the studio’s hush, he works to immortalize her essence. Light and dark play upon the walls like immortal foes. He circles her, measuring not just the lines and curves of her form but the pulse of her comfort.

"Tell me if you need a break, my dear." There's a tenderness in his tone. He reaches out without touching and guides the surrounding air with gentle motions. "We work at your pace."

She shifts. The fabric cascades down her arm, yet she holds the pose. "I'm good for now, thanks. Chloe's been helping me build up my stamina."

"Chloe has an eye for potential." He steps back to take in his work. "She mentioned you're adapting quickly."

"Trying to. Chloe is tough, but fair. She says I've got something others don’t have. She calls me unique, but I don’t know if she’s joking."

"Chloe doesn't waste words. Unique is right. Your presence compels the soul."

"Compelling enough to make it in this industry?"

He catches the vulnerability in her voice.

"Beyond doubt. You must trust in your own narrative, Sandra. That's what Chloe is teaching you, isn't it? To weave your story into each pose and each expression."

"Yeah, that’s what she says." Sandra relaxes into her stance. "It's strange to think of modeling as storytelling, but when she explains it, it makes perfect sense."

"Every piece of art tells a story."

"Is that what you're doing with me?" Sandra's question pulls him out of the trance-like state he enters when creating. "Telling a story?"

"Every artist has their muse," he says. "And every muse has a tale ripe for the canvas or clay. We're collaborators in that sense. We bring life to unspoken narratives."

"Sounds poetic," she says with a laugh. "But I get it. It feels special to be part of something bigger. Chloe's always talking about the legacy we leave behind in art."

"Legacy." Maxwell tastes her words. He savors them. "We all strive for immortality in our own way."

"Doesn't it scare you? The idea of leaving something behind that lasts forever?"

"Scare me?" Maxwell sets aside the tools and considers her juvenile question. "No, it's quite the opposite. It's exhilarating to conquer history."

"Deep stuff, Maxwell. You're not just a sculptor, are you? You're a philosopher."

"Or perhaps I'm a man who understands the power of creation."

And destruction.

She doesn't catch the undercurrent in his words. She only sees the passionate artist and mentor.

His fingers dance across the malleable clay, teasing out curves and contours that echo the girl’s form. The overhead light makes her glow and intensifies the allure. Her skin, the graceful arc of her neck. Each flick of the wrist brings forth more of her essence. Her beauty is transcendent. She is an untouchable ideal materializing beneath his hands.

He cannot ignore his feelings. Would she consider going out on a date?

The thought flits through his mind, unbidden. His flesh turns clammy. It's a dangerous thought, one edged with longing and dread.

The only sounds are the squelch of wet clay and the rustle of Sandra shifting on the stand.

"You're pathetic. A spineless worm. Who would want you?"

The words slice through his skin and make him shudder. He glances across the room, afraid she overheard. But that’s impossible.

His hands go still, and he's yanked backward in time to a darkened room. The sting of leather against his back, the acrid tang of fear. A child cowers, small and helpless. Rage-filled words rain down upon him like blows.

"Worthless. Useless."

But the abuser's face remains shrouded in shadows.

"Maxwell? Are you alright?"

Sandra's voice pulls him back to the present.

He blinks and clears his throat. Sweat forms on his brow as he forces a smile that feels more like a grimace.

"There’s no problem." He lies with ease. "Sometimes the art demands so much of me. You understand, don't you?"

Her eyes remain clouded with worry. "I think so. It must be intense, bringing a vision to life."

"Intense, yes. And perilous, Sandra. The world of art is like that of modeling. It's full of those who might not value you as they should." His expression hardens, and his eyes lock on hers. "People will try to take advantage of your grace and beauty. They are leeches who feed on the vitality of others. You must guard yourself."

"Guard myself? What are you talking about?"

"By knowing your worth. Never allow them to dictate the terms of your existence." Maxwell's tone is fervent now, each word uttered with the conviction of someone who has seen too much.

“Other artists?”

“The world, my dear.”

“I won’t let anyone take advantage of me.”

"Promise me you won’t. Promise me you'll never let them see you as anything less than what you are."

She hesitates for a heartbeat, as if unsure of how to respond. "I promise."

"Excellent."

He returns to his work, but his movements are gentle and reverent. He wishes to capture Sandra’s strength and resilience. And make it his own.

The subtle curve of her sculpted cheek lies under his fingertips. A familiar voice coils in his mind. It’s a serpent ready to strike. He clenches his jaw and pushes against the tide of self-doubt. As she stares with worry, he wipes his hands on the apron.

“I must ask you something, Sandra.”

“Go on.”

He can’t. But if he doesn’t ask, he will forever regret his decision.

Hurrying to rush ahead of the shouts inside his head, he speaks.

"Would you . . . care to go out sometime?" His voice is a rough-hewn thing that surprises him.

Sandra tilts her head. "Like on a date?"

Her eyes search his, a spark of something there. Maybe curiosity, maybe more.

"No, not a date." The words tumble out, almost tripping over themselves. "Just two friends appreciating art together. There's a gallery showing next weekend—contemporary pieces that are quite enlightening."

"Ah. I think that’s agreeable."

The tightness in his chest eases.

"For the sake of art." His eagerness grows, animated by this new, safer territory. "There's so much you could learn with me by your side. It would be my pleasure to guide you."

“That sounds wonderful. It’s a date.”

She uses the word as if she means it.

God, he hopes she does.

16

The Vestal neighborhood clings to the outskirts of Chicago like an afterthought. This is a town anchored in routine. Every day, parents usher their children to the curb one minute before the school bus arrives, then drive to their jobs. They return home to pick up the kids and cook dinner, crawl into bed at nine, and wake up and repeat the process.

Darcy climbs down from the SUV with Julian and Lisa. They ascend the weathered steps leading to Cary Ann Miller's apartment. The building wears its age unapologetically. Chipped and faded paint speak of better times.

Darcy knocks until the door swings open. Cary Ann stands there with swollen and red eyes. She is a fortress of sorrow. How old is she? Darcy thinks Cary Ann can’t be over 25, yet she appears 50. The woman ushers them inside.

Framed photos hang on the walls. David Miller poses in his military uniform in one picture. In the next, the ex-soldier is tender as he works with the animals at the shelter. This is a man who spent his life serving and caring.

In the living room, a well-worn couch offers a makeshift confessional. Darcy sits with her team and urges Cary Ann to do the same. They begin with small talk. Some law enforcement officers might consider such discussion a time waster, but it provides a way to reach the interviewee.

The sister offers coffee and food. They politely decline.

When the opening discussion runs its course, Darcy begins. "Did David have any enemies?"

Cary Ann wrings her hands. "My brother? He was kindness personified." Her voice is a threadbare tapestry of grief and defiance. "He served his country with pride. After leaving the military, he volunteered at an animal shelter on the outskirts of town."

Julian observes without speaking. Lisa sits on the edge of the couch, statue-still, a notebook in her hand.

Until now, Darcy wasn’t aware of the volunteer work. This is another piece of the puzzle. Did the killer work with David? It seems unlikely. Their unsub wouldn’t show compassion toward animals.

Amid the quiet sobs and whispers of a life interrupted, Julian bobs his head at the coffee table. Darcy follows his eyes. A stack of unopened bills forms a makeshift paperweight for a worn leather journal. At first, Darcy thinks the journal belongs to Cary Ann. But the military insignia on the cover suggests this belonged to David.

"Did your brother write in this?" Julian asks.

Cary Ann doesn’t seem sure of what Julian is asking about until she spots the journal. Her fingers twitch, as if reaching to reclaim a piece of her brother that lies exposed. "Yes, that’s David’s. He wrote about his struggles after he came back."

"PTSD?" Lisa asks. The agent’s tone holds understanding rather than intrusion.

Cary Ann nods. "He tried to make sense of the war. Writing helped him cope."

The revelation pulls at the edges of Darcy's intuition. This man who found solace in saving creatures unable to help themselves harbored a storm beneath his calm. It’s not unusual. Soldiers witness the unspeakable, and Special Forces lead the charge.

“May we borrow the journal?” Lisa asks. “It will help us understand what happened to your brother.”

Cary Ann recoils. Her hands form a protective barrier over the closed book. This journal holds her brother’s inner thoughts, including the pain, the healing, and every horror he faced.

Darcy knows Cary Ann won’t relinquish the journal without a warrant. This requires a different approach. Bridging the chasm of distrust, she offers assurance. "We will take care of it, Cary Ann. We'll read only what we must. You have my word."

A moment lingers. Lisa chews her lower lip.

Then, as though releasing a part of herself, Cary Ann relents. She hands the journal to Darcy, who tucks it inside her bag.

“That’s all I have to remember my brother by.”

“I understand.”

“There’s nothing in there that will tell you who killed David.”

“We need to be certain.”

Outside, the wind screams through the neighborhood. Trees sway and shed leaves long before they should. October is still a week away. Death, it seems, waits for no one.

“You said David struggle with PTSD,” Lisa says.

“That’s correct.”

“When soldiers return home, they often engage in activities that help them cope. Some exercise. Others take up a hobby. Did your brother become a volunteer after his duties ended?”

“Yes, but he always loved animals. That predated his time with the military.”

"Did David dabble in art?" Darcy asks.

A laugh, short and punctured with sadness, escapes Cary Ann’s lips. "David, an artist? No way." Nostalgia dances in her eyes. "He was too grounded for that. I needed to pull him by the ear to get him anywhere near a museum or a gallery."

"Practical man," Lisa notes, jotting down this tidbit.

"Very. He never would have gone if anyone else asked. He only did it because of me."

Darcy nods. She understands the need to humanize the departed. She crosses one leg over the other, and the investigator mask slips into place over her sympathetic face. "Cary Ann, think back to recent weeks. Did David mention any disputes or confrontations?"

"No, nothing," Cary Ann says. "David respected others, even if he didn’t agree with their opinions. He didn't pick fights. When he returned from overseas, he found protesters waiting at the airport. I appreciate the need for peace, but why blame a man who risked his life to save yours?"

“Nobody got in his face or pushed him too far?”

“Not that I recall. The memory horrifies me. Why are people so cruel?”

"Anyone can be provoked," Lisa says. "Are you sure David didn’t have any disputes? It could be trivial, like someone cutting him off in traffic, or an argument in a store."

"David wasn't one to let little things rile him up."

"Any changes in routine, perhaps? New acquaintances?" Darcy asks.

"No," Cary Ann insists, though a shadow of doubt flickers across her face. “I encouraged him to open up and meet people, but he lost some trust. After what he saw during his Special Forces days and the people who protested when he came home, he started looking at everyone from the corner of his eye. I was about to introduce him to some friends from work. He would have liked them. I’m positive.”

Darcy clicks off her pen and sets aside her own notepad. “Tell me more about your brother.”

"He was my rock. Always the same, dependable David."

“Predictable?”

Cary Ann rolls her eyes. “To the extreme. As I said, it took convincing to get him to break his routine.”

"Thank you, Cary Ann. Your insights are invaluable."

"Anything to help find who did this to him."

“You mentioned taking David to a museum?”

“That was last month. Several days ago, I twisted his arm until he agreed to visit an art gallery.”

An electrical charge jumps through Darcy’s body. She leans forward and holds Carry Ann's eyes. “Which one?”

“Fuse Gallery on Ninth Street.”

"Did you notice anything peculiar? Perhaps an interaction seemed out of place."

Cary Ann shifts in her seat. The couch’s fabric whispers under her. "No, we never talked to anyone. Just walked through, that's all."

“Did anyone pay you too much attention?”

“Nobody.”

Darcy nods, about to retreat from this line of questioning. But then, Cary Ann adds, "We didn't stay long. David didn’t like one exhibit."

Lisa narrows her eyes. "Which exhibit?"

"The Damon Haldane collection," Cary Ann says.

The room stills. A silent alarm blares in the space between heartbeats.

“What about the collection bothered your brother?” asks Darcy.

"David couldn't stand it. He said it disturbed him. Actually, he went beyond that. He basically called Haldane a hack and questioned why anyone would display his art. We left right after that."

“What day was this?”

Cary Ann screw up her face as she thinks. Checking her phone, she confirms the date. “Monday.”

Further questioning yields no new information. Cary Ann again offers them food or drink for the road, but they thank the woman and step outside.

Lisa’s breath mists as she speaks. "David criticizing Haldane’s work can't be a coincidence."

"Agreed," Julian says. "The killer must have been there and heard everything David said."

Darcy throws the bag strap over her shoulder. "Let's visit the museum curator. I need to find out who was in the gallery."

The hunt begins.

17

Creativity’s pulse is potent inside The Fuse Gallery. The interior lacks the dust of antiquity. Here, guests encounter the tang of ambition, which mingles with scents of brewed espresso. Towering walls stretch into the distance, a canvas not for brushstrokes but for pronouncements. Jagged metal sculptures jut from pedestals like the skeletal remains of ideas half-formed. A video installation flickers on the back wall, like a silent scream trapped in a digital loop.

Darcy takes in the exhibits. Each one is a cryptic message delivered in a cold, clinical voice. This isn't art, but a calculated assault on the senses, a deliberate provocation designed to unsettle and disorient.

Lisa and Julian look around in confusion. Before either can comment, Dr. Madeline Blackwood marches out of her office to greet them. Her face is a map of sharp angles. The curator wears authority like a snake’s skin.

“Special Agent Lisa Monroe with the FBI Chicago office,” Lisa says. “We’re investigating the murder of David Miller.”

Blackwood cuts in. "Yes, I heard about the incident. But I fail to understand why you’re interested in my gallery."

"Mr. Miller visited The Fuse with his sister Cary Ann last Monday, days before his murder. We believe there's a connection to the Haldane art exhibit."

Blackwood's nod is tight, controlled. She gestures to a set of chrome chairs. Like many of the exhibits, the chairs are all sleek lines and frigid surfaces.

Badge in hand, Lisa takes the lead. “I’m curious, Ms. Blackwood. Why would you display art created by a serial killer? When I consider all the Chicago artists craving attention, it seems you have more than enough choices to cover your walls.”

A muscle twitches in the curator’s jaw. "Haldane's work brings attention."

"Is this the attention you want?"

"Better than being forgotten. Are you aware of our struggles in the art community? Two galleries closed its doors last year." Blackwood sniffs. “Apparently, people consider viewing art on the internet a worthy endeavor. One cannot appreciate beauty without seeing it in person.”

“So you promoted a monster for money?”

“Would you work for free, Agent Monroe?”

Eyes meet in a battle of wills. The gallery holds its breath.

"Dr. Blackwood," Darcy says, "the killer we're tracking stages his murders to recreate Haldane's art."

Blackwood folds her arms, the lines on her face deepening.

“Every decade, society blames its problems on art. Parents of wayward teens point their fingers at rap music. During my day, they blamed heavy metal and new wave. As if the news doesn’t bludgeon us with violent images. Sorry, but I won’t take the blame because one psychopath copied another.”

"Every day we don't catch this man, the killer chooses another target. Please, we need your help."

A pause, a breath, a decision. Blackwood's shoulders drop a fraction.

“If you insist. But I want assurances.”

“As in?” Lisa asks.

“No press linking The Fuse to the killings.”

"I’ll do my best, but no guarantees. In time, the media will learn of the connection."

“Follow me,” Blackwood says.

The curator leads the trio to a security office at the rear of the building. She steps aside and allows Darcy, Lisa, and Julian to enter. Monitors line the walls. The screens display gallery visitors as they move from one exhibit to the next. Darcy notices that no one pays attention to Haldane’s works.

“This is my head of security, Mitchell Gaines,” says the curator. “Mr. Gaines, this is FBI Agent Lisa Monroe, consultant Darcy Haines, and Detective Julian Haines.”

Gaines stands with his arms folded across a chest that absorbed the rigor of many days in the gym.

“You’ll excuse Mr. Gaines,” Blackwood continues. “He was a marine. Sometimes he thinks he never left the military.”

After the curator departs, Lisa questions Gaines. The head of security appears disinterested. FBI credentials don’t intimidate this man.

Sensing they won’t crack Gaines’ armor, Darcy approaches. "David Miller was one of you. Special Forces."

The security guard’s stance softens. “He came from another branch of the military, but we’re all brothers and sisters. Tell me how I can help.”

“Miller and his sister were here on Monday.” Darcy feeds him the time window. “We’re interested in anyone who paid them too much attention.”

Gaines moves to the console and punches a command into the system. "Here you go."

The team crowds around as the footage spills forth. Grainy images stutter in halting progression. Guests come and go, some barely paying attention to the exhibits as they sip coffee and converse. Then David and Cary Ann Miller wander through camera two’s radius.

“There,” Lisa says. “Zoom in.”

A man wearing a wide-brimmed top hat stands motionless. He’s a boulder in the flowing stream of gallery visitors.

"He’s not moving," Julian says.

"And he’s staring at David."

The figure walks toward the Haldane display, yet his eyes stay on David and Cary Ann.

“That’s our unsub.”

On the screen, David carries on in an animated discussion. His sister bobs her head in agreement, but the way the woman clutches her jacket tells Darcy she’s uncomfortable. Cary Ann told them David reacted badly to the Haldane display, so this isn’t a surprise.

More interesting is the unknown man, who follows the siblings after they leave the exhibit.

"Let's find out who you are," Darcy says. “Mr. Gaines, can you give me a closeup? I can’t see his face.”

Another click of the mouse, and the security guard zeroes in on the unsub. But he averts his face from the camera, as if he knows it’s there. The hat conceals him well.

Thirty minutes later, after reviewing every camera angle, the team can’t identify the unsub.

“This guy is familiar with your gallery,” Darcy says. “See how he avoids the cameras?”

“Or he works here.”

Lisa’s explanation cause heads to turn.

Gaines puffs out his chest as before, constructing a defiant wall. “Are you suggesting he’s one of us?”

“It makes sense, right?”

“Can you get us a list of employees and their backgrounds?” Julian asks.

Darcy is relieved that Julian made the request. Gaines doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to take orders from Lisa.

“I can do that,” says Gaines.

He pulls up the employee records and sends them to the printer. With Julian at her side, Darcy sifts through their backgrounds.

Julian grunts at each record until Darcy flips to the fourth employee.

"This guy," he says, tapping the page. "Marcus Delaney."

The picture shows sullen eyes and a face that's experienced hard days. And he has an assault record.

“Tell me, Mr. Gaines,” Lisa says. “Does Ms. Blackwood always hire people with violent backgrounds?”

Gaines twists his lips. “I never liked Delaney. Anyone who strikes a woman deserves a kick in the teeth.”

Darcy’s attention lands on something darker. Animal cruelty.

“Good lord.” Lisa reads down the page. She turns to Gaines. “Is this guy for real?”

A shrug of the shoulder. “Ms. Blackwood claims he turned his life around. Me? I don’t buy it. Delaney works on the cheap. That’s why he’s here.”

Despite his bravado, the security guard glances at the closed door, as if worried about Blackwood eavesdropping.

“This could be our guy,” Lisa says. “The height and weight match with the man wearing the hat.”

"The animal cruelty charge has my attention," Darcy admits. But her instincts kick into gear. Is Delaney refined enough to pull off the murders? Besides working in a gallery, he has no art in his background, just cracked plaster and leaky faucets.

“This is a good start. Mr. Gaines, we’ll get out of your way.” Lisa hands him a card. “I want you to watch Delaney whenever he’s working. If he does anything suspicious, call my line.”

Gaines slips the card into his shirt pocket. He’ll toss it into the trash after they leave. Darcy is sure of it. She doesn’t doubt Lisa’s intelligence, but the agent lacks people skills.

Outside, Darcy pulls her jacket together with one hand to ward off the wind. Julian shuffles while Lisa bounces on her toes. Black clouds threaten to unleash more rain.

"Assault and cruelty fit the pattern of escalating violence," Lisa says.

"No arguments," says Darcy. "But Haldane's followers are art-obsessed and live for the symbolism, the theatrics. Delaney fixes toilets."

"But his past. It's a textbook match for your profile."

"Textbook for a violent offender, sure. But this killer leaves signatures and communicates in a language only Damon Haldane understands. It's sophisticated and deliberate. That's not Delaney."

Lisa's eyebrow arches. "Then why was he lingering near the Haldane exhibit?"

“Are you sure that was Delaney on camera?”

“Whoever it was knew where to stand so he could avoid them. This feels like an inside job.”

“We’ll investigate Delaney, but I don’t think he’s our guy.”

Julian gives Darcy a curious look. For once, he agrees with Lisa.

But they won’t cooperate for long. Once Lisa pushes Darcy to visit Haldane, Julian will wish death upon the agent.

18

Doubt is a viscous serpent. It coils around Maxwell Sterling's neck as he stares at his reflection in the mirror. Is he worthy? The question ricochets around the car’s interior as he awaits Sandra’s appearance.

The door to her apartment stands closed with no activity behind the translucent curtains. He checks and taps his foot. It’s a nervous habit, one which provokes a faraway memory of a man demanding he sit still and finish his dinner.

The late afternoon sun draws doubtful shadows across the pavement. He grips a bouquet of lilies. Their white petals are too pure for the likes of his hands. Sweat beads on his brow, and it’s not from the heater.

Where is she?

His thumb hesitates over Sandra's phone contact. A text feels impersonal. Perhaps he should knock. A knock is decisive, a declaration. Would she find his actions pushy?

The flowers tremble as he clenches them. He knows art, understands the curve of a chisel and the language of shadow and light. But these social cues are foreign scripts he can't decipher. Each option leads to potential missteps.

Maxwell checks his hair in the mirror and smooths a recalcitrant eyebrow. He is a world-renown artist. Why the self-doubt?

A dog howls from across the street as he steps out of the car and moves toward the door. The building hunches like a weary giant. Its facade drips with grime and peeling paint as fire escapes twist with skeletal fingers, reaching for the dying sun. Dusty windowpanes stare down like vacant, accusatory eyes. Each reflects the crooked post of a leaning mailbox across the road. In this concrete jungle, beauty withers and decay festers.

Worthless.

That voice again. Today, he will ignore the words.

Maxwell waits on the steps and fades into the dimming light. The door remains closed. Silence greets him.

Yes, Sandra stood him up. She only accepted his advances so she wouldn’t hurt his feelings. But she never intended to spend time with him. Why would she? Why would anyone?

No sounds come from inside the apartment. He should leave.

Without looking back, he returns to the car and grabs the flowers off the seat. The bouquet feels heavier now. The lilies hang their heads. This is another rejection, another scar. He will make her pay. He will make all of them pay.

But as he twists the key in the ignition, the apartment door swings open.

There she is.

Sandra steps into the threshold with a harried expression. She wears a dress, simple in design but elegant. Its soft blue plays against her skin and complements her grace. The fabric clings and falls in all the right places, accentuating her form without effort.

In disbelief, he exits the car and opens the passenger door for her.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she says. "My mother was on the phone. You know how it is."

He offers the lilies, and she takes them with an appreciative glance.

Time loses all meaning. He doesn’t remember the drive to the museum or their conversation. Before he realizes they’ve arrived, he strides toward the entrance with the most lovely girl he’s ever encountered by his side. He gestures at the ornate double doors.

"Built at the turn of the century," he says. "Whitmore & Sons designed everything. They were architects who believed every line should tell a story. I agree."

Sandra takes in the towering columns that frame the entrance. Their capitals are intricate, almost celestial.

"It feels like stepping into another era," she says.

“Art is timeless. It’s a bridge between worlds.”

He pushes open the door. Its weight is nothing against his determination. Inside, the lobby stretches toward infinity. Crowned with frescoes, high ceilings watch over them. Polished marble floors reflect the golden light spilling from archaic chandeliers.

"Notice the symmetry," Maxwell says. "It's intentional and meant to guide your eye." He leads her past a group of tourists. They speak, but the words are drivel and undeserving of his time. "Many come for the culture, but few appreciate the canvas of the building itself. See the cornices? They mimic the curve of a sculptor's chisel."

Sandra traces the air where he points, her movement tentative but curious. She is a fledgling stretching wings for the first time.

"I never would have noticed," she says.

In this temple of culture and history, he finds a kindred spirit in stone and oil.

Maxwell leads her to the first exhibit and pauses before "The Birth of Venus." His fingers draw invisible lines through the air, mimicking Botticelli's strokes.

"Look at her," he says in a reverent voice. "Venus emerging from the sea. Beauty incarnate."

"The detail is exquisite."

"This is the rebirth of classical knowledge and values. See how she stands on the shell? Perfect balance, like the equilibrium we seek in life."

She tilts her head.

He points to the horizon line, where earth meets sky. "Botticelli understands light and how it plays with the darker elements. His art gives depth and makes the canvas breathe."

"As if it could come to life at any moment."

"Art lives in our reactions and interpretations."

"Then it becomes immortal," she says, seeking his approval.

“You’re learning.” He ushers her to a da Vinci painting. "Here, the mastery of composition becomes evident. Da Vinci layers elements. The foreground invites you in, but the background tells the story. Mountains fade into the mist. They suggest infinity."

"Oh my. It’s an endless world."

"Very perceptive. Every line directs your eye and guides you through the narrative. Nothing is accidental."

"Even the smallest detail matters?" Sandra asks.

"Especially those. It's in details that an artist reveals himself and hides his secrets."

"Secrets?"

"Every artist has them." His grin is tight and controlled. "Some more than others."

In the white space of the modern art section, they enter a room that clashes against the Renaissance’s warm hues. Colors vie for attention, and forms twist. Each piece of art stands alone in unapologetic rebellion against tradition.

"Look at this." Maxwell points at an abstract sculpture that defies gravity. It's a tangle of metal and sharp angles. They splay like the limbs of a mechanical tree. "This piece describes fragmentation. We're all isolated pieces trying to fit into a world that makes no sense."

Sandra narrows her brow and studies the metallic chaos. "It's cold, yet there's something alluring about it. Like it's reaching for something."

"Now you’ve got it. This is the struggle that makes transcends our lives. We all try to connect, even when it seems impossible."

He peeks at her from the corner of his eye, but she’s too immersed in the exhibit to notice.

Before he can stop her, she hurries toward a canvas splashed with violent strokes of red and black. Her mouth hangs open, and for a breathless second, he fears this piece severed their connection.

"Look at the anguish," she says.

"Or passion."

“I don’t understand.”

"Modern art isn't about what you see, but what you feel. It digs into your gut and pulls out emotions."

Her gaze shifts from the painting and locks on his face. He squirms under her scrutiny.

"Is that what your work does?"

"Maybe." He hesitates. “I strive to capture what sleeps beneath the surface—the secrets we hide from the world.”

“And from ourselves?”

Maxwell swallows. “Yes. Sometimes I wonder if we've lost our way. We're so disconnected from each other. Too many live behind screens or hide inside our heads.”

"You believe art can bridge that gap and bring us back together."

“I do.”

They turn a corner, and the gallery shifts. The sea of white gives way to enveloping shadows. Before them stands an exhibit that wrenches the air from the room. This sculpture twists with an almost human shape, the limbs wrenched at impossible angles and the face frozen in a silent scream.

It’s too soon for her to see this piece. He grabs her hand, intending to pull her away, but he’s too late.

"God," Sandra whispers. She brings up her hands, as if to ward off a chill.

Maxwell studies her. "Disturbing, isn't it?"

“Disturbing and powerful. Explain this piece.”

"Does it frighten you?"

“A little. But it excites me as well. Is that wrong?”

A question lingers in her eyes and seeks approval from the man she believes she knows.

Does she understand? Is she more like him than he dreamed possible?

“Art affects us all differently. It's what makes this piece so fascinating.”

His feet are weary after two hours inside the museum. Sensing she needs a break, they take refuge in the museum’s cafe.

“Sit,” he says, pulling out a chair for her.

Sandra slides into the chair, but not before he glimpses the soft white of her thighs. She smooths her dress. He pretends not to notice.

Maxwell orders coffee. Black for him, latte for her. When he returns to the table, she wraps her hands around a cup.

"Tell me, Maxwell. What's your dream?" Her eyes light with curiosity.

He hesitates. Dreams are dangerous. Some have teeth.

"I want to create works that endure," he says.

She sips her coffee. "That’s an open-ended response."

"Life is full of possibilities. Your turn."

Sandra looks toward a window, as if viewing a prior life. “When I was a girl, I played dress-up and imagined a world full of beauty and wonder. Like Alice and the looking glass.”

He draws the brew. “Fascinating.”

“I suppose modeling isn't my ultimate destination, but the first step down the path.”

“With the proper guidance, you can reach any station.”

“You’re such a fascinating man. What was your childhood like, Maxwell?”

His fingers tighten around the mug. Old scars throb across his back, like a sunburn that won’t heal.

"My past isn’t important. Let's discuss our next session."

“If that makes you happy.”

“I’m quite fond of you, Sandra.”

She doesn’t respond. It isn’t until then that Maxwell realizes he spoke the words in his head.

And perhaps that is for the best.

19

Seated at a table inside the police department’s interrogation room, Darcy traces the condensation of her glass of water. Beside her, Lisa taps a manicured nail against the metal. The agent’s heels click against the floor with impatience. Any minute now, Marcus Delaney will arrive. He’s fifteen minutes late.

If only Julian were here. Lisa didn’t think it was appropriate for him to attend the interview. Instead, he’s hitting more galleries and hoping someone will remember a man who met the killer’s profile.

“Where the heck is this guy?” Lisa asks. “I’ll give him another five minutes. After that, I want an officer to drive past his house.”

Darcy wishes her former protégé would exercise patience. She understands Lisa’s desire to catch the unsub, but the agent is chasing the wrong rabbit.

Marcus Delaney appears in the bullpen. An officer escorts him to the interrogation room, opens the door, and hovers over the suspect until he sits.

“Mr. Delaney, I’m Special Agent Lisa Monroe with the FBI.”

“FBI?” Delaney’s mouth hangs open. “Why would the FBI want to talk to me?”

“This is Darcy Haines. She’s consulting the FBI about the string of murders in Vestal.”

“Wait, you think I killed someone?”

“We’re just here to gather information, Mr. Delaney. Relax. Can I get you a bottle of water?”

The man rolls a knot out of his shoulders. “I’m not thirsty. Is this gonna take long?”

Lisa rests her forearms on the table with her hands clasped. "You work at The Fuse Gallery, correct?" Her voice lacks warmth, but it isn't accusatory. Not yet

The man’s eyes dart from Lisa and Darcy to the door. His voice cracks. "Y, ma'am. Been there five years now."

Darcy tries a different approach. "Five years. That's a long time. Must be a fascinating place to work, surrounded by art all day."

“It’s all right. I don’t understand all that art stuff. Some of it just looks strange, but I guess people like it.”

“According to security records,” Lisa says, “you were at the gallery on Monday afternoon.”

"That's right. But, I mean, I work there. I spent an entire hour mopping the south wing. Some stupid kid dropped his drink on the floor and made a helluva mess. There’s a sign out front that says no drinks or food. If you need a beverage, that’s what the cafe is for. People don’t listen."

"And what time did you finish working, Mr. Delaney?" Darcy asks.

"Around eight, I guess. Maybe a little later."

“There’s something curious about the security footage,” Lisa says. “We have you cleaning the spill at two o’clock. Then you leave the corridor and aren’t visible for the next three hours.”

The man chews on the inside of his cheek.

Lisa stares across the table. “Where did you disappear to?”

“I was around. Hell if I remember every task.”

“You weren’t performing your duties on camera.”

“Why is that your business?”

“Do you own a wide-brimmed hat?”

“A what?”

The FBI agent removes a printed still frame from the security footage. “This is you, correct?”

Delaney turns the picture to face him, then passes it back. “Hell, no.”

“Are you certain? Because you vanished thirty minutes before this man appeared. That gave you plenty of time to change clothes.”

“That ain’t me. Should I call a lawyer?”

“I think that’s you in the picture. You’re the right size, and you’ve worked at the gallery long enough to know where the cameras are.”

“You’re crazy.”

Darcy steals a glance at Lisa, willing the agent to slow down. But Lisa is too focused to notice the warning.

The FBI agent slides a printout across the table.

"Employee records prove you were at The Fuse Gallery at the same time as David Miller."

“Who is David Miller?”

“He’s a soldier, Mr. Delaney. Someone killed him this week.”

Delaney's face glistens with sweat. He tries for nonchalance and fails. His hand trembles as he holds the paper, his fingers pinching one corner, as if the printout might ignite.

Darcy slides her chair closer to the table. “Maybe you can tell us where you were after you cleaned the spill. Be honest. We’re not here to get you fired.”

The man pauses before replying. "Sometimes I take a long lunch break."

“You leave the gallery?”

“No.” Delaney pushes the records back to Lisa. “Look, I had a rough night and came into work hungover.”

“And?”

“There’s a supply closet near the restrooms. I keep a pillow and blanket inside.”

“Are you saying you slept on the job?”

“You won’t tell Ms. Blackwood, will you? I don’t wanna lose my job.”

Darcy observes the suspect. She knows the dance of guilt and its choreography. Delaney's two-step is clumsy and desperate. This man doesn’t have the skills to get away with murder.

“Let’s talk about your jail sentence,” Lisa says. "Assault and cruelty."

His hands form fists. "That's history. I did my time. I'm a changed man."

“That’s what they all say. Yet you just admitted to cheating your employer by sleeping on the job.”

“I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

His eyes drop to his hands, which he wrings like wet cloths. The man is a tower of muscle, yet he shivers as if wintry threads weave through his flesh.

"Scared, Mr. Delaney?" Lisa asks.

"I ain't scared of nothing."

"Back to your convictions. Assault and cruelty. Explain."

"It was a long time ago. I got into a stupid fight at a bar; you know how it goes. Little pushing and shoving, nothing serious."

"The police report mentions a broken jaw," Lisa counters, pushing another file across the table. "And the restraining order filed by your ex-girlfriend tells me you aren’t telling the truth."

Delaney flips through the file, as if learning of his actions for the first time. "This is all wrong. She always blew things out of proportion. The judge knew that. That's why the sentence was so light."

Darcy considers the exchange. Delaney's excuses sound hollow, but lies don’t prove he is a killer.

“You spent a year in jail,” Lisa says.

Delaney shuts the folder. "It was a misunderstanding. They twisted everything around. I never meant to hurt anyone. And that dog the police say I kicked? It was my neighbor’s labrador, and it was off its leash, which is illegal inside the city limits. Look it up."

“You kicked a dog because it was loose?”

“The damn mutt was in my yard and snapping at my shins while I was running the lawn mower. What would you have done?”

Darcy intervenes. "Mr. Delaney, we understand this is difficult. But your past is relevant to our investigation. You have a history of violence and can’t provide proof that you aren’t the unknown man on camera."

“How can I prove I was asleep? It’s not like I told anyone.”

“Now you understand our concern.”

Before Darcy realizes what’s happening, Lisa slides the crime scene photos across the table. The pictures show the alleyway scene in gory detail. "This is David Miller."

Delaney’s face turns a sickly pale. "Jesus."

"Recognize your handiwork?" Lisa’s words have barbs. “You threw him into a dumpster.”

"God, no." He pushes back from the table. "I’ve made my share of mistakes, but I never killed no one."

His reaction is raw, unscripted. Not the cool appraisal of a killer savoring his craft, but the horror of a man witnessing hell for the first time.

"You’ve never killed? Or never got caught?"

He can't tear his eyes away from the images.

Darcy closes the folder and conceals the horror. Lisa shoots her a sharp look. Questions smolder in the agent’s eyes. Darcy holds her ground. She has stared into the eyes of serial killers, and Delaney is too frightened to be another Haldane.

For the next twenty minutes, Lisa bludgeons Delaney with questions until the man slumps in his chair. They don’t have enough evidence to pin the murders on him. Afterward, the same uniformed officer ushers Delaney from the building.

"We're looking in the wrong place," Darcy says. “And you’re pushing too hard.”

“I remember the way you tore apart Damon Haldane. You were all business and left no doubt.”

“Because we knew he was our unsub. Does Marcus Delaney strike you as someone capable of repeating Haldane’s murders?”

"I’m not sure. Now that we’ve let our only suspect walk, where do we stand?"

"We keep investigating."

“What about Haldane? You were supposed to interview him. Darcy, don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts. Do you know how many strings I pulled to get you into the prison?”

Darcy rubs her temple. "I'm not sure it's right."

"It was your idea," Lisa reminds her. "Remember what you said? Haldane can tell us who the killer is."

Darcy's thoughts are a tangled knot. "Maybe."

"We need this," Lisa insists. She's a dog with a bone, relentless. "Deputy Director Carter at the BAU is breathing down my neck. He wants the case solved."

"I’ll talk to Haldane. Will that make you happy?"

“No, it won’t make me happy. I’m worried about you, Darcy. But you faced him eight years ago and survived. He can’t harm you from behind bars.”

“His voice still echoes in my nightmares. He’s behind bars, but no cell can prevent him from harming me. You know that.”

“It’s what we do. You taught me that.”

Lisa is right.

But she isn’t risking her sanity to catch a killer.

20

Between the fortified walls of his studio, where the building denies a world that exploits the innocent, Maxwell Sterling places the canvas on the easel. Many years ago, the blank slate terrified him. Not anymore. Who knows greatness will emerge?

"Chloe, stop staring at your reflection. Time is money."

Chloe Rowan emerges from behind the dressing screen. A green silk robe drapes over her lithe frame. She sends him a defiant tilt of her chin and pouts her lips.

"Relax, Picasso. Perfection can't be rushed."

Sensuous as Chloe is, she is no Sandra. The model struts to the center of the room and shrugs off the robe, revealing her lean, tanned body. He rakes his eyes over her breasts and taut stomach.

Chloe sprawls across the velvet chaise lounge. Black hair fans around her head like a halo. "Doe this pose work for you, boss? Or would you prefer something more daring?"

Her voice drips with honeyed sarcasm.

"Hold still, princess."

He selects a brush and swirls it through a glob of paint. She watches him through half-lidded eyes as he attacks the canvas with feverish strokes. This won’t take long. With Chloe, it never does.

"You know, the agency told me your last exhibition didn't go so well. Something about the critics saying your work lacked depth and emotional resonance. That must have stung, huh?"

A vein throbs in his temple. "A gross exaggeration. One reviewer felt I’d fallen short of my potential, while the others lauded my work. Don’t listen to rumors. They will only lead you astray."

Chloe stretches like a cat, her toes pointed. "Mmm, maybe. Or they just see through all your brooding nonsense. You risk becoming a one-trick pony, Maxwell. All angst, no substance."

He hurls the brush at the wall. It splatters in a starburst of red. She meets his fury without flinching.

"You think you're so clever, don't you? Prancing around and running your mouth like you have something worthwhile to offer. Well, let me tell you something. You're replaceable. Just another pretty piece of meat, begging for an artist to grant her immortality."

Her tinkling laugh reminds him of shattered glass. "Oh, honey. Is that what you tell yourself to fall asleep at night? We all realize you're a tortured genius and misunderstood by the world. You don’t need to convince everyone."

Maxwell picks up another brush and dabs it in the paint. “What do you know of torture?”

The comment startles her, and she falls back into character.

“That’s a good little pet,” he says.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? Isn’t that what you are?”

“You know, Maxwell? You're not special. When I look at you, I see another mediocre white boy with a trust fund and an ego problem.”

He won’t allow her to throw him off his game.

“What is it with you today? You’re often difficult, but this is a new level. Cooperate, and I will show everyone how beautiful you can be.”

Chloe settles into the pose, her eyes fixed on a point in the distance.

“That's better,” he says. “Hold that expression. The one that says you're too good for this world. Shouldn't be too hard. You've had a lot of practice.”

Chloe smirks. They fall into a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft rasp of bristles on canvas. Maxwell steps back and appraises his work with a critical eye.

"Not bad. You're quite photogenic when you're not talking."

"Gee, thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel special."

"You are special. Once you learn to trust the process, nothing will stand in your way."

He resumes working. Chloe shifts to ease the tension in her muscles.

"Speaking of special, how is Sandra doing? She seemed pretty jazzed about working with you."

Since the gallery date—was it a date, or is he deluding himself?—he hasn’t stopped thinking about Sandra. "She's a natural and a pleasure to work with. Unlike some people I could mention."

Chloe rolls her eyes. "Hey, I recommended her, didn't I? I figured you two would hit it off. She has that whole wide-eyed ingenue thing going on. She’s totally your type."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, come on. You have a thing for the innocent ones. The girls you can mold and manipulate to your liking."

Maxwell's hand tightens around the brush. "I thought you agreed to cooperate."

“Easy, Maxwell. I'm just calling it like I see it. But seriously, Sandy is a great kid. She's not like the rest of us. She still believes fairy tales.”

“Fairy tales, dear Chloe?”

“True love, happily ever after. The whole nine yards.”

"You don't?"

"Please. This business has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. If you're not careful, it will turn you into something you don't recognize."

He studies her face. "Is that what happened to you?"

For a moment, her mask slips. Vulnerability and pain fly like ghosts across her features. She shifts again. "Just be careful with Sandra, okay? She's not like me. She's fragile."

“You’re quite fond of her. I can tell.”

“She’s like the little sister I never had.”

“Worry not. Sandra is in good hands.”

"Remember this, Maxwell. She has people looking out for her. People who care about her. So don't go getting any funny ideas."

"I don’t know what you’re referring to."

"She’s off limits. Leave her out of your little nightmares."

The world stops spinning as they stare each other down.

Finally, Maxwell sets down his brush. "I think we're done for today."

Chloe stands and dons her robe with deliberate slowness. "Fine by me. I have places to be, anyway. When are we working again?"

“I’ll let the agency know. Before you go, I must show you something.”

He leads her to the back of the studio, where black velvet cloth conceals the canvas. With a flourish, he pulls away the covering.

"It's done," he breathes. "This is the pinnacle."

Chloe rocks back on her heels. Her reaction is a mixture of awe and revulsion. Exactly as he intended.

The canvas depicts a malformed figure. Its body contorts in agony. The flesh is peeled back, revealing the raw, glistening muscle beneath. The figure's face is a mask of pure anguish, its mouth frozen in an eternal scream.

"What is this?" Chloe whispers, unable to look away.

Maxwell steps back and admires his handiwork. "The piece that will define my legacy. It will debut at The Steinem Gallery tomorrow night, and the world will appreciate the true extent of my genius."

Chloe shakes her head, as if trying to clear away the vision. "It's horrifying." Three breaths. Then she continues. "Yet mesmerizing."

“Quite.”

Try as she might, she can't avert her eyes. The reaction pleases him.

“This is power in its purest form,” he says. “It’s a reflection of the human condition, stripped bare of all pretense and artifice.”

Chloe rubs her arms as if warding off a chill. "I’m looking into the face of madness. Like staring into the abyss and having it look back."

"My work forces you to confront the ugly truth about yourself, the part you'd rather keep hidden. It shatters illusions and exposes the bleeding reality." He steps closer. "That's what I do, you see. I peel back the layers of polite society, of social niceties and pretty lies. I reveal the monster that lurks within us. If you play nice next time, this can be you."

She clutches the robe together at the neckline. “I need to go.”

“Must you?”

He trails a finger along her cheek. She flinches but doesn't pull away.

“Don’t show this to Sandra.”

“No worries. She’s not ready yet. But you are.”

She steps back and buys herself breathing room. "Y-yeah. Lucky me."

He gestures towards the door. "Run along now, and get your beauty rest. Our next session will redefine our partnership."

Grabbing her clothes, she glances over her shoulder before exiting the studio.

He turns back to the painting. It's perfect. A masterpiece. This is his calling.

At the window, he observes as Chloe rushes across the street, heedless of the traffic. She is a rabbit in a sea of wolves.

Their next session will be special.

21

Buckingham Prison is a fortress of brick and barbwire. Under a leaden sky, Darcy and Julian step out of their rental.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” Julian says.

“If I don’t face Haldane, someone else will die.”

“That’s for the FBI to figure out. You’re a consultant, not a lifer.”

“If you were in my shoes, and a killer was stalking Genoa Cove, what would you do?”

He doesn’t answer. Julian Haines will walk through hellfire to save a life.

She pulls her coat together. There is no turning back.

They pass through the security checkpoint, a frigid affair of metal detectors and invasive pat-downs. Darcy empties her pockets into a plastic tray: keys, phone, wallet. The guard, a stern-faced woman with a buzz cut, runs a handheld wand over her body. The device crackles with static as it passes over her belt buckle.

"Arms out, legs apart," the guard says.

Darcy complies, feeling a flicker of irritation at the indignity. She's been through this routine countless times before, but it never gets easier, never feels less dehumanizing.

Beside her, Julian undergoes the same treatment. His muscles tense as the guard searches him for weapons. He’s used to being on the other side of these pat downs.

"Clear," the guard says, stepping back and gesturing for them to proceed.

They collect their belongings and pass through a series of reinforced doors that slide open with a hiss. Another guard, a towering man with a face like weathered granite, leads them down an echoing corridor. Cells line the walls, the narrow windows set high and barred with steel rods.

As they walk, Darcy can feel the weight of the inmates' stares. The depraved lurk behind these bars. Buckingham caters to society’s most dangerous criminals.

"Eyes front, keep moving," their escort says.

Darcy obeys. She fixes her attention on the back of Julian's head as they march down the corridor.

At the end of the hall, the guard stops and points at Darcy. “The warden says only you.”

Julian opens his mouth to protest, but she shushes him before he speaks. He knows the rules, even though he doesn’t want to obey them.

“You’ll wait in the guard station with the others,” the guard says to Julian. “I’ll take Ms. Haines the rest of the way.”

Alone with her escort, Darcy follows the man down two corridors. It seems darker here, though she knows her mind is conjuring all this blackness. He stops and faces her.

"Listen up. This is the high-security wing. Stay close, and don’t make eye contact."

“I understand.”

"Haldane's cell is at the end of the block. It has a bulletproof door of reinforced plexiglass. Stand back from the cell at all times, you hear me? Don't get close."

She adjusts the bag strap on her shoulder and looks back the way she came. From here, she can’t see Julian.

"You've got fifteen minutes. I'll be watching on the cameras. If things go south, give me a signal and I'll pull you out. Understand?"

"Yes."

The guard studies her for a long moment, as if trying to gauge her resolve. Then he steps aside and lets her march into the devil’s lair.

The closer she gets, the more the walls close in around her. By the time she reaches the end of the block, her palms are slick with sweat.

She stops in front of the cell and takes a moment to compose herself before looking inside. When she lifts her head, she sees him.

Victor Haldane sits on a narrow cot.

A flash of anger distorts his features, but it leaves as quickly as it arrived. He's older than she remembers. His hair is graying at the temples, and the passage of time lines his face. But his eyes are the same. Black.

"Darcy Haines, what a pleasant surprise."

Darcy steps back. The guard's warning rings in her ears, though it seems impossible for Haldane to reach her through the plexiglass.

“You know my new name.”

“I read the newspapers. Congratulations. What is it like to lie with pigs?”

“I'm not here for pleasantries,” she says.

"Of course not. Where is this detective husband of yours? Is he hiding with the guards?"

“He’s not a coward. Warden’s orders.”

“If you say so.” He gestures around the cell, as if inviting her to admire the sparse interior. “I’d invite you in for tea, but the warden only grants me water. It’s a pleasant home, don’t you think?”

A canvas stands in the corner. There is no easel, no brushes. The painting depicts the waterfront outside of Chicago.

“Is that your work?”

“It is.” He puffs out his chest. “The warden grants me 15 minutes of painting per week, 30 if I behave. This piece took me eighteen weeks. In my studio, I could have completed it in a day.”

“You know why I’m here.”

Haldane taps his fingers against the barrier. "I must say, I'm flattered. The great Darcy Haines, coming to me for assistance. It must be quite the predicament."

“You claim to read the papers, so you must know what’s happening in Vestal and Chicago.”

“I’ve heard rumors.”

"Someone is following in your footsteps."

Haldane's eyes flash with feigned interest. He already knew. She’s sure of it.

"Is that so?" he asks, pressing against the glass. "Tell me more."

She's walking a tightrope. He will try to manipulate her like he did eight years ago.

"Two victims," she says in a neutral voice. "David Miller, ex-Special Forces and a wildlife rehabilitator from Vestal. We found his body near a recreation of Michelangelo's 'The Creation of Adam.' And Eleanor Grayson, an art collector from Vestal. A maintenance worker discovered her in the gallery, arranged to mimic one of your works."

She doesn’t tell him about Miller’s severed hand. He must already know.

Haldane's eyes glitter with a perverse sort of pride. "Fascinating. It seems I have an admirer. Someone who appreciates artistry."

“Don’t play games with me, Haldane. You know who he is.”

“Unlikely. These walls prevent me from mingling with society. What do you want from me, Darcy?”

“Tell me when he’ll strike again. How does he choose his victims?”

"And why should I help you? Because of you, this is my life." He gestures at the painting. “I am capable of so much more. But you know that, yes?”

"This is your chance to save lives."

Haldane chuckles, a menacing sound. "You’re a fool if you think saving lives would interest me."

“Then do it out of respect?”

“Respect?”

“For the woman who outsmarted you.”

The smile falls off his face. Haldane stands still, his eyes searching Darcy's, as if trying to read her thoughts.

“You truly believe you outsmarted me?”

“I caught you, didn’t I?”

“Beginner’s luck. Perhaps we can strike a deal. I'll help you catch your killer. But on one condition.”

Any deal with Haldane will come at a price—a pound of flesh extracted with a rusty blade.

"What’s the condition?"

"You’ll come to visit more often."

“We’re not friends, Haldane.”

He places a hand over his chest in mock affront. “Two people who’ve known each other this long should have an understanding. You’ll return to see me?”

“I’ll agree to that condition.”

“Then let’s begin.”

He strolls about the room with his eyes on the ceiling, as if admiring a cloudless sky. She checks her watch. Five minutes remaining, and she has learned nothing. But she needs to be patient. He’s doing this to unsettle her.

"Your killer is a product of his environment. He’s shaped by the cruelties of the world, by betrayals and abuses. This man wears his scars on the inside, where no one can see them. But I see them, Darcy. I recognize the marks of a shared history, a shared pain. And I have a feeling, so do you."

“You’re bloviating. Give me something real.”

“Don’t push me. I hold the power here, not you.”

“Is that so?” she asks.

“It is. Words can heal or shoot poison into one’s veins. I choose to be civil, yet others still test me.”

“More psycho-babble.”

Haldane's eyes snap to Darcy. "I wonder, have you met Mr. Miller? Shaken his hand, perhaps?"

“So you knew the killer removed the victim’s hand?” Three minutes to go. “We have little time. I need more information.”

“Patience, Darcy.”

A commotion erupts in the neighboring corridor. The guard who escorted Darcy rushes in.

"We have to go," he says, his hand on his radio. "There's a medical emergency in the facility. All visitors must leave."

With a desperate glance at Haldane, Darcy follows the guard. As she hurries down the corridor, she can feel the killer's eyes on her back.

At the door, she risks a glance over her shoulder. Haldane's face presses against the plexiglass. He wears a knowing smile.

The door swings open, and Julian is waiting for her.

"What happened?" Julian asks. "They won’t talk to me."

There’s no time to discuss the matter. The guard leads them back to the security checkpoint and through the exit.

22

At a desk in the back of the police department’s bullpen, Darcy raises a cup of water with a shaky hand and presses it to her lips. Julian is here, as is Detective Müller, who carries a case folder under his arm and tosses it on the desk.

"Any word from the prison?" Julian asks. "What the hell happened back there?"

Müller lifts his palms. "Your guess is as good as mine. I've been trying to get in touch with Special Agent Monroe, but she's not picking up, and the prison officials are being tight-lipped. All they'll say is that there was a medical emergency and that they evacuated the building."

"Haldane was about to give something to Darcy. We're back to square one."

Darcy lays a hand on Julian's arm, trying to calm him. But inside, she's just as frustrated. Haldane was playing her. He dangled just enough information to keep her on the hook.

As Julian and Müller speak, Darcy tunes them out. All that matters is Haldane and what he said about the killer.

The unsub has a background in art. And then there was the comment about shaking hands with Miller. Was that a clue, a hint that the killer had met his victim before? Or was it a taunt about “The Creation of Adam” desecration? She believes it’s the latter, but with Haldane, she is never certain.

A headache blooms behind her eyes. She remembers the promise she made, the deal she struck with Haldane. She will visit the serial killer again and risk letting him inside her head. It’s the only way.

A call arrives. She glances at the screen and sees Mitchell Gaines' name. Why is the head of security at The Fuse Gallery contacting her? With a frown, she steps away from the desk and answers.

"Mr. Gaines, I didn’t expect to hear from you."

"I have information relevant to your investigation. I spoke with the maintenance staff at the gallery, and they told me something interesting."

"Is this about Marcus Delaney?"

"Apparently, a worker walked in on Delaney during the time window that David and Cary Ann Miller were at the gallery. Delaney was asleep on the job, tucked away in a closet."

"That means he wasn’t the man following the Millers on the security footage."

"As you suspected."

She wonders if Gaines is making a dig at Lisa, who insisted Delaney was the unsub. The headache is getting worse, a dull throbbing behind her eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Gaines. I appreciate the update."

"No problem. I'll keep asking questions on my end."

"Please do. And if you think of anything, contact me."

The call ends. She turns to find Julian and Müller watching her expectantly.

"That was Mitchell Gaines from The Fuse Gallery," she says. "We can clear Marcus Delaney. Witnesses say he was asleep in a closet during the time the Millers were at the gallery."

"Another dead end," Müller says.

Julian closes the distance between him and Darcy. He whispers so only she can hear. “It’s high time you stopped listening to Lisa.”

“She’s running the investigation, Julian,” Darcy says.

“Yeah, straight into the ground. You were right about Delaney, and Lisa couldn’t see it. Heck, neither could I. This investigation is a train wreck. You’re under no obligation to stay here. Why don’t we go back to Genoa Cove and let the FBI catch the killer?”

“Because Haldane won’t talk to Lisa or another agent.”

“You don’t intend to go back to the prison, do you? Once is enough.”

“I have to.”

Julian doesn’t have time to argue. Lisa marches into the bullpen with a troubled look.

“I called in a favor with the Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Lisa says. “They got us an answer.”

Darcy sits on the edge of the desk. “What happened?”

“We're still trying to piece everything together. A guard found a prison nurse unresponsive in the infirmary. She had a syringe in her hand.”

“Dead?”

“Yes. Initial reports suggest a self-administered overdose, but it doesn't add up. This nurse worked with Haldane and administered his medication. It's possible he manipulated the nurse and pushed her to this point. He's done it before, and the timing is too convenient.”

“We can look into what happened to the nurse,” Darcy says.

“That’s not so simple,” says Müller. “They won’t want us sticking our noses in their business.”

Lisa fiddles with the sleeves on her blouse. "Müller's right. The prison officials are going to close ranks and try to keep this under wraps. They won't want the publicity or the scrutiny that comes with an outside investigation."

“But we can't let this go,” Darcy says. “If Haldane caused the nurse's death, we need to find out.”

“He was inside his cell when the nurse overdosed.”

“And you believe that would stop him?”

Julian rubs his chin. "Maybe we can use this to our advantage. If we offer to keep things quiet and handle the investigation discreetly, they might cooperate."

Müller snorts. "How do you propose we do that? We can't just waltz in there and start asking questions. They'll shut us down before we get through the door."

Darcy hops off the desk. "Haldane is a high-profile inmate. He has a history of manipulating people. The prison has to be concerned about liability. If word gets out that one of their employees was driven to suicide by an inmate, the media will swoop down on them."

“Agreed, but how do we leverage this problem?”

“That should get me through the door.”

“To speak with Haldane again?”

“Yes.”

Müller looks at Julian. “Is that wise?”

“I could tell her no, but it won’t make a difference,” Julian says.

Lisa stares at Darcy. “What did you learn from your first meeting?”

“Words can heal or shoot poison into one’s veins. I choose to be civil, yet others still test me.”

Darcy remembers Haldane’s words. The statement had seemed unimportant at first.

“He told me about the nurse committing suicide,” Darcy says.

Müller almost drops his coffee. The team members turn to her.

“He what?” Julian demands.

“I didn’t understand what he meant. It seemed flippant. He spoke about shooting poison into veins, and that people keep testing him. He meant the nurse.”

Lisa moves closer. “What else did he tell you?”

“That I’d shook hands with David Miller.”

The agent snaps her fingers. “That means he knew about ‘The Creation of Adam.’ He speaks to the killer.”

In a flash, Lisa removes her phone and presses it to her ear. "This is Special Agent Monroe. I need to talk with Deputy Director Carter."

A pause. Lisa licks her lips.

"I understand he's in a meeting, but this is urgent. It's about the Vestal, Illinois murders. Patch me through to his secretary."

Darcy has heard stories about Carter. He is a tyrant who demands too much of his agents.

“Deputy Director, thank you for taking my call,” Lisa says. “I apologize for the interruption, but I have a situation with Victor Haldane.”

She glances at Darcy before continuing.

"I believe Victor Haldane is communicating with the killer in the Vestal art murders. We need immediate access to his internet activity and a list of every visitor he's had in the past year."

Lisa listens to the response.

"I don't care about the prison's privacy policies. Haldane is a convicted serial killer, and if he's involved in these murders, I want to nail him."

Lisa stops and rubs her forehead, her eyes closed.

"Deputy Director, I am formally requesting you override any objections from the prison and grant us full access to Haldane's records."

The agent raises her thumb.

"Thank you, sir. I'll keep you updated on any developments."

“Progress?” Darcy asks.

"Carter is on board. He'll get us those records. In the meantime, we need to dig into every aspect of Haldane's life behind bars. I want to know everything about his daily routine, his interactions with guards and other inmates, and any privileges they granted him."

Haldane knows the unsub. Now Darcy needs to prove it.

23

In the hour before midnight, all is quiet in Maxwell Sterling’s apartment. The residence sits five minutes away from the studio and holds his most prized paintings and sculptures, many of which he won’t show. The world isn’t ready. Perhaps it will be soon, but there’s so much more to create.

He lies on his back with his hands clasped behind his head. Sleep won’t come. It never does on nights like this, when rains lash against the windows and lightning sparks like mortar fire over Vestal. Storms remind him too much of the madness.

When he was six, he returned from school and found his mother unconscious on the living room floor. The syringe still lay in her hand. After the age of seven, he never saw her again. She left in the middle of the night and never returned. He knew she was gone when he awoke and didn’t smell eggs and bacon in the kitchen. She was weak and unfit to parent a child, and he never shed a tear over the loss.

Maxwell sometimes wonders what became of his mother. Did she overdose in an alleyway? He can’t imagine she’s still alive.

His strongest memory of his mother is from his preschool years. On a spring afternoon, a nosy neighbor contacted Child Services about his wellbeing, and they phoned the police. A stocky officer showed up at the door while Maxwell drove Matchbox cars across the living room carpet. She was drunk when the man arrived. But back then, the police weren’t as quick to remove children from a dangerous household.

The officer asked her if she was sober enough to care for her boy. She said she was. A lie. Then he asked about the father’s whereabouts, and she told the man her husband worked sixteen-hour shifts at the plastics plant and wouldn’t return until late. That was the truth.

After several minutes of questioning, the officer left. Maxwell returned to his play, and his mother fished something stronger than booze out of a plastic bag hidden in the downstairs closet. But as sick as his mother was, she was the least of his worries.

The storm patters against the apartment’s exterior. Despite the rolling thunder, the rain leads him toward sleep. Then he hears it—the doorknob twists in the entryway.

He sits up and pushes the blankets off his legs. His bare feet touch the hardwood floor. Is someone in the house?

His hand fumbles with the drawer handle. He pulls it open and closes his fingers over a small revolver.

No one will hurt him again. He won’t allow it.

The floorboards squeak under his weight. He presses his ear against the door and waits. Nothing. No footsteps.

The storm illuminates the room as he grasps the knob. A click, and the door swings open into the hallway.

He spots the figure at the end of the hall—tall and broad-shouldered, with a familiar stance that sends a jolt of fear through his body. The figure steps forward.

“I told you never to return,” Maxwell says.

The stranger doesn't respond. It takes another step, moving closer. Maxwell's grip tightens on the revolver.

"You can't be here. You're dead; I know you are."

A low chuckle emanates from the figure.

The man steps into a patch of gray light, and Maxwell freezes. Standing in the corridor, the stranger’s face is gaunt, the skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. His eyes fall like sinkholes into his skull. An unkempt beard frames the face.

"Did you really think I wouldn’t come back, boy?" the man says. "I’m part of you."

Maxwell shakes his head and backs away. This isn't real. He’s having a nightmare.

There’s something in the stranger’s hand. The object uncoils and drops snake-like toward the floor. Maxwell knows the pain that always follows.

“I know what you did to those girls,” the man says. “You’re an abomination in the eyes of God. Time to take your punishment.”

Maxwell aims the revolver. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."

“Never raise your voice to me. ‘Honor your father and your mother, so that your days may be long in the land the Lord your God is giving you.’”

“I’ll shoot. You’d better leave while you can.”

“Don’t make me laugh. You don’t have the balls to pull the trigger.”

Maxwell has no time to react. The stranger lunges and drives him against the wall. A struggle for the gun ensues, and his head strikes the plaster.

His legs go slack. Unable to fight, he cowers on the floor. He feels the figure grasp the bottom of his nightshirt and yank it up to his shoulders. The lashing begins.

Convulsing, he tries to cover up, but the blows come too quickly. His flesh stings. Welts rise with each strike of leather against skin.

“Stop hurting me.”

A cackle.

The rusted buckle drags its brown incisors across his flesh and draws blood. He screams, but no one comes. The leather and metal fly toward the ceiling and whip down. Again and again.

Until he is a whimpering mass of skin and bone.

Maxwell’s eyes open. It’s dark. The rain stopped, and he can hear droplets plunking against the sidewalk below his windows.

He instinctively reaches for his back. Hands caress blooming wounds, hot to the touch. When he checks his fingers, he finds no blood, yet black pools drip through the floorboards. It isn’t until he fights up to his hands and knees that he identifies his drool formed the pools.

It’s a struggle to reach his feet. His hands keep slipping down the wall while his knees give way. He stumbles to the front door and checks the lock. It's secure. The chain is in place.

Which means the stranger is still in the apartment.

He remembers the gun, which rests at his midsection, locked between the waistband of his pajama bottoms and his hip. The man will pay for what he did. This time, fear won’t stop him from shooting.

Staggering through the apartment, Maxwell flips on the lights. The kitchen, the living room, the bedroom. Empty. He checks inside the closets and under the bed. But there's no one there. He's alone. That can’t be.

In the bathroom, he turns the knob inside the medicine cabinet and leans against the sink. The mirror displays his reflection. His face is pale, his eyes bloodshot. Sweat mats the hair against his head.

With trembling fingers, Maxwell sifts through the cabinet and locates the bandages and a tube of antibiotic cream. He reaches behind his back and feels for the wounds. But there's nothing. No blood, no torn flesh. Just the smooth expanse of his skin.

He twists his body and cranes his neck for a better look. Exposing his back, he finds no welts where the belt whipped him.

Maxwell lets out a shaky breath and slides down the wall, letting the box of bandages fall from his hand. What is happening to him?

He grabs the basin and drags himself up. Turning on the faucet, he splashes water on his face. It drips from his chin and dots the floor.

“He’s dead,” Maxwell tells the face in the mirror. “He can’t hurt us anymore.”

But even as he says the words, he knows they're a lie. He'll never be free of the monster.

When Maxwell returns to the bedroom, the clock on the nightstand reads 3:38 A.M. He won't sleep for the rest of the night. Instead, he’ll tangle himself in the covers until dawn breaks. There is work to do. And in the act of creation, he will become the man he wishes to be.

For a little while.

At least until the next storm comes, and the cycle begins anew.

He isn’t impotent. They will see his strength.

Maxwell will unleash his fury upon them all.

24

The clatter of silverware and the murmur of conversation provide a backdrop in the hotel's dining area. It’s early, and Darcy hasn’t slept right since the investigation into the Vestal murders began. In a secluded corner, she sits across a table from Julian. A hanging lamp spreads sickly orange light, and the table wobbles. One leg is too short.

Julian attacks a stack of pancakes, as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Darcy pushes the scrambled eggs around, looking for an excuse to toss the food into the trash.

"You spoke in your sleep," he says.

She sets aside the fork. “What did I say?”

“You said, ‘don’t hit me.’ What was that about?”

Darcy doesn’t recall dreaming, yet she remembers drifting off with a theory skittering around in her mind.

“Darcy?” he asks when she doesn’t answer. “Your mother was stern; you’ve mentioned it several times.”

“Stern, but never abusive.”

“And your father?”

“A kind man. He wouldn’t harm a soul.”

“Then I don’t understand why you were begging someone not to hit you.”

She sips her orange juice. Acid burns in her chest and stomach.

“I wasn’t dreaming about me.”

“The Vestal killer,” he says with a sigh. “I warned you not to get too deep into these maniacs’ heads. You think the unsub grew up in an abusive household, don’t you?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. Monsters aren’t born; they’re created.”

“Please tell me you didn’t discuss this with Haldane. I don't like the idea of you going back to see him. The man is the devil, and he’s got his hooks in you.”

“I can handle Haldane. But to answer your question, no. We never discussed the killer’s home life. There wasn’t time.”

“Will you add this theory to the working profile?”

“Possibly. I need time to work this through and ensure it fits.”

Instead of returning to his meal, he keeps staring.

“What now?” she asks.

"Lisa is pushing you too hard and putting you in danger."

"She's doing her job. Her priority is identifying the unsub, and I intend to help her."

"From where I'm sitting, it appears she's more interested in satisfying the higher-ups than in keeping you safe."

"She’s not a politician."

"Maybe not, but her priorities are skewed. She's so focused on the end goal that she's willing to sacrifice her mentor."

A man and woman in their seventies wander past with plates full of bacon and grits. Darcy waits until they’re out of earshot.

“You don’t understand what it’s like to profile the lowest of the low. Everyone expects you to do the impossible. The pressure is immense. Her deputy director, the press, the public. And through it all, she has to juggle her duties while avoiding turf wars with the locals. That’s what Lisa deals with.”

“Was it that bad when you were an agent?”

“Yes, but it’s grown worse. More murders, increased public scrutiny—it makes the job impossible.”

“That may be true, but Lisa needs to ease up. She’s not the one visiting Victor Haldane. And when this is over, she’ll get the accolades, and you’ll fly back to North Carolina with no one thanking you.”

“I don’t want the attention, so it doesn’t matter.” The eggs on Darcy’s plate make her feel sick. She pushes back from the table and grabs her tray. "I can't eat this."

Julian swallows a piece of toast. "You should keep your strength up. Starving yourself won’t help."

"I'll take a protein bar with me. We need to be at the police department in an hour."

Julian stacks their trays in the return bin.

They ride the elevator up to the room without speaking. As soon as they're inside, Julian heads for the shower, giving Darcy a brief squeeze on the shoulder as he passes.

She sits on the edge of the bed. Is Julian right about Lisa? Is her old student taking advantage of her? Though Julian doubts Lisa’s intentions, Darcy’s concern grows that the agency is piling too much on Lisa’s shoulders. Why didn’t the BAU send a team? One agent isn’t enough.

When the phone rings, she expects Lisa's name to flash on the screen. But it’s her son.

"Hunter, you’re up early. Everything okay at college?"

“All good. Jennifer says she’s staying with Kaitlyn. I never would have expected you to allow it.”

“Give your mom some credit. I made life difficult for you and your sister. She needs to breathe. You both do.”

“Well, you did the right thing.”

She holds back a laugh. It seems Hunter is playing the role of parent now.

“As long as Jennifer behaves with Kaitlyn, I’ll give her more room.” Darcy picks at a stray thread on her sweatpants. “But that’s not why you called, is it?”

“Don’t profile your son. It’s improper.”

“Hunter, I’m not playing Jedi mind tricks. I hear it in your voice.”

He blows out a breath. “Dad says you're working a tough case, and I know how you get when you're in the zone.”

She loves that Hunter keeps calling Julian Dad.

“I’m compartmentalizing the work and won’t let it consume me. For the record, I’m making progress.” She bites her tongue. “You aren’t reading about the case online, are you?”

He takes a little too long to answer. “It’s impossible to avoid.”

“Try harder.”

“It’s difficult when Apple and Google keep showing me the news articles.”

Behind the bathroom door, the shower stops. She hears Julian pull a towel off the rack.

“What do these articles say?”

"That you're talking to Victor Haldane. They claim you visited him in prison. Why would you talk to that creep?"

Darcy’s heart skips. It was only a matter of time before the meeting became public knowledge, but she hadn't expected it to happen so soon.

“Trust me, I never wanted it to come to this.”

"Are you working with Haldane?"

Darcy closes her eyes. "I'm not working with him. I'm trying to get information to catch this killer."

There's a long pause on the other end of the line.

"He’s another Michael Rivers."

The Full Moon Killer terrorized her family from behind bars. Haldane already hates Darcy for catching him. She’s kicking a hornet’s nest.

"Haldane can’t hurt us."

“Why not? Rivers did. Mom, the articles say this new killer is Haldane’s disciple. If there are more like him . . .”

If there are more, the nightmare is just beginning. After the pain her family endured, she can’t allow Haldane to do the same.

"Never again, Hunter. I swear no one will hurt you and Jennifer."

But even as she says the words, she feels doubt. Are Haldane’s followers congregating on the dark web? When will they come for her like Rivers’ copycats?

“You said you were done, but as soon as the FBI called, you answered.”

"Yeah, and maybe that was a mistake. I'm sorry you have to worry about me. That’s not what I wanted. But this is who I am. I became a profiler to help people."

“Who’s helping you?”

Darcy smiles through her tears. "I have Julian and Agent Monroe, plus a team of police officers. And I have you and your sister to ground me."

When Hunter doesn’t reply, she thinks the call disconnected.

“Are you there?”

“It’s not enough, Mom.”

“Tell me what you want. If I can make it happen, I will.”

His voice falls an octave, and she realizes he’s not a boy anymore.

“I want a guarantee that Victor Haldane, this new murderer, or any other psycho won’t turn into another Full Moon Killer.”

“Is that what you’re worried about?”

His roommate speaks in the background.

“I have to get to class. Remember what I said.”

Darcy won’t forget, and she will keep her promise.

By any means necessary.

25

Maxwell twists the key, and the lock gives way with a click. Shadows from last night’s beating follow him into the studio. Turning on the lights drives back the silhouettes, but he knows they’re there. They never let him be.

He pushes the door open, and the familiar scents of oil paint and turpentine meet him at the threshold. Dust motes dance in the shaft of light streaming from the tallest window and settle on the neglected canvases.

After tossing his keys on the table, he checks the mini-fridge and removes an unfinished turkey sandwich. The bread is soggy and sticks to the meat. He can’t eat this. Slamming the food in the garbage pail, he sets his sight on the espresso machine. It gurgles and spits as he powers it on.

"Did you really think I wouldn’t come back, boy? I’m part of you."

The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. He spins and finds the studio empty. Yet he is certain he heard the stranger.

With a shaking hand, he grabs the handle on the closet door. Open it? What if the man-thing is waiting inside?

“You don’t have the balls to pull the trigger.”

He should have shot the man and ended the nightmare. But he froze. Like always.

The door flies open. A black shape towers in front of him, and he recoils. Eyes clamped shut, he crouches and prepares for another beating. Why won’t the stranger kill him and end the madness?

Amid the darkness that hides behind his closed eyes, he hears footsteps approaching. The flesh stretched across his back stings from countless whippings.

“Do it!” he screams.

When the beating doesn’t come, he summons the courage to look. The closet is empty. He is alone in the studio.

A gasp. Maxwell rises on legs that are too weak to hold him upright.

The espresso machine emits a beep. He doesn’t remember starting the device. Pouring the drink, he shuffles to the windows and checks the sidewalk. People go about their business, unaware of the maelstrom inside his head.

A thud outside the studio door straightens his back. He isn’t alone.

Maxwell presses his eye against the peephole. A newspaper lies on the mat.

He exhales and retrieves the paper. The masterpiece he’d shown Chloe debuted at The Steinem Gallery last evening. Jameson Sinclair’s review should be ready. This is the moment Maxwell breaks the bonds holding him back and meets his destiny.

He unfolds the paper and smooths the creases. Jameson Sinclair's critique awaits on page six.

Derivative and lacking depth, Maxwell Sterling’s art isn’t fit for The Steinem Gallery. This misogynistic torture porn belongs in a B-rate horror movie. A pathetic and desperate attempt at brilliance.

A bitter laugh rattles in his throat.

"You'll never amount to anything," a ghost whispers.

Maxwell sips the black liquid, the steam rising like specters. He’s there again—a skinny boy, all knees and elbows, cowering before his abuser’s fury.

The cup shudders in his hand; coffee spills over the rim and scalds his skin. He remembers the strap whipping against his back, the tears dotting the bedroom floor, the stink of alcohol.

“You have no right,” Maxwell says to Sinclair’s photo at the top of the article. “I won’t allow you to tell lies.”

He drops the paper on the table and covers it with a canvas as a flock of crows wing past the window. Blasphemy cannot go unanswered. He must deal with the situation and make everyone see his brilliance.

The clack of heels on wood pulls his attention away from the window. Ensuring nobody can see the hidden article, he peers through the peephole and spies Chloe. She’s early. No matter. Working will wash the rebuke from his thoughts.

He opens the door, and she gives him a wary glance before blowing past. Removing her jacket, she throws it on a couch set against the wall.

"Morning, Max."

She straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. He sees through the confident facade. She hasn’t looked him in the eye since he revealed his painting.

Sinclair.

"You'll never amount to anything."

"Good morning, Chloe." His words are an ill-fitting mask.

Sitting on a chair, she crosses her legs and pries off one heel, then the other. She studies him and lifts an eyebrow. "Late night?"

"The storms," he grunts, turning away to adjust a light stand.

“Really? I slept like a baby.”

Another lie. He is the only one capable of baring his soul.

“Worry less about my appearance and get into position.”

“This place looks like a bomb hit it. How do you work with all this clutter?”

"Creativity is messy."

"You know what my mother used to say when she checked my bedroom?" she asks.

“I don’t care.”

“Cluttered room, cluttered life.”

“Sage advice,” he says, not hiding his sarcasm. “I don’t pay you by the hour. Let's get started.”

"Sure thing, boss." But Chloe doesn’t move. Instead, she nods toward the concealed newspaper. She knows. “Morning reading?”

“What are you waiting for? Get to work.”

"Bad review?"

"None of your business."

"Touchy, aren't we?" Her lips curl, but there's no humor in her eyes.

"Can we just—" Maxwell starts, but stops. He waits until the fury subsides. "Please. The pose."

"Fine," she says, and moves to the dais, her movements deliberate and challenging.

He watches her settle into position. From a different world beyond the studio, horns honk. Chloe twists her torso, arm draped over her head in an arc of feigned despair. His breaths are shallow.

"Give me something real."

"This is what you asked for, Max. Vulnerability, right? That’s what you like."

"With feeling. Your emotion is surface-level and hollow."

“Please. Except for Sandra, I’m the only model willing to work with you. You’ve driven the others away. How long before you lose us too?”

A pathetic and desperate attempt at brilliance.

His vision turns red.

“Never raise your voice to me.”

Chloe's posture breaks. "You're scaring me," she says.

"Wonderful. Fear has a taste and a smell. I want that on the canvas."

She hesitates and searches his face. "What's going on with you?"

The room spins in a carousel of doubt and blurred memories from last night. He recalls the belt's crack, the phantom pain across his back. Then nothing when he checked his reflection in the mirror.

"Nothing is going on with me."

“We all get negative reviews, Maxwell. You’ll get over it.”

“Shut up and give me what I need.”

“Touchy.”

She settles into a pose, one of defiance rather than despair.

"Useless," he snaps when the image fails to ignite his inspiration.

"Does it always have to be about submission? Stop trying to dominate everyone."

"Humans are flawed and broken things. That's what I need to see. Not this pretense."

“Why must you degrade people?”

“I’m showing the truth.”

Chloe's hands shoot skyward. "I can't do this anymore."

"Can't do what? Model?"

"Be your punching bag." Her voice is steel wrapped in velvet. "Whatever mommy and daddy issues you have, get over them."

"Don’t you dare leave."

"It’s like this every session. Stop attacking me." She steps down from the platform, moving toward her scattered belongings.

"You're overreacting."

"Am I?" She dons her jacket. "You're not the only paycheck in town."

"Wait." He reaches out. "I'm sorry, Chloe. I can change."

"Sorry doesn't cut it." She zips the bag with purpose. “And you will never change.”

"Chloe."

She heads for the door.

"Find someone else to torment." She throws the words over her shoulder.

"If you leave, you can never return."

“Promise?”

“Bitch.”

She swings around with a raised middle finger. The door slams.

26

Blanketed by a mid-morning fog, attendees at David Miller’s funeral lower their heads while the priest, who never met Miller, speaks of the man’s bravery and his service to the country. Many sob. Those paying respect steal looks at Cary Ann. The sister leans on her father, a chiseled man of fifty-eight years and a former Navy Seal. Cary Ann and David’s mother, Sally, died from congestive heart failure six years ago, and many believe it is a blessing. She never needed to bury her only son.

Darcy stands at the back of the crowd with Julian. She wears a black coat that extends past her knees. It’s fashionable enough for the funeral, but does little to stop the rain from soaking through to her clothes. She shivers. If it gets any colder, she’ll see her breath.

Julian puts an arm around her hip. To the others, they look like mourners. But she’s here to watch the crowd for anyone who doesn’t belong.

When the ceremony concludes, the crowd disperses. Julian follows her into the cemetery as the crew lowers the casket into the ground. Only close family remains.

“He isn’t here,” Darcy says. “But I had to make sure.”

“They’re almost finished. We should say goodbye to the sister before we leave.”

The showers are relentless. Wind tugs at her coat, and the rain finds her pants. With a shiver, she tightens the coat around her body and lowers her head against the onslaught.

With the ceremony over, Cary Ann spots them and walks over. No, she hasn’t thought of anyone else who would want to kill her brother, and no strangers have made contact. Darcy worries the investigation has reached another dead end.

Back at the police department, where it’s dry and warm, Darcy drapes her jacket over a chair inside the conference room and rubs the goosebumps off her arms. Julian brings her coffee, and Lisa trails him into the room and tosses a folder on the table.

“The prison agreed to let us help with the investigation,” Lisa says. “We have no idea why Haldane’s nurse committed suicide.”

“He wormed into her mind,” Darcy says.

“The issue is, he was locked in his cell and talking to you when the woman stuck the syringe into her arm. Even if we believe Haldane drove the woman to kill herself, we can’t prove he’s responsible.”

“Plus, he’s serving multiple life sentences,” Julian says. “What does he have to lose?”

Lisa taps a finger against the desk. "We need you to visit Haldane again. You're the only one he'll talk to."

Julian's face flashes anger. "No way. Absolutely not. Darcy's not going back there, not after he drove a worker to suicide."

Lisa pinches the bridge of her nose. "I understand your concerns, Julian. But we don't have a choice. Haldane is our only lead and our best chance of catching the Vestal killer."

Darcy accepts the risk and understands the toll another meeting will take on her mental state. Haldane already drove one woman to suicide. What if he does the same to her?

Julian takes her hand. "You’re not beholden to the FBI. Say the word, and I’ll book a plane back to North Carolina."

But Darcy knows there is no other way. Haldane is the key to unlocking the case.

“I'll do it, Lisa,” she says. “Set up the next interview. I'll get Haldane to open up about the nurse and tell me how he met our killer.”

Julian’s head drops in acceptance.

Lisa jots a note. "I realize this isn't easy, but you're doing the right thing."

The comment elicits a glare from Julian. Lisa seems eager to steer the conversation elsewhere and avoid an argument.

“In the meantime,” Lisa says, “We should visit the animal shelter where David Miller worked. If our unsub harassed him or another staffer, that’s information we need.”

Darcy pulls her coat around her shoulders. "That's a wise idea. Miller spent a lot of time volunteering, and his colleagues might have noticed if he had visitors."

“It's worth a shot,” Julian says. “It beats sitting around here, pretending Haldane will tell us who killed Miller.”

Lisa gathers her files. "Then it's settled. I'll make a call and arrange a meeting with the shelter's director."

The windshield wipers clear the way forward as Lisa drives the SUV. Darcy rests in the passenger’s seat, with Julian in the back and peering up at the clouds. On the edge of Vestal, they find the animal shelter, a modest building surrounded by a chain-link fence. One car sits in the lot, and Darcy spots two more in the alley behind the shelter. The police found blood in the alley.

As they step into the shelter, the first thing that hits Darcy is the smell—a pungent mix of wet dog, disinfectant, and something else she can't quite place. It's not entirely unpleasant, but it's strong enough to make her eyes water. The walls hold a cheerful yellow coloration, and the floor is a mottled gray linoleum that has seen better days. Along one wall, a row of metal cages houses an assortment of barking dogs.

A woman with a nametag that reads "Federica Caruso" greets them at the front desk.

Lisa steps forward and displays her badge. "Ms. Federico, I'm Special Agent Monroe, and this is Darcy and Julian Haines. We're here to ask a few questions about David Miller."

Federica's smile falters. "I’ll tell you everything I can. David was such a wonderful person. We're all devastated by what happened."

“We understand this is a difficult time, Ms. Caruso,” Darcy says. “Anything you can tell us about David's work or any interactions he had will help our investigation.”

“David volunteered here for years. He had a gift with the animals, especially the ones that suffered from trauma and abuse. He could get through to them in a way that even I couldn’t, and I’ve been here for sixteen years.”

"Did he ever mention anything about feeling unsafe or being harassed?" Julian asks.

"No, never. He got along with the staff and the other volunteers."

“What about visitors?” Lisa asks. “Did anyone come to the shelter looking for David, maybe someone who seemed out of place or made him uncomfortable?”

“Nothing like that ever happened here.”

“Do you have security cameras?”

“We do, but they only captured him tending the cages that night and stepping outside.”

“They don’t cover the alley?”

“Afraid not,” Federica says.

“I’d like the recordings.”

“Sure, that’s no problem.” Federica gestures at a black cat lounging on a windowsill. The cat's emerald eyes gleam with wariness. "You know, it's the strangest thing. We found this stray outside on the morning after David disappeared. It was on a leash, which is unusual. No collar or tags. David never logged that he found a cat, so it's a complete mystery."

An idea forms in Darcy’s head. “Can we see the leash the cat was wearing?”

"Give me a second, and I’ll grab it from the storage room."

When the door closes, Julian whispers, “What are you thinking?”

“David Miller could defend himself,” Darcy says. “The unsub needed to distract him. What better way than to play on Miller’s love for animals?”

After a few minutes, Federica returns. "I can't find the leash anywhere. I know we kept it, in case someone came looking for the cat, but it's not where it should be."

Lisa hands Federica a USB drive. "Can you copy the security footage?"

“Yes, and if the leash turns up, I’ll contact you.”

“If your staffers remember something about David, call me.” The agent slides a card across the table.

“Please find that leash,” Darcy says.

27

Dusk invades Vestal. Gray battlements of clouds fade as night advances.

Inside the newsroom of The Vestal Chronicle, art critic Jameson Sinclair sits at his desk and pores over a stack of press releases and gallery invitations.

He picks up a glossy brochure. His lip curls in disdain as he reads the artist's statement. "Oh, spare me," he says, tossing the brochure aside. "Self-indulgent hack thinks he’s an avant-garde visionary."

Across the room, Sinclair's colleague, a young staff writer named Wallace, looks up from his work. "Problem, Jameson?"

Wallace’s voice carries the song of amusement.

"The problem, my boy, is the state of the contemporary art scene. These so-called artists, with their pretentious installations and their vapid conceptualism. It's enough to make one yearn for the days of Rembrandt and Vermeer."

A smirk. "You're such a snob. Not every artist can be a Rembrandt."

"Perhaps not, but is it too much to ask for a modicum of talent or a shred of originality? I swear, if I have to endure one more derivative abstract expressionist or hackneyed appropriation artist, I may resign in protest."

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“You would, Wallace.”

“Admit it. You love the perks of being the city's most feared critic. You’ll never quit.”

Sinclair scowls, but there's a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. It's true that relishes his power to expose the talentless with a few well-chosen words. And if he's being honest, he takes pleasure in skewering charlatans. In doing so, he clears the slate for artists with true vision. Though it has been years since he encountered one.

He glances at his watch. It's getting late. He has a dinner reservation at nine, which gives him just enough time to stop home and change into appropriate attire.

"Well, I'm off. Try not to let the paper fall apart in my absence, won't you?"

Wallace rolls his eyes and waves him off. "Have a good night, Jameson. Try not to make the servers cry with your scathing critiques of the wine list."

Sinclair chuckles in a rare moment of genuine amusement. "I make no promises."

As he rides the elevator to the parking garage, Sinclair can't shake the feeling of unease that has plagued him all day. He's made plenty of enemies over the years, disgruntled artists and gallery owners who couldn't handle honesty. Threats come with the job, but this week, none have popped into his inbox.

A bay of lights flickers in the garage. His black BMW waits at the end of the row. Removing a handkerchief, he wipes a smudge off the hood.

As he reaches for the door handle, he hears a sound behind him, a scuffling that makes him whirl around. But there's nothing but the empty expanse of the garage.

He slides into the leather driver's seat and fires the engine. Without checking the mirrors, he backs up, cranks the wheel, and motors to the exit. As Sinclair pulls onto the street, his phone buzzes in the center console. Wallace is calling. With a sigh, he taps the hands-free button.

"Miss me already, Wallace? I'm on my way to dinner."

"Another invitation landed on your desk. It's for that gallery opening downtown, the one with the up-and-coming artist from New York."

"Let me guess, another trust fund brat with a degree from Yale and a penchant for neon installations?"

Wallace snorts. "Something like that. But the buzz around this guy is pretty intense. It might be worth checking out, if only for the free champagne."

Sinclair glances in the rearview mirror. Someone trails him with the brights shining.

"I'll consider the offer," he says, his attention still on the mirror. "But no promises. I have a full schedule this week, and I'm not about to rearrange my schedule for one request."

"Fair enough. But if you go, try not to make too many enemies. We've got enough angry artists calling the newsroom as it is."

The car with the brights is closer now.

“You worry too much,” Jameson says.

“Okay, okay. How about a favor?”

“You’re pushing it, Wallace.”

“Take me with you.”

“Come again?”

“Henderson sticks me behind this godforsaken desk week after week. I want to be on the front lines.”

“My dear boy, you can have my invitation and go by yourself.”

“They want you, not me.”

“Fine.”

A check of the mirror shows no one behind him. Jameson’s grip loosens on the wheel.

“I’ll phone the gallery and make arrangements. See you in the morning, Jameson.”

“Ta ta.”

His home is a stately Victorian, the exterior a mosaic of deep red brick and ornate stonework. The windows, tall and narrow, stretch toward the sky and invite moonlight inside, though he can’t recall the last time the moon showed its face. A wrought-iron fence circles the property.

He steps out of the BMW and follows the cobblestone path to the front door. The air is thick with the scent of impending rain.

Jameson pauses at the front door, his fingers hovering over the security system’s keypad. A red light blinks at him, but no alarms blare. He steps back and peers through the windows. No movement inside.

After he punches in his code, the system beeps, and the light turns green. Inside, his hand gropes for the light switch.

Click.

The foyer floods with brightness. Painting line the walls, and the floor gleams from his cleaner’s efforts. Remembering the reservation, he hangs his coat on the rack and checks the clock. Time waits for no one.

Upstairs, the covers of his bed are smooth. Blackout curtains block out the streetlights.

But when he steps forward, his foot lands on a slick surface instead of carpet. He pulls back in revulsion before he recognizes the plastic sheeting laid across the floor. The idiotic cleaning crew. How could they forget to remove the sheeting? He’d ordered them not to scuff up the carpet with their sneakers, but they’ve never forgotten to take their supplies with them.

No time to deal with the situation tonight, but he will tear them to shreds first thing in the morning.

Tossing his wallet on the bed, he crouches to remove the plastic and stops. The sheeting is a filthy thing. He doesn’t want dirt and dust on his skin. There is no shortage of cretins and half-wits in the world.

A shadow slides across the floor. In the split second before his brain can process the anomaly, a figure emerges from the dark.

“What are you doing in my⁠—”

The hammer arcs through the air as a pendulum of cold steel. The end connects with Jameson's skull. Pain explodes behind his eyes. He crumples to the floor, his limbs tangled as he drops onto the sheeting.

Blood blooms across the surface, a crimson flower unfurling in slow motion. Jameson tries to scream, but his voice sticks in his throat. He claws at the sheeting. His fingers scrabble for purchase.

The figure towers over him. The hammer rises. It hovers for a moment, as if savoring the anticipation.

The weapon descends and lands with a wet, meaty thud. It splits skin and shatters bone. Blood splatters across the plastic. Jameson convulses.

“Please, stop.”

The hammer falls again and again. Jameson's skull collapses. His face becomes a ruin of pulped flesh and shattered cartilage.

“You don’t understand my vision,” the figure says. “But now you will see. Everyone will see.”

Before Jameson can scream, a shoed foot smashes down on his mouth. The hammer flies to the ceiling, then shrieks toward his face.

The impact brings forth a geyser of crimson.

“You will see!”

As the critic’s limbs jerk and twitch, the hammer’s prongs gouge into his eye sockets.

The killer begins to pry.

28

Chicago's Magnificent Mile is a treasure trove of color and sound, a dizzying whirlwind of luxury storefronts and shoppers. Exhaust fumes choke the air and overwhelm the perfume scents. It’s a heady mix that leaves Sandra light-headed as she squeezes between pedestrians on the sidewalk.

Beside her, Chloe walks with the confident grace of a seasoned model, her long legs eating up the pavement in effortless strides. She's dressed in a sleek black jumpsuit that clings to her curves like a second skin. A chic ponytail sweeps back her raven hair.

"Ooh, look at those shoes," Chloe says, pointing to a display in a window. "Those would be perfect for my next shoot."

Sandra’s jaw drops at the sight of the towering stilettos. The red soles gleam like spilled paint. "Maybe for you, Chloe. They look a little intense for me."

Chloe laughs and links her arm through Sandra's. "That's the point, sweetie. These artists are all about intensity."

Sandra’s stomach flutters as she thinks about Maxwell. She's only modeled for him for a few weeks, but they’re growing closer. He knows more about art than she could learn in a lifetime.

"Speaking of artists," Sandra says, "are they all like Maxwell? I really appreciate you recommending me to him."

Chloe's step falters.

“No, they aren’t.”

“They aren’t as gifted?”

“More like they aren’t as dark.”

Sandra stops. “You think Maxwell is dark?”

“You haven’t noticed? He demands a lot from his models. Too much, if you ask me.”

“Isn’t it all about getting results?”

“Not all the time. Look, Sandra. There’s no arguing with Maxwell Sterling’s brilliance, but he’ll take you places you might not be comfortable with.”

They continue down the sidewalk. Sandra recalls rumors about Maxwell’s proclivities and strange twisted visions. But she's also seen the beauty in his work and the raw, visceral power of his art.

"I'm ready to take the next step. The crazy thing is, I never pictured myself as a model until you suggested I try. Now I can’t get enough of it."

Chloe smiles, but there's a tightness around her eyes. Concern or pity?

"Be careful. Some of these guys will manipulate you and play with your mind. They don’t care about the repercussions. All that matters is achieving their visions."

Sandra opens her mouth to respond, but Chloe is already moving on, her attention caught by a display of handbags in a nearby window.

"Ugh, I need a new clutch." Chloe tugs Sandra towards the store. "Something that screams 'out of my way; I'm fabulous,' you know?"

Sandra laughs. Chloe's energy is infectious. They spend the next hour browsing the racks, trying on dresses, shoes, and accessories, giggling like schoolgirls playing dress-up.

As they sift through a rack of designer dresses, Sandra’s mind wanders back to the gallery. There is so much she can learn from Maxwell. He can further her career. But there’s more to her feelings than ambition.

“What would you say if I told you I'm falling for Maxwell?”

Chloe’s hand freezes on a silk blouse. She turns to Sandra, her expression a mix of concern and something else.

"Oh, honey," she sighs. "You don’t want to do that."

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Tell me what attracts you to this guy.”

Sandra feels a tinge of defensiveness. "He's passionate and driven. When I'm with him, I feel like I'm a part of something important."

Chloe shakes her head, a sad smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I know that feeling, trust me. All the big artists will do that to you. But there's something you need to know about him."

“What about Maxwell?”

“I quit working with him,” Chloe says. “For good.”

Sandra blinks, stunned. "What? But why? You're the one who introduced me to him. You said he was the best in Vestal and Chicago."

"He is the best. But he's also the worst. His moodiness and possessiveness are too much for me to handle. And he’s toxic."

“Toxic?”

“Maxwell Sterling’s creations have always contained dark themes. But lately, he’s getting weird. Disturbing. There's a sickness in his work that wasn’t there before.”

The vents blow frigid air down on Sandra. She cups her elbows with her hands.

“Why are you saying these things, Chloe? If the two of you had a falling out⁠—”

Chloe grabs Sandra’s shoulders. “There wasn’t a falling out. Listen, I planned to talk to you about Maxwell, but I never guessed you actually liked this guy. My advice? Quit. Quit today and never speak to him again.”

“You don’t sound like yourself.”

“This is serious. I don’t know what this guy’s demons are, but you want no part of them.”

“I’ve spent time with him, and he’s a sweet man.”

“No, he isn’t. Please, Sandra. Call him and say you’re through. Better yet, ask the agency to do it for you. I already planned to go into Jason’s office and tell him never to recommend Maxwell again.”

“I think you’re overreacting.”

“And you’re being a fool.”

Sandra backpedals from Chloe's outburst. She knows her friend is trying to protect her, but the reaction feels disproportionate to Sandra's experiences with Maxwell.

“I’m not a fool.”

Chloe’s face softens. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

"Chloe, I appreciate your concern. I really do. But I think you’re overreacting."

"I realize it sounds like I'm being dramatic, but I don't want you to get hurt."

"I hear you, and I promise to be careful. But I trust my instincts. He’s not as bad as you say."

Chloe purses her lips, clearly not satisfied with Sandra's response. "If I can’t convince you to sever all ties today, at least promise me you'll keep your eyes open, okay? If anything feels off, walk away."

"Thank you for looking out for me."

Chloe returns the smile, though worry colors her eyes. "That's what friends are for."

An hour later, the women part ways with lighter wallets than they started with.

As Sandra settles into an Uber and watches the storefronts streak past the window, she struggles to reconcile Chloe's dire portrayal of Maxwell with the man she's come to know. Yes, he can be intense and demanding. But he's also brilliant, passionate, and caring. And in the moments when they weren’t working, he revealed a side of himself that felt genuine. Even vulnerable.

Chloe insists something changed in Maxwell's work, that there’s a sickness that hadn't been there before. Sandra can't see it. He’s an artist pushing himself to new heights and exploring the depths of the human experience in all its beauty and ugliness.

What caused Chloe’s argument with Maxwell? She was vague about the details and evasive when Sandra pressed for information. Something happened between them and left Chloe feeling hurt and betrayed.

But does that mean that Maxwell is the villain? Or is there more to the story, nuances and complexities that Chloe is unwilling or unable to acknowledge? Though Sandra loves Chloe, she recognizes her friend can be headstrong.

As the vehicle pulls up to her apartment building, Sandra isn’t ready to give up on Maxwell. He deserves a chance to prove himself. Maxwell promised to immortalize her. Her gut tells her he is worth the gamble. Their connection is worth exploring.

As she climbs the stairs to her apartment, she's ready to see this through. So many times in the past, she allowed others to steer her off paths that made her happy. This time, she will follow her heart and instincts. Being an artist requires risk taking.

If Maxwell Sterling is the one who can make her happy, she's willing to look past his faults.

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

29

The warden's office is a study in contrasts, a blend of institutional austerity and indulgence. Lifeless white covers the walls, save for framed diplomas and commendations. A massive oak desk dominates the room. Atop its surface sit a collection of curios and mementos, which hint at the warden's hidden depths: a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid, a tarnished silver letter opener, a framed photograph of a stern-faced woman who might be his mother or his wife.

Darcy and Julian sit opposite Warden Janke. He is a man of indeterminate age, youthful yet weathered by the madness he encounters every day.

"I appreciate you taking the time to come return," the warden says in a deep baritone. "I know there is much speculation about what happened with Nurse Harris, and I want to assure you we're doing everything in our power to find out what happened."

“With all due respect, Warden,” Darcy says, “we both know Victor Haldane drove the nurse to commit suicide.”

"As do I, Agent Haines. But you have to understand, there are certain protocols that need to be followed, certain . . . sensitivities that I must consider."

Julian scoffs. "Sensitivities? Why not throw Haldane in solitary confinement? He deserves punishment."

"I’m conducting a thorough and impartial investigation, one that doesn't jump to hasty conclusions and unwarranted accusations. Haldane is a high-profile inmate, and as such, he requires special handling. I can’t charge him. He was speaking to you while Nurse Harris died."

"You can’t allow a convicted serial killer to manipulate and terrorize your staff," Darcy says.

"I understand that you have a personal history with Haldane, and I respect that. But please understand that he is still an inmate under my jurisdiction, and I have a responsibility to ensure his safety, as much as I detest it." He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers below his chin. "Which brings me to the reason for your visit today. I understand you're here to interview Haldane and wish to catch this new killer."

"I believe Haldane possesses information that will help us catch our unsub before he kills again."

“Doubtful.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Victor Haldane has no communication with the outside world. We monitor his online activities and don’t allow visitors. You’re the exception.”

“He must have talked to the killer. Haldane made allusions to David Miller’s murder.”

Warden Janke waves away the possibility. “Victor Haldane speaks in riddles. His intent is to mislead and confuse. It’s his way of getting back at you for catching him. I’m afraid you’re reading too much into what he says. Don’t allow him to fool you.”

“We’ll agree to disagree. Somehow, Haldane is speaking to the killer. Perhaps he paid someone on your staff to mask his activities.”

“An unfounded accusation.”

“I mean no offense, but Haldane is more resourceful than you believe,” Darcy says.

“You mean to go through with this second interview?”

“I do.”

"Then I’ll give you access. But I must insist that Detective Haines remain at the guard station during your interview. I can't risk having any unnecessary personnel in his cell block."

Julian opens his mouth to protest, but Darcy cuts him off.

"That's agreeable, Warden Janke. All I ask is you give me more time. An hour?"

“Thirty minutes.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Take it or leave it,” the warden says.

“Thirty minutes, it is.”

"Very well. I'll have my guards escort you to the block. And Agent Haines?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful what you say to him. For eight years, I’ve overseen the most dangerous criminals one can imagine. But I’ve never encountered the likes of Haldane. If there was ever a man who could commit homicide without laying a hand on you, it’s him."

Beside Darcy, Julian grumbles.

“One last thing, Agent Haines,” the warden says. “Your interview will remain confidential. We don't want unnecessary rumors spreading, do we?”

“We don’t.”

Two guards escort Julian to the station and Darcy down the corridor to Haldane's block. Though she can’t see his cell yet, she feels him waiting for her.

The guards halt in front of a reinforced door. A broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard steps forward and punches a code into the keypad set into the wall. There's a soft beep, and the door slides open with a hiss. The guard gestures for Darcy to step through, his expression neutral.

"You have thirty minutes," he says. "We'll monitor the interview from the control room. If at any point you feel unsafe or uncomfortable, give us the signal and we'll pull you out."

Darcy’s entire body shakes. She feels immersed in ice water.

The plexiglass barrier that separates her from Haldane looms before her. Reading a book, the serial killer faces the opposite wall.

"You returned. I've been expecting you."

Darcy feels a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Even with his back turned, he knows she’s there. For eight years, his voice has dominated her nightmares. She straightens her back, unwilling to show fear. He’ll sense it, and then she’s his for the taking.

"We meet again, Victor."

There's a soft, mocking chuckle from the other side of the glass.

When he shuts the book and turns to face Darcy, her knees buckle.

Haldane assesses her with malice and dark amusement, as an animal might its prey. He is a magnetic force that draws the eye and holds it.

“I know why you’re here,” he says.

"To discuss the death of Nurse Harris. The guards found her dead in the infirmary with a needle in her hand."

“It seems Nurse Ratched had her own demons. Such a tragedy, don't you think? A life cut short, a promising career ended in a moment of weakness.”

"Harris oversaw your care, didn't she? She administered your medication."

"You’ve done your homework, Agent Haines. Yes, Nurse Harris and I had a special relationship, you might say. She was a fascinating woman, so full of life and passion. It was always a pleasure to be in her company. I never would have expected her to end her life."

"Be honest with me, Victor. You whispered poison in her ear."

“Very poetic. You give me too much credit. I am confined to this cell for the rest of my days. What influence could I have over the thoughts and actions of a trained medical professional?”

“What did you say to her?”

“I had nothing to do with her demise.”

"Why should anyone believe you?"

Haldane spreads his hands in mock innocence. "Believe what you will, Agent Haines. But the fact remains that I was talking to you when Ratched took her life. Before you go tilting at windmills, look a little closer to home."

“Are you threatening my family?”

“Never, my friend. Now, are you here to ask me about one woman’s hidden weaknesses, or shall we discuss art in its highest form?”

Darcy forces herself to step closer to the glass. "You're not just a passive observer. The Vestal killer. What do you know about him?"

"Ah, yes. The artist. The one who dares to push the boundaries of what is acceptable."

"He's a murderer who preys on the innocent. You know more about him than you're letting on."

“Again, I only read the papers.”

“No, you speak to him.”

“Impossible,” he says.

“Is it? Nothing is impossible for Victor Haldane. Tell me how to catch him.”

“Why would I do that? He gives me much amusement.”

Trying not to scream, she stares into his depthless eyes. “Because he wishes to supplant you. He’s not content with following in your footsteps. Before he finishes his work, he wants the world to remember him and forget about you.”

“Don’t play games with me, Agent Haines,” Haldane says, though she catches his posture faltering.

“No games. I created his profile, just as I did for you. And we know who won our battle.”

“Touché.”

“Tell me how to find him, and perhaps people will remember you.”

He glares at her for a long time. She’s convinced he doesn’t believe her until he speaks.

“Let’s talk.” Haldane clasps his hands behind his back and paces the cell. “I’m neither a psychologist nor an FBI profiler.”

“But he thinks like you.”

“No one thinks like me.”

“As you say. Start at the beginning. Where is he from?”

“He came out of the Rust Belt. This is not a man to cross, if you value your life.”

The Rust Belt, a region of the country known for its decaying factories and crumbling infrastructure. A place where hope dies and desperation breeds. Is Haldane telling her the truth?

"What else can you tell me about him? The way he staged his latest kill, mimicking 'The Creation of Adam.' What's the significance?"

"The mind conceives, the hand creates, and in divine collaboration, we transcend boundaries and touch the sublime."

"Explain."

“Interpretation is in the eye of the beholder, Agent Haines. But consider this. ‘The Creation of Adam,’ a masterpiece of the Renaissance, represents God reaching out to man and bestowing upon him the spark of life and the gift of creation. What is our killer doing, if not the same? He’s reaching out to touch the divine, to create something greater than himself.”

"It sounds to me like you're glorifying a monster."

"Am I? Or am I simply acknowledging the power of art, the way it can transcend the mundane and touch the infinite? He understands this. Greatness comes at a cost, and the path to enlightenment is paved with sacrifice and pain."

“Give me his name.”

“I will not.”

“But you know who he is,” she says, standing her ground.

“I’ve given you everything you need to catch him. Now if you will excuse me, I have reading to do.”

He turns around. Darcy taps the plexiglass.

“Don’t shut me out, Victor. Tell me his name.”

“Goodbye, Agent Haines. Remember what I said about looking close to home.”

30

Outside Chief Novak’s office, Darcy waits with Julian. She isn’t sure why the chief wants to speak with her. Officers hurry past, while phones ring in the background. The air is thick with coffee and sweat, a miasma of exhaustion and frustration.

Darcy sits in a chair, her leg bouncing with nervous energy. Beside her, Julian scrolls through his phone. Undoubtedly, Chief Novak wants an update on their progress, but she is only a consultant and has no power here.

Despite the impending meeting, her thoughts are elsewhere. Haldane’s cryptic warnings and veiled threats are more than just mind games. Is he influencing other killers from behind bars? Will he direct them to target her family like Michael Rivers? She can’t go back to those days. Darcy thinks of Hunter and Jennifer, and the life she's built with Julian. She will do anything to protect them.

The door to Chief Novak's office swings open, and he gestures for them to enter. Darcy composes herself. Novak is under immense pressure from the mayor and the media to bring this killer to justice. But rushing the investigation and making rash decisions will only lead to more bloodshed.

As they take their seats across from Novak's desk, he clicks a stack of papers together and files them in a desk drawer. "Tell me Victor Haldane gave you a name," he says. "The city is breathing down my neck and wants results."

"We're close," Darcy says. "We have a few promising avenues to take the investigation down. But I don’t have a name. Not yet."

“Sounds to me like you wasted effort by meeting with Haldane.”

“I’m convinced he told me how to find the Vestal killer, but it will take time to unravel his riddles.”

Novak leans back in his chair with a skeptical frown. "Time is a luxury I don't have. Every night, the news replays the footage of my officers scooping David Miller’s remains out of a dumpster. We need to end this, and we need to end it now."

"I understand the urgency. Give me a chance to speak with Agent Monroe and figure out what Haldane meant."

"No more murders, Agent Haines."

Darcy nods, though she can’t make promises.

As they leave Novak's office and head for the conference room, Julian stops her. "Novak is out of line. He should put the pressure on Lisa, not you. You're here as a consultant, not a miracle worker, and she’s the agent in charge."

"He’s just doing his job."

“Every time you agree to help the FBI, you’re the one who ends up in the crosshairs.”

“What do you want me to do, Julian? Let the Vestal killer slaughter more victims?”

"You're not responsible for catching this guy, no matter what Novak or Lisa says. Don’t allow them to use you."

"We’d better get to it. Lisa is waiting."

They make their way to the conference room. Lisa looks up as they enter with expectancy in her eyes. "Don’t keep me in the dark. What did Haldane say? Did he give you anything we can use?"

Darcy sits across from Lisa, with Julian settling beside her. She takes a second to organize her thoughts.

"Haldane was cryptic, but I expected as much. He dropped a few breadcrumbs that might lead us in the right direction. But I’m not sure what was fact and what he said to lead me astray."

"Tell me everything. We’ll sort it out together."

“He said the killer came out of the Rust Belt and that he's not a man to cross.”

Lisa scribbles a note. "The Rust Belt; that's a start. We can focus our search on killers with ties to that region and see if anything pops."

“The Rust Belt represents a vast area. If we’re looking for a killer from the art community who came from somewhere between New York, Philadelphia, and Illinois, this guy could be anyone.”

“We have to begin somewhere.”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

The agent sets aside her pen. “Tell me why.”

Darcy looks at Julian for support, but the warden didn’t allow him to attend the interview.

“It’s too . . . straightforward. If I had to guess, Victor Haldane knows the Vestal killer’s location down to his street address. But that’s not information he would give me. He wants me to figure things out for himself. It’s a game to determine who is intellectually superior.”

“What about Haldane saying this killer isn’t a man to cross?” Julian asks. “That seems like more than a warning.”

“It’s more doublespeak.”

“Not a man to cross,” Lisa says, chewing on the words. “Is Haldane saying our unsub is a priest?”

“That’s one possibility, though I doubt he’s clergy. I believe there’s a religious component we haven’t considered. It ties back to how the killer staged David Miller’s murder.”

“Here’s what I found. ‘The Creation of Adam’ depicts the Biblical creation narrative from the Book of Genesis when God breathes life into the first man. It depicts of the relationship between humanity and the divine and symbolizes the moment of creation, when God gave life to Adam, thus marking the beginning of humanity. According to the various texts I queried, the painting captures the human desire for connection with the divine.”

“Exactly,” Darcy says. “When I asked Haldane about the symbolism of the staging, he said something about the mind conceiving, the hand creating, and art transcending boundaries to touch the sublime.”

“And the bit about the mind and the hand, that has to be significant,” Julian says. “Maybe our guy sees himself as a visionary who's pushing the boundaries of what's acceptable.”

“But the clues are hazy,” Lisa says. “Haldane didn’t give you enough to catch the Vestal killer. He’s playing games.”

Julian grunts and looks away. “Why should this surprise you? Victor Haldane won’t solve this investigation for us. He hates you, Darcy. You put him away. This is his way of getting revenge and proving he’s more intelligent.”

“Perhaps not,” Darcy says, drawing their attention. “I planted a seed.”

“What kind of seed?” asks Lisa.

“Our unsub admires Haldane, but wants to surpass him.”

“And Haldane doesn’t like it.”

“Even though he’ll never again see the light of day, he views his legend as eternal. The world will forget him if this continues. Given another chance, I’m sure I can appeal to Haldane’s ego and force him to give me something concrete.”

Julian rubs his eyes. "Why did I know you’d go back? It's a terrible idea, no matter how you spin it."

"If there's a chance Haldane will lead us to the killer, I have to try."

Lisa flips to a blank page in her notebook. "We'll need to approach this carefully. This might be the last time he agrees to help you."

"I can make him feel like he's the only one with the brilliance and insight to catch the Vestal killer."

Lisa taps a pen against her chin. "That could work. Stroke his vanity and make him feel like he's pulling the strings. I'll set up another visit with the prison and see if we can get you in to see Haldane in the next 24 hours. In the meantime, keep brainstorming. There’s more to that cross angle than we’ve discovered."

Darcy stands with Julian beside her. Their unsub isn’t a priest like Lisa proposed. A complex relationship with religion exists, hence the killer choosing “The Creation of Adam” to reveal the latest murder.

Yes, she can convince Haldane that helping her will protect his legacy. But that won’t prevent the madman from ordering her family’s deaths.

31

When the first siren shrieks an hour after midnight, Darcy is fast asleep.

Beside her, Julian stirs. His eyes flutter open in confusion.

"What's happening?" he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

Darcy sits up. “Get dressed.”

The siren could mean anything. A fire, a car accident, a domestic dispute gone wrong. But she knows the truth.

The killer has struck again.

She reaches for her phone and unlocks the screen. A notification tells her she missed a call from Lisa three minutes ago. She presses redial and breathes.

“Darcy,” Lisa says. “I just called you.”

“I didn’t hear the ringer.” She doesn’t tell Lisa that she’d turned off the ringer. "What's happened?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line.

“The police found another body.”

“Where? When?”

“Just now, at an empty warehouse on the south side of the city. It's the same MO, Darcy. The same artistic staging and brutality. Except . . .”

“Except what?”

“It’s better if you see for yourself.”

“Give me the address. We’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

A wave of vertigo makes Darcy sit back as Julian looks at her with concern. She thinks of David Miller and Eleanor Grayson. Is it worse this time?

Shaking off the dizziness, she pushes back the covers and swings her legs over the side of the bed.

"The unsub killed again," she tells Julian. "I hope no one touches the scene before we arrive."

Another murder. And coming so soon after her meeting with Haldane, after the clues and veiled warnings he dropped like breadcrumbs. Haldane knew this would happen.

With each new victim, the Vestal killer grows bolder in his ability to evade capture. The escalation reminds her of eight years ago, when she closed in on Victor Haldane.

She gets dressed in the dark. Beside her, Julian watches without speaking. He didn’t approve of Darcy accepting this investigation, and he’ll stop her from continuing when he realizes how much this case is affecting her.

"You aren’t going anywhere without me," he says, leaving no room for argument.

Darcy has no interest in debating him. She wants him by her side. His steady presence keeps her sane.

"I’m ready when you are."

More sirens wail as they step into the night. Except for two young people returning from a late night in Vestal, the hotel parking lot is empty.

The city roads are a labyrinth in the darkness, twisting and turning with no discernible pattern. Julian concentrates as he tries to make sense of the unfamiliar terrain. Some of the roads lack signs.

"I think we missed the turn," Julian says. He squints through the windshield at a street sign that seems to materialize out of nowhere. "They could do a better job of marking these routes."

"How are we supposed to know where we're going?"

"I'll keep driving until I see something familiar. Or until we run out of gas, whichever comes first."

But as the words leave his mouth, a flash of color catches Darcy's eye. Red and blue lights swirl in the distance.

"There. Follow the lights. That has to be the crime scene."

He steers the car towards the pulsing beacons. As they draw closer, the chaos becomes apparent. Police cars and ambulances line the street.

They cruise toward the perimeter. Their rental rolls to a stop before a sea of uniformed officers and yellow crime scene tape. Darcy reaches for the door handle.

Before she can set foot on the pavement, an officer she doesn’t recognize steps forward raises an authoritative hand.

“This is a crime scene,” the man says. “I can't let you through.”

Darcy searches her pocket for her credentials.

"It's okay, Officer," Lisa says, rushing over. "They're with me."

The officer hesitates. He looks from Lisa to Darcy with uncertainty. Julian raises his palms, as if to ask what more the officer needs.

With Lisa leading the way, they duck under the crime scene tape and hurry toward the warehouse. The building is a monolith of rusted metal and brick. The windows, long since shattered, gape like hollow eye sockets. Graffiti scrawls across the walls in a jumble of colors and shapes that writhe in the flashing lights of the police strobes.

A cloying miasma of decay seeps from the building’s pores. It's a stench that speaks of neglect, abandonment, and unspeakable deeds committed where no one dares to enter.

Darcy scratches at the unseen bugs squirming over her skin. Something about this place feels wrong on a primal level. Inside, officers swarm over the space. She sees bloodless faces in the illumination cast by the portable floodlights. Some move with purpose, their eyes scanning the room for any hint of evidence or clues.

She catches snippets of conversation.

"I've never seen anything like it. It's like something out of a nightmare."

Lisa pushes forward. They pass down a corridor with refuse and broken bottles strewn across the floor. As they round a corner and emerge into a cavernous central space, Darcy’s breath rushes from her lungs.

In a blasphemous twist of the crucifixion, a man's body hangs from a canvas. His arms stretch out to the side, and broken paintbrushes impale his palms. Flayed skin hangs from the frame in a curtain, revealing the muscles beneath. A crown of thorns, woven from barbed wire and razor blades, presses into his scalp.

"Judge not, lest ye be judged," Lisa says, reading the inscription carved into the victim’s forehead. “You were right about the religious angle.”

Darcy staggers back, and her hand flies to her mouth. She's seen horrors before, but this is a deeper level of hell.

Julian’s face is a mask of shock and revulsion. "Dear God. Darcy, maybe you should⁠—"

“I’m okay,” Darcy says. “Give me a second to process.”

Up close, the details are more terrifying. The paintbrushes that pierce the man's hands appear expensive, the kind used by professional artists. They can’t be strong enough to pin a human body in place. Darcy rounds the corpse and notices metal spikes driven through flesh and bone.

“That’s not a store-bought canvas,” Darcy says. “It’s hand-stretched and primed.”

“Do we know who this guy is?”

Lisa’s voice cracks. "Jameson Sinclair. He's an art critic and works for the local paper. The police found his wallet on the far side of the room."

“Someone passed judgment on the unsub’s work.”

Darcy agrees. She thinks back to her conversation with Haldane about the killer's obsession with art and transcendence.

She turns to Lisa and Julian. "Haldane said the killer came out of the Rust Belt and that he's not a man to cross. Now we have a crucified victim."

Lisa tilts her head toward an advancing figure. “Detective Müller is here.”

“Do we have security footage from the area?” Darcy asks the detective.

Müller shakes his head, his expression bleak. "This warehouse has been abandoned for over a decade. No cameras, no witnesses, nothing."

“What about traffic cams?” Lisa asks.

“The closest is on Wine Street. That’s two miles away.”

“So we have nothing?”

“Afraid so, but this place attracts its share of vagrants. There’s a chance someone saw this guy.”

As the detective moves off to coordinate with his officers, Darcy forces herself to study the body.

“Everything points at the unsub being an accomplished artist, not just a member of the art community,” Darcy says.

Lisa shines a flashlight over the wounds. “Our vic critiqued Vestal and Chicago artists. All we need to do is find out who he lambasted. That will narrow the search.”

“Makes sense. When we find a panned artist from the Rust Belt, we’ll have our killer.”

32

The forensics lab on the border of Vestal and Chicago is small—eight workstations cramped together and separated by plexiglass barriers. The investigators wear lab coats, goggles, and gloves. Restricted access protects the chain of custody and prevents contamination.

Each station caters to a specialty. On the far left, the largest area contains fume hoods and centrifuges for analyzing drugs and poisons. Along the opposite wall, DNA sequencers analyze genetic material, while computers run a ballistic analysis on shell casings. Databases store fingerprints, tool marks, and known substance profiles for comparison.

Beside the sequencers, the microscopy section holds microscopes for examining hair, fibers, and gunshot residue. It is here that Darcy works alongside a mousy, thirty-something man with thick glasses and a clean-shaven face. Like the other professionals, she wears protective gear. Lisa and Julian wait outside.

As Darcy examines the canvas under a microscope, the forensic technician beside her, whose name badge reads Wallace, swabs the paintbrushes for traces of biological evidence.

"Find anything interesting?" Wallace asks, attentive to his own work.

Darcy adjusts the focus on the microscope. "The canvas is high-quality, definitely professional-grade. And the priming isn’t your typical gesso. Looks like a custom blend with some kind of unusual additive."

Wallace transfers the swab to a labeled tube. "I'll run this through the DNA sequencer and search for genetic markers. With any luck, our killer left a little piece of himself behind."

Darcy straightens and stretches her back. "What about the paintbrushes? Any prints or distinguishing marks?"

"Nothing so far. Whoever this guy is, he's careful. He probably wore gloves."

"We should run them for trace evidence. Maybe there's a unique paint or pigment that we can trace to a brand or supplier."

Wallace makes a note on his clipboard. "Good thinking. I'll get that started right away."

As they work, Darcy steals a look out the window. Lisa paces in the waiting area with a phone pressed to her ear. Julian leans against the wall with folded arms.

The task reminds Darcy of why she once enjoyed working with the FBI. She still loves the chase, the mystery. In the sterile confines of the lab, it’s easy to focus on the hunt and forget about the waiting horror.

With a triumphant grin on his face, Wallace pumps a fist into the air. "I think I found something."

Darcy joins him at the computer. On the screen, a complex readout of chemical compounds and spectral analysis scrolls by, the data dense and incomprehensible to the untrained eye.

Wallace points to the first line. "You see that? That's a unique chemical signature, a blend of pigments and binders that I've never seen before. And it's present on all the paintbrushes in trace amounts."

"So our killer is using a custom paint blend, something he mixed up himself?"

Wallace’s grin widens. "You bet. If we identify the specific components, we can trace them to a manufacturer. It's a long shot, but it's something."

Darcy feels a flicker of hope, a tiny spark of light in the darkness that has consumed her thoughts for so long. It's not much, but they’re closing in on their unsub.

“Great work, Wallace. Seriously, this is huge. I'll let Agent Monroe know.”

“In the meantime, I’ll keep poring over the canvas and brushes. If it takes all week, I’ll identify this sucker.”

When Darcy exits the lab area, Lisa strides over to her.

“Anything?” the agent asks.

“Maybe. The Vestal killer uses a custom blend of pigments and binders.”

“Come again?”

“In the paint.”

“In other words, this isn’t something he picked up at The Home Depot.”

“Not a chance,” Darcy says.

“Can we identify the blend and find out where it came from and who purchased it?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

Excitement shoots through Darcy’s body. From the other side of the room, Julian holds her eyes and gives her an approving smile. He understands why the work drives her. It’s the same reason he became a police detective.

He pushes away from the wall and joins them. “You’re so close to catching this guy. What’s next?”

“The religious angle bothers me,” Lisa says. “The way the body was posed, the crown of thorns, and the inscription on the forehead were laden with symbolism.”

"He’s sending a message about faith and judgment," Julian says.

"What if we cross-reference artists who use dark and controversial themes with members of the religious community? Our killer has a connection to both worlds; a foot in each camp, so to speak."

"It's worth a shot. You can pull records from local churches and see if anyone has a background in the arts."

Darcy looks past the window and into the lab, where Wallace hunches over the canvas. "I’m not sure. The Vestal Killer staged the victim in a sacrilegious manner. This feels more like a rejection of religion than an embrace. Our unsub has a deep-seated disdain for faith, rather than a genuine connection to spirituality."

Julian stuffs his hands into his pockets. "I can’t argue with that."

“The iconography of the crucifixion and the mocking tone of the inscription don’t point to someone who reveres religion. Someone forced faith upon our killer and used it as a weapon.”

“Like a strict and abusive religious upbringing,” Lisa says. “That would leave deep scars, both emotional and psychological.”

“He’s shaped by the cruelties of the world, by betrayals and abuses. This man wears his scars on the inside, where no one can see them. But I see them, Darcy. I recognize the marks of a shared history, a shared pain. And I have a feeling, so do you.”

Haldane’s words rush back to Darcy. She thought she understood them, but now they take on a new context. Haldane knew about the Vestal Killer’s upbringing.

“A conflicted relationship with faith is a driving force behind his actions,” Darcy says. “He’s lashing out against the thing that caused him pain and suffering.”

"So instead of looking for someone with ties to both the art world and the religious community, we should search for someone with a history of religious trauma?"

"It's a theory; nothing more. But it fits with what we know about our killer's psychological profile—the grandiosity, the need for attention and validation, the complicated relationship with faith and morality. It points to a damaged individual."

“It's a good angle, Darcy,” Lisa says. “This is why I brought you in. Your theory explains why he wants to subvert and mock religious iconography. I'll get the Chicago office on it right away. They can track down our custom paint blend. If there's a trail to follow, they'll find it.”

"Julian and I will concentrate on Jameson Sinclair's critiques in the newspaper. Our victim may have crossed paths with the killer before. More likely, Sinclair panned his work."

Julian nods. “Considering what the killer did to Sinclair, the review must have been scathing.”

“It fits with the killer's psyche. He's an artist, or at least sees himself as one. I guarantee he’s sensitive to criticism, especially when it comes from someone as influential as Sinclair.”

Darcy is closing in on the suspect, but it might be better if she was on the street and not investigating inside a lab. It’s a risk. Plunging deeper into the case might bring her face to face with sharks in the shallows. Not to mention that Julian will fight against her decision.

“Julian and I will head to The Vestal Chronicle headquarters,” Darcy says. “Contact me as soon as you get a hit on the paint blend.”

33

Before the lunch hour ends, Maxwell Sterling drips with perspiration. The dumbbells lie conquered, and the residuals of smoke float through the studio. He burned Sinclair’s article, like he should have torched the blasphemer’s body.

Though he has little energy remaining, he feels restless. Too many problems on his mind. Too many memories that refuse to die. This is not the time to think about Sandra, but he can’t help himself.

Picking up a dumbbell, he curls the weight until his bicep screams. On the television, a police chief named Novak speaks into the camera and begs for information about the Grayson, Miller, and Sinclair murders.

The officers know the killer is an artist. But that’s the only thing they’ve learned. Otherwise, they would have pounded on his door by now.

There was a woman standing behind Novak. She wore the cheap slacks and jacket of an underpaid FBI agent. At no point did she approach the microphone and speak. Perhaps the police don’t want Maxwell to find out the FBI is in Vestal.

Pausing the playback, he carries the weight to the screen and squints. Her badge reads Monroe. She is a brittle thing. Her body will crack like an eggshell.

Maxwell reaches for the remote. A press of a button, and Chief Novak's voice fills the room.

"We are pursuing several leads in connection with the recent string of murders in the Vestal area. While we cannot disclose specific details of the ongoing investigation, we want to assure the public that we are doing everything in our power to bring the perpetrator to justice."

Novak scans the crowd of reporters before him. Behind the chief, Agent Monroe stands rigid. Maxwell leans in closer and studies her face.

"We are asking anyone with information about these crimes to come forward," Novak continues. "No detail is too small. If you see or hear anything suspicious, please contact the Vestal Police Department immediately."

The desperation in Novak's voice proves the police are grasping at straws. Maxwell has created something extraordinary, something that will live on long after he is gone. By the time he completes his work, they might even forget Haldane’s name.

Yet when he pictures Sandra, she turns to him with trusting eyes. She saw the beauty in him.

Is there another road to take? Can she show him the way?

You’re nothing.

The voice makes him flinch. He raises the dumbbell to hurl at the screen and stops.

No.

Gain control.

He shifts the weight to his other hand and pumps until his muscles go numb. Sweat covers his body.

Today, he will take Sandra where Chloe dared not go. She will see what he is becoming. Together, nothing will stand in their way.

You’re a fool, boy. She’ll leave you alone, just like they all abandoned you.

“Sandra will never leave me!” he shouts at the ceiling. “You’ll see.”

Standing in front of the mirror, Sandra assesses her figure. The weather is too chilly for the summer dress. Besides, it doesn’t feel right.

She returns to the closet. She wants to look good for Maxwell and show him she’s ready to move their relationship forward. But she also wants to feel comfortable.

After a few moments of deliberation, she settles on a pair of black fitted jeans and a cream-colored sweater. The outfit is cute but conservative, highlighting her curves without revealing too much. She pairs it with ankle boots and a silver necklace, a birthday gift from her mother.

As she looks at herself in the mirror, she feels a flutter in her stomach. Today's visit to Maxwell's studio seems important. A turning point. She senses that he's gone through difficult times, though he hasn’t opened up. Maybe he will today.

His creativity and passion draws her like a moth to a flame. She will not model for anyone but Maxwell. He is the only artist who treats her with respect.

As she grabs her purse and heads for the door, she smooths an invisible wrinkle in her jeans. The butterflies in her stomach remind her of the first time she asked a boy on a date during middle school.

“Stop acting like a foolish schoolgirl,” she tells herself before exiting the building.

She scurries to the waiting rideshare vehicle as rain pelts the street. A brief trip across the city leaves her outside Maxwell’s studio.

This is it.

Is she making a mistake by pushing things too quickly?

He opens the door before Sandra knocks. There’s an ashy scent coming from inside. His face breaks into a rare smile.

"Sandra, I'm so glad you could make it. Please, come in."

He steps aside and ushers her into the studio. As she takes in the organized chaos of the room—stacks of half-finished paintings, jars of brushes and palette knives, splatters of color that adorn every surface—she feels a sense of awe. This man never stops creating.

“I made reservations at Talley’s,” he says. “Is that to your liking?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“First, I want to show you around. I’ve completed three paintings since our last session. Interested?”

“Very much.”

He leads her to a private alcove at the back of the studio. It’s an intimate and secluded space with no distracting views of the outside world.

"This is what I've been working on. By this time next week, it will hang in the Steinem Gallery."

The canvas explodes with a vortex of color. Deep blues and fiery oranges pull her in. Streaks of silver and gold weave through the composition, like lightning dancing on a churning horizon. From the vortex, a single figure emerges. It's a woman, her form rendered in stark black and white, her features obscured by a cascade of dark hair.

"It's powerful," Sandra breathes.

His painting resonates on a deep level and stirs her emotions. The raw energy frightens and exhilarates her.

"This is you, Sandra," Maxwell says. "Or at least, a part of you. Your strength and passion."

Sandra's breath catches. She feels exposed, as if Maxwell ripped open her soul and laid it bare.

“Why me?”

“Who better to inspire me?”

“It's incredible. That’s really me? I can’t believe you made this.”

Whatever tightness his posture held falls away.

“I knew you’d like it,” he says.

“Like it? I love it.”

He takes her hand and leads her to another painting.

"There is one more piece I wish to show you. This one is special to me. It isn’t ready for the world, just for you."

Sandra follows. But when he pulls back the curtain, she stops breathing.

This painting is nothing like the other.

The canvas is a nightmarish vision of agony and despair, a twisted landscape of tortured flesh and shattered bones. At the center of the piece is a woman contorted in a rictus of pain. The brushstrokes are violent and jagged.

Sandra steps away. She can feel the hatred emanating from the canvas.

"Maxwell, what is this?"

His eyes fix on the painting. "It's a reflection of the world. Pain and cruelty are the only constants. The strong prey on the weak, and the innocent suffer for the sins of the guilty. You understand, don’t you?"

Sandra shakes her head. "But this is so unlike the first painting you showed me. Where is the hope?"

"Because that's not reality, Sandra. That's a lie that we tell ourselves to make the ugliness of the world more bearable. I refuse to repeat that lie."

Sandra feels as if a fist struck her belly. She recalls Chloe's warning about Maxwell and his art.

“You’re unhappy with me,” he says.

She flinches. “No. I’m just confused.”

"Perhaps we should cancel our dinner plans."

Yes, that is exactly what they should do. Except she can’t leave him like this.

“Don’t cancel. We’ll discuss the painting over dinner. Perhaps if I see it in a different light⁠—”

“That will not suffice. I think you should go, Sandra.”

“Maxwell, please. Let’s talk this out.”

“I was wrong. You will never be ready.”

34

While Darcy reviews her notes about Jameson Sinclair, Julian pays the parking attendant and tips him five dollars. They walk from the parking garage to the front doors of The Vestal Chronicle. Framed front pages, each one a testament to the paper's long and storied history of hard-hitting journalism, hang from the walls.

At the front desk, a receptionist fields calls and queries. Her eyes jump from the blinking lights on her phone console to the two visitors awaiting her attention.

She hangs up the phone and glares at Darcy. “Yes?”

Removing her badge and ID, Darcy asks to speak with the editor-in-chief, a man named Dylan Munoz. After what feels like an eternity, a wiry man with a shock of white hair emerges from a glass-walled office at the far end of the newsroom. His lips pull into a thin line of annoyance.

Munoz extends a hand towards Darcy. "I understand you're here about Jameson Sinclair?"

"Yes, sir. I'm Darcy Haines with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and this is Detective Julian Haines. We're investigating the murder of Mr. Sinclair, and we were hoping to speak with your staff. I want to get a better sense of who Sinclair was and who wanted to harm him."

Munoz's eyes narrow on the ID badge. "You're not a full-time agent. What's your role in this investigation?"

The man's condescending tone annoys Darcy, but she keeps her cool.

"That’s correct. I'm a consultant with experience in criminal profiling and behavioral analysis. The FBI brought me in to assist with this case."

"A consultant? I'm sorry, but I don't feel comfortable having my staff questioned by someone who's not even an official member of law enforcement. If you want access to my people, you'll need to go through your superiors and get proper authorization."

Julian opens his mouth to protest, but Darcy places a hand on his arm.

"Mr. Munoz, I understand your concern, and I respect your position as editor-in-chief. But I also know that you want justice for Jameson Sinclair."

Conflicted emotions pass across Munoz’s face. "Damn right, I do. Jameson was one of our own, a fine critic and a good man. But you’re asking to grill my people without a warrant."

“Do you really want us to produce a warrant, Mr. Munoz?” Julian asks. “We’re not here to uncover a scandal. The articles we’re requesting are available online.”

"Allow us to help you," Darcy says. "Speaking to your staff and gathering Sinclair’s articles will help us build a profile of the killer. I give you my word that we will handle this investigation with professionalism and discretion. We're won’t disrupt your newsroom or cause undue stress for your staff. We understand emotions are raw right now. Everyone is dealing with the murder in their own way. But we can’t identify the killer without your help."

For a long time, Munoz searches Darcy's face. “You won me over, Agent Haines. You may talk to my people and gather whatever information you need. But keep me in the loop. If I get a whiff of impropriety or unprofessionalism, I'll have you both kicked out of here faster than you can say 'stop the presses.'”

The grin in Munoz’s eyes tells Darcy he’s bluffing.

"Understood, Mr. Munoz. Thank you for your cooperation."

Darcy and Julian exchange relieved glances. On the second floor, they locate Sinclair’s assistant hunched over a desk.

"Wallace Barry?" Darcy asks.

"Yes, that's me. How did you get up here?"

“Don’t worry. Mr. Munoz gave us permission to speak to you. I’m Agent Darcy Haines with the FBI, and this Detective Julian Haines. We're investigating the murder of Jameson Sinclair, and we were hoping you could answer a few questions for us.”

"Jameson was a mentor to me. Maybe even a friend, as much as anyone like Jameson can be a friend. I still can't believe he's gone."

“What do you mean?” Julian asks.

Wallace shrugs. “He could be aloof.” A pause. “All right, he was damn aloof all the time. But you got used to it. That’s who he was.”

“We understand how difficult this must be for you,” Darcy says. “Can you tell us about the last time you saw Jameson? Any details you can remember could be invaluable to our investigation.”

"It was the night before . . . before you found him. We were working late and trying to finish up some reviews for the weekend edition. Jameson was in a rush. He had a dinner reservation he couldn't miss."

"Did he mention who he was meeting?" asks Julian.

“For dinner? Probably no one. Jameson preferred to eat alone. We planned to attend a gallery opening next week. Some new artist I turned him on to. This guy could be the next big thing. The gallery owner pushed me to get Jameson there.”

Darcy slides into a chair across from Wallace’s desk. "Do you remember the name of the gallery owner?"

"The place is called Ornstein Fine Art, I think. Her first name is Jaycee."

Julian makes a note on his pad. "Jaycee Ornstein, the gallery owner?"

"That's the one. Jameson said she had an eye for talent."

A quick internet search brings up Ornstein’s picture. Darcy knows the 68-year-old gallery owner isn’t their killer. "Tell me, Wallace, what was it like working with Jameson Sinclair? He had quite a reputation as a critic, from what I understand."

"Jameson was absolutely brilliant. He had a way of seeing art and understanding it on a level that most people can't imagine. And he was never afraid to speak his mind or call out the posers and the hacks who were just in it for the money."

“Sounds like he made a few enemies,” Julian says.

"Enemies?" Wallace chuckles, but there's no humor in the sound. "That's putting it mildly. Jameson didn't pan artists; he eviscerated them. He could be brutal, sometimes crossing the line into personal attacks when he didn't respect someone's work."

"How personal are we talking?"

Wallace hesitates, as if weighing his words. "He didn't shy away from commenting on an artist's background, their lifestyle, even their mental state. He believed everything was fair game."

Julian folds his arms. "Sounds like he tore down anyone he didn't deem worthy."

"In a way, yeah. Jameson had high standards, impossibly high. And if you didn't meet them, he made sure the universe knew about it."

After the interview, Darcy and Julian find a room with computer access to the paper's digital archives.

“Concentrate on Jameson Sinclair,” Darcy says. “I’ll start on his articles.”

It doesn’t take long before Julian’s eyebrows shoot up. "Well, well, well. Looks like our esteemed critic wasn't always on the other side of the easel."

"Come again?"

Julian taps the screen, pointing to a line of text. "Says here that Sinclair went to school for art and design. He was a painter, or at least he tried to be. It seems he washed out and couldn't make it as an artist, so he tore down others instead."

A failed artist turned critic, a man with a grudge against the community he once aspired to join.

“It's a textbook case of bitterness fueling one’s sense of purpose. Compile a list of every artist Sinclair panned. It's going to take time, but he attacked our killer.”

"No offense, Darcy. But there are eleven years' worth of articles here. That's a hell of a lot of ground to cover."

"Start with the most recent articles and work your way back. Focus on the last three months. I doubt our unsub waited eleven years to murder Sinclair."

35

“It will produce thorns and thistles for you, and you will eat the plants of the field.”

Maxwell gasps and throws off the covers. The voice reverberates through his apartment. In the dream, his father handed him an apple while clutching the belt in his free hand. And Sandra lay at Maxwell’s feet, her spine snapped and blood pouring from her eye sockets.

Night waits outside the windows as he stumbles into the kitchen. Bare feet slap against the tile. He fumbles for the wall switch and squints when the light blinds him. The clock on the microwave reads 3:47 A.M.

He reaches for a glass with clumsy and uncoordinated fingers. It slips from his grasp and shatters on the floor in a spray of jagged shards. Maxwell stares at the mess, reeling with the afterimages of the nightmare.

Sandra, broken and bleeding. His father, standing over him with a sanctimonious smile. The apple, glistening like a freshly extracted heart.

"As you have done, it will be done to you; your deeds will return upon your own head."

The voice booms in his mind. Maxwell clears the cobwebs from his head.

No, not Sandra. She isn’t like the others. In time, he can help her understand. It doesn’t have to be this way.

He grabs a broom and sweeps up the glass. Fragments crunch beneath his feet and bite into his skin with teeth. He welcomes the hurt. With pain comes clarity.

As he dumps the mess into the trash, his eyes fall on a knife block on the counter. The blades gleam with edges honed to a razor's sharpness.

“That’s it, boy. Pick it up. Stick it into your belly and end it all.”

“Leave me alone,” Maxwell says.

"The soul who sins is the one who will die. The son will not share the guilt of the father, nor will the father share the guilt of the son."

His father’s voice is a swarm of angry bees, buzzing and stinging and drowning out all other thoughts. Maxwell grips the edge of the counter to stay upright. He closes his eyes and pictures Sandra's face.

“There is another way.”

Yet all he sees is blood; all he hears is screaming.

He yanks open the refrigerator with a violence that sends bottles and jars clattering to the floor. He grabs a jug of milk and gulps it down. The liquid is bitter on his tongue. Around him, the world blurs at the edges.

Maxwell slumps to the floor and rests his back against the cool metal of the fridge. He runs a hand over the rasp of stubble covering his face.

Sandra. She is his only chance at salvation. He can’t let his father's venom infect the one pure thing in his life.

Maxwell pictures the painting that disturbed her. Why can’t she see the beauty vengeance brings?

He must make her understand.

At seven in the morning, Darcy sets her bag on a table inside the hotel’s buffet and roots around for her wallet. Though Julian complains of a stomachache, he bites into a banana and sips a cup of tea.

Her fingers close around the wallet, but her mind is miles away and trapped in the fragmented images of restless dreams. She slides into a chair and waits for Julian to finish.

"You okay?" Julian asks. "You look like you barely slept."

"Had a nightmare."

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

She remembers a young boy and a monstrous figure with a belt clutched in one hand. And everywhere, the stench of fear and desperation. The boy was cowering in the corner and begging for mercy. And the father kept quoting scripture.

Whoever spares the rod hates their children, but the one who loves their children is careful to discipline them.

Darcy remembers the verse from her dream. A father who sees abuse as love and wields the Bible like a weapon to justify his sadistic urges could drive a child to grow into a killer.

“Maybe you should rest this morning,” Julian says. “The investigation will still be there when you wake up.”

“That’s impossible, and you know it. Where are we on the list of artists Jameson Sinclair skewered?”

He sets down the cup and smacks his lips. “I narrowed it down to a dozen suspects.”

“Still that many?”

“Sinclair hated everyone.”

When Julian passes an apple across the table, Darcy’s hand freezes over the fruit.

“Julian, I dreamed about our unsub, about the childhood trauma that shaped him into a murderer.”

“You’re scaring me, Darcy. I don’t like it when you crawl inside a monster’s head. One of these days, I’m afraid you won’t come out.”

“Give me that list. Our killer is on there. All I have to do is link him to Haldane.”

Without taking his eyes off of her, he opens a briefcase and removes two sheets of paper.

“If I were you, I’d give these names to Lisa. It’s her job to take the next step.”

When Darcy reaches for the list, a call arrives. It's Federica Caruso from the animal shelter where David Miller volunteered.

"Agent Haines," Federica says. “You told me to call if I found Simba’s leash.”

Darcy snaps her fingers to grab Julian’s attention. “Did the leash turn up?”

“One of our maintenance workers discovered the leash in the garbage, a black one with no tags. It’s the leash Simba was wearing when we found him.”

"Don't touch anything."

“It’s a little late for that.”

“Understood, but leave it until I get there. I'm on my way. And Federica? Thank you.”

“The animal shelter called?” Julian asks.

"They found the leash. We need to get over there."

"I'm calling Lisa. She needs to meet us there and take it to forensics."

When they arrive at the shelter, Lisa is waiting for them.

"This better be good, Darcy," Lisa says, her arms crossed over her chest. "Deputy Director Carter wants results. I don't have time to chase down every loose end. Why not concentrate on the list of artists or speak to Haldane again?"

Darcy ignores the jibe. She leads them inside, where Federica holds a plastic bag clutched in her hand.

"It's in here," Federica says. "I didn't touch it, just like you said."

“You did well,” says Darcy.

A question remains on Federica’s face as Darcy takes the bag. Outside, she peeks inside. The leash is a simple thing—black nylon with a silver clasp. And it will lead her to the unsub.

Darcy hands the evidence to Lisa. “Simba appeared the same night as our killer murdered David Miller.”

Lisa takes the bag with a dubious expression. "It's a leash, Darcy. There's no way to say it has anything to do with Miller's murder."

“Get it to forensics. The killer touched the leash. I’ll stake my reputation on it.”

"Fine. I'll have the lab test the leash for trace evidence and DNA. But Darcy? Don't get your hopes up."

Julian whirls on the agent. “You know something, Lisa? I’m getting sick of this.”

“What’s your problem, Detective?”

“You’re using Darcy to catch a killer and don’t care how the investigation affects her. And when she finds a crucial piece of evidence, all you do is criticize her efforts.”

“You’re out of line.”

“Stop it, both of you.” Darcy says, causing both of them to stare with arguments dangling from the tips of their tongues. “This is the path we need to follow. Get me a fingerprint, Lisa.”

36

Sandra stares at the mug’s bottom through the chamomile tea. Light fades outside the apartment after another in a string of sunless days.

The delicate pattern on the mug's ceramic surface reminds her of a piece she encountered at the gallery with Maxwell. The tea has long since gone cold, and she hardly notices.

The image of Maxwell's painting is forever burned into her retinas. The tortured expressions offer a window into his soul. What drove him to hold such contempt for society?

Chloe had told her to stay away from Maxwell and quit modeling for him. At the time, Sandra dismissed her friend’s concerns as overprotective and paranoid. Was she right?

Maxwell is a troubled person; that much is clear. But is he dangerous? Doubtful.

Someone hurt him, and she shouldn’t blame him for his faults. She cares for him. People change all the time. Beneath the layers of pain and anger, there is a good man who needs someone to believe in him.

She reaches for the phone and debates calling him. Is he still angry over her reaction to the painting? Time heals all wounds. Maybe if she sees the art in a different light . . .

Relationships require courage, vulnerability, and a willingness to take risks.

Sandra sets the phone on the counter. Not yet. She needs to gather her thoughts and find the words to bridge the gap between them.

Her joints are stiff from sitting as she rises from the kitchen table. As she stretches, a creak echoes through the apartment, like the groan of settling floorboards. The building is old and prone to noises. Yet the noise raises the hair on the back of her neck.

When the sound doesn’t repeat, she pads into the living room. Bare feet sink into the carpet. She picks up a book from the coffee table, one of the art history tomes Maxwell recommended to her. As she flips through the pages, her mind only half on the words, another sound catches her attention.

A soft scrape, like something being dragged across the floor.

The sound came from outside the door in the apartment’s hallway. Pressing her eye to the peephole, she scans the corridor. No one is outside. It was probably a neighbor returning home. Mrs. Donovan across the hall has a habit of rearranging furniture at odd hours.

Sandra settles onto the couch and tucks her feet beneath her. Her mind keeps wandering back to Maxwell. It’s too soon to smooth things over. Maybe she needs a sounding board to help her sort through her emotions.

Chloe. If anyone can offer guidance and perspective, it's her.

A knock at the door makes Sandra jump.

She rises from the couch with her eyes fixed on the door. She isn't expecting anyone, and the building's security is tight.

Another knock, more insistent this time. With the phone in hand, she presses an eye to the peephole, prepared to dial 911.

Good God.

Maxwell stands in the corridor. Drenched from head to toe, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, he looks as if someone dragged him from a river.

Emotions swirl through her. Surprise, confusion, and something close to hope.

She opens the door.

"Maxwell, what happened to you?"

He gives her a sheepish smile, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his soaked jacket. “I'm sorry to just show up like this, especially considering the way I left things. But I fear I had no choice.”

“Are you ill?”

He chuckles. “By all rights, I should be. My car broke down about a mile down the road, and your place was closer than mine. I got caught in the downpour.”

“Why didn’t you call? I would have picked you up.” She steps aside and gives him room. “Come in. You must be freezing. Let me get you a towel.”

As he enters the apartment, dripping onto the hardwood, Sandra rushes to the linen closet.

“I’ll stand on the mat so I don’t drip all over your floor,” he calls from the entryway.

“Don’t worry. That’s what mops are for.”

She checks the bedroom dresser and removes a pair of sweatpants. They aren’t long enough to fit him, but they’ll have to do.

When she returns, Maxwell is standing on the mat and dripping from head to toe. She hands him the towel and the clothes, her fingers brushing his as he takes them.

"Thank you," he says.

His eyes lock with hers, and she remembers how close they’d become before he showed her his artwork. That damn painting. Everything was perfect until then.

He dries himself off until his clothes stop shedding water.

“Why don't you change in the bathroom?” she asks. “I'll call a tow truck for your car. Where did you break down?”

“At the corner of 8th and Vine, but hold off on the call. I want to warm up before I head out into the elements again.”

Sandra sets her hands on her hips. “Maxwell, I’ll drive you back to your car. Don’t think I’ll make you walk.”

“If it’s all the same, I’d still prefer to wait a while. I can’t stop shivering.”

“Then I’ll make a hot drink. Chamomile tea? I started a pot before you showed up.”

“Sounds perfect. You’re too kind.”

As he disappears into the bathroom, she takes a shaky breath. He came to her. Out of all the places he could have gone, he chose her apartment.

In the kitchen, Sandra places the teapot on the stove.

"Do you take sugar or honey in your tea?"

Maxwell's voice carries from the bathroom. “Just honey, if you have it. Two spoonfuls, please. Have you read the latest research on sugar consumption?”

“Cardiovascular issues, right?”

“And cognitive decline, as well as an increased risk of dementia. Insulin resistance impacts brain function and contributes to neurodegenerative diseases.”

“You’re well read, Maxwell. I appreciate the tip.”

Sandra smiles to herself. The dialogue feels normal, so unlike their discussion about his art.

“It pays to stay up to date.”

“Medical research changes so fast. Sometimes I feel like everything is bad for you.”

Laughter.

“Nutrition, as it is with art. There is always a critic.”

It’s true. For every doctor who encourages her to exercise, there is one who warns that jogging, aerobics, or pilates are bad for her.

"The tea is ready when you are," she says, reaching into the cupboard for the honey. "I think I have leftover pasta in the fridge. Want me to heat it up for you?"

No reply. Just the hiss of steam from the kettle and the distant drip from the bathroom faucet.

“Maxwell?”

She stirs the tea. Before she finishes, a shadow from behind her darkens the countertop.

A hand clamps over her mouth and nose. She gags as he presses a cloth against her face. The sickly sweet smell of chemicals fills her nostrils.

She claws at the hand that holds her, but her muscles fail.

"Shh, it's all right," he whispers. "Don't fight it, Sandra. Just breathe. Breathe and let go. You will understand."

Tears leak from the corners of her eyes as she thrashes. Panic over his betrayal surges through her mind.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry it has to be this way. We’ll create something beautiful together. A masterpiece that will live forever. You will not be forgotten."

The darkness takes Sandra. Deep and cold and forever.

37

Chloe Rowan feels the bedroom rumble when the train rolls by. The lights of Vestal spark in the dark. In the corner, a picture frame tumbles off the stand and lands face down with a crack.

She is too restless to sleep. Rolling a cramp out of her neck, she bends to retrieve the fallen photograph and draws a breath.

The picture shows Chloe and Sandra, and the break in the glass rips through her friend’s face. It’s an inanimate object. She knows this. Yet the shattered frame makes her think of Sandra modeling for Maxwell Sterling and that hateful art he creates.

She never trusted Maxwell, but he seemed harmless. Until he unveiled his version of a masterpiece. When her eyes first landed on the monstrosity, she couldn’t help but remember Victor Haldane’s depraved paintings. Not that Maxwell is a mass murderer. She worked with him for five years and would know. Wouldn’t she?

Chloe examines the jagged line bisecting Sandra's visage. The poor girl hangs on Maxwell’s every word. She's so eager to be his muse and inspiration.

It's not healthy; Chloe knows that. She's seen it before, the way men twist a woman's mind and make her believe that she's nothing without him.

But with Maxwell, it's different. A shadow lurks behind his eyes.

“I need to move,” she says as the next train rattles the windows.

She cleans the mess and tells herself she's being paranoid. Maxwell is an artist. A little eccentric, but harmless. He would never hurt Sandra.

But the unspoken fear that something is wrong won't leave her.

Chloe scrolls through her contacts until she finds Sandra's number. She hits the call button and waits.

One ring. Two. Three. Four.

"Hi, you've reached Sandra. I’m doing something amazing and exciting. If you leave a message, I’ll tell you all about it."

Chloe frowns. Sandra wouldn’t go to sleep so early, and it's not like her friend to let a call go to voicemail.

She tries again.

“Come on, Sandra. Pick up.”

Still no answer.

Another train shrieks during its approach. Chloe pulls on jeans and a sweater, then untangles her hair with her fingers.

Grabbing the keys, she races out the door, forgetting to lock it. Sodden streets glow beyond the wipers. She runs a red light and checks the mirror. No cops. Right now, she could use one.

“Stop it,” she says to herself. Why should she believe Sandra got herself into trouble?

Sandra’s apartment waits at the end of a long strip. When she reaches the building, Chloe barely remembers to put the car in park before leaping out. A light shines from Sandra’s window.

She takes the stairs two at a time and pounds on the door. An older woman from across the hall pokes her head into the corridor, then retreats into her apartment.

"Sandra? It’s me, Chloe."

No answer. Just the hollow echo of her own desperation.

She digs through her purse and searches for the spare key Sandra gave her months ago. She finds it beneath a pack of gum.

The lock clicks open. Chloe steps inside and stares at the black outline on the mat. A drying puddle.

“Sandra?”

A clock ticks. The apartment looks the same as it did the last time Chloe visited.

Crossing the floor, she enters the kitchen and finds a half-consumed pot of tea on the stove. Still warm.

Yet she has no proof that anything is wrong.

Until her gaze lands on Sandra’s keys. They dangle from a hook. Sandra makes foolhardy decisions, but she wouldn’t walk across Vestal in a downpour.

Chloe dials the police.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"My friend is missing. I'm at her apartment, and she's not here."

She's rambling.

"Okay, slow down. Take a breath for me. What's your name?"

"Chloe Rowan."

"Chloe, what's your friend's name?"

"Sandra. Sandra Finlay."

"Can you tell me why you believe Sandra is missing?"

Chloe runs a hand through her hair. "I tried to call Sandra, but she's not answering. That's not like her. And when I got to her place, the light was on, and she's not here. Her keys are still on the hook, and there's a puddle on the floor, like someone came in from the rain and didn't bother to dry off."

"When was the last time you spoke to your friend?"

Chloe's stomach twists. "Two days ago. We went shopping, but I haven't talked to her since."

"Do you have any reason to believe she might be in danger? Has she mentioned feeling threatened or unsafe recently?"

Maxwell’s painting flashes in Chloe’s mind.

“I’m not sure.”

“Chloe, unless you give me more information, I can’t report your friend missing.”

“24 hours, right? That’s too long to wait.”

“That’s incorrect. We encourage people to report a person missing as soon as possible. But I need more information. Can you tell me the places she likes to visit?”

Chloe's throat tightens. "She models for a local artist named Maxwell Sterling."

“Have you contacted Mr. Sterling?”

“No.”

The operator hesitates. “All right, Chloe. Give me Sandra’s address. I’ll send our officers to investigate. Can you stay on the line with me until they arrive?”

"Yes. Yes, I'll stay."

She can hear the operator typing and the clack of keys.

"Now, can you describe Sandra? Her height, weight, hair color, any distinguishing features?"

Chloe pictures her friend's face and gives the operator the information.

“Hurry, please. Help me find her.”

“The police are on the way, Chloe.”

38

“Anything on the leash?”

Darcy drums her legs with pent-up restlessness.

Inside the bullpen, Lisa perches herself on a neighboring desk. “Still waiting for the forensics report.”

“What’s taking so long?”

“I tagged the leash as a priority item, but the lab moves at its own speed.”

Beside Darcy, Julian shakes his head. An evidence report shouldn’t take so long.

The clock reads seven in the morning, but already she feels exhaustion pressing down.

Detective Müller passes a folder to Lisa. “You wanted every missing person’s report, correct?”

Lisa takes the report without answering. She scans the papers before handing them to Darcy.

“Another missing woman,” Lisa says. “That’s seven this week.”

“And five men,” Julian adds.

“This one is a little different. Our missing person is a model. Thought it might be worth looking into.”

Darcy's forehead creases as she scans the report. "Sandra Finlay. The person who reported her missing is Chloe Rowan, also a model."

"Seems that way."

Darcy leans back in her chair. “Do they model for photographers or painters?”

“The report doesn’t say.”

Julian looks over her shoulder and taps a finger against the paper. “I recognize that name. Maxwell Sterling.”

“What about him?”

“He showed up in Jameson Sinclair’s review.”

Darcy sits upright. “We need to talk to this Chloe Rowan.”

“I’ll get on it,” Müller says. “She sounded desperate to find her friend. I’m sure she’ll cooperate.”

Twenty minutes later, Darcy and Julian sit across from Chloe in a diner down the street from the model’s apartment. An untouched cup of coffee grows cold. Chloe looks like she hasn't slept in days.

“I just want to find Sandra,” Chloe says. “I need to know she's okay.”

Julian removes a pen from his pocket. "Can you tell us a little more about Sandra? What is she like? Who are her friends and associates?"

Chloe takes a shaky breath. "Sandra is a sweetheart. Kind, trusting, always sees the best in people. She's new to modeling and learning the ropes."

“Was she working with anyone in particular?” Darcy asks. “Any photographers, artists, that sort of thing? The report mentioned a man named Maxwell Sterling.”

“That’s him. He's a painter, pretty well-known in certain circles. Sandra models for Maxwell.”

“What is their relationship like? Strictly professional?” Julian asks.

Chloe’s fingers tear into a napkin. "It became something more. Sandra has feelings for him. I tried to tell her he was bad news, but she wouldn't listen."

"Bad news how? What do you know about Sterling?"

"He has a temper. Outbursts, mood swings. I've seen him get violent in the studio, throwing things, screaming at his models. Well, he screamed at me. In all honesty, I like to push his buttons. I asked for it."

Darcy’s next question rests on her lips when the phone rings. Lisa’s name appears on the screen.

“Excuse me, Chloe.”

The model turns her attention to the shredded napkin.

Stepping outside so she can hear, Darcy bounces to stay warm. “What do you have for me, Lisa?”

“The forensics report came back on your leash.”

“Yeah?”

“Two prints. Both belong to a man named Maxwell Sterling. He’s in AFIS for an assault case from six years ago.”

“He’s our killer.”

“Slow down, Darcy. I know he’s listed in the missing person’s report, but that doesn’t prove he killed our victims.”

“He touched a leash on the night David Miller died and a lost cat showed up at the animal shelter. That’s not a coincidence.”

“I’ll put a team together. Don’t make a move until you speak with me.”

Lisa hangs up as traffic shoots past.

Maxwell Sterling is their unsub. His model is missing, and the police have the studio’s address. Hurrying inside, she finds Julian continuing the interview with Chloe.

“Tell me about Maxwell Sterling’s art,” Darcy says, cutting off Julian.

He gives her a curious look as Chloe wrings her hands.

“It’s disturbing,” the model says. “I’ve seen paintings like his before.”

“Whose paintings?”

"That sicko Victor Haldane. Like the art they found in his studio after his arrest."

Darcy’s mouth goes dry.

She doesn’t need to ask Chloe to produce an example. The model loads a painting of a barren landscape and a woman writhing in agony.

Darcy reaches across the table and takes Chloe's hand.

"I'll find your friend."

39

Abreeze from nowhere chills Sandra’s skin. The sourceless wind prods her body. Cold. A padded surface keeps her from falling into a black abyss. She cranes her head. A sliver of light comes from far off, pooling below her. Fingers caress her face.

“I trust you aren’t hurt.”

Maxwell’s voice, though she can’t see him.

Her body writhes. Her muscles feel sluggish and submerged in sludge.

“Maxwell.”

“Remain still. The chloroform must run its course. Do you understand?”

A ticking clock. Where? All she sees is darkness.

“If you feel ready, you may sit up. But only if you won’t become sick.”

She lifts her head and feels the world spin off its axis. Nausea rages from her brain into her stomach. He waits until she lies down.

“Not yet then. Do you remember what day it is?” he asks.

Groggy. Nothing makes sense.

“The day?”

“My car broke down, and you made me tea. I found it wonderful, though you’d gone to sleep by the time I finished. Would you like to sit up again? Slower this time. That’s it.”

Sandra presses up to her elbows, and the floor rotates to meet the ceiling. His footsteps move past, but she can’t find him.

“Very good. Be patient and let the vertigo pass. Would you like a drink of water? I can show you to the kitchenette.”

She sits upright, though she doesn’t recall struggling into this position. The dizziness comes again. Her legs dangle. Can’t touch the floor.

“You’re adjusting. It won’t be long before you feel like yourself. Take my arm, dear girl.”

No. He did this to her.

“Don’t test my patience. Do as I say and take my arm.”

She twitches in fear as his elbow hooks with hers. Then she’s falling.

Until her feet strike the floor. The impact shoots pain from her ankles into her knees. Maxwell supports her. She tries to pull away, but her body won’t connect with her mind.

“One step at a time,” he says.

She sticks a foot out and finds nothing blocking her path. The light she spied cuts under a closed door.

He steps away and leaves her alone. She cries out and reaches for support. To her surprise, she doesn’t fall.

“Wonderful. Take another step, Sandra.”

“I can’t.”

“You must.”

“You know what you must do, boy.” The unknown voice spins her around.

“Maxwell, who’s here? I’m scared.”

No answer.

“Punish the harlot for her sins. 'And the daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she profaneth her father: she shall be burnt with fire.'”

That voice. Baritone and burning with contempt.

“Father, please,” Maxwell says from somewhere in the black. “She did nothing wrong. I care for her.”

A bark of laughter and a snarl. "Care for her? She's a temptress, a daughter of Babylon. 'Let her be defiled and let our eye look upon Zion. For this is the day that we looked for; we have found, we have seen it.'"

"No, that's not true. Sandra understands what we must do. Please give her a chance."

"A chance? She's a whore, no different from the others. Just like your mother. And you know what we do with whores, don't you, boy?"

Another step forward. She nears the door. The arguing men can’t see her.

"She’s not a whore. Stop talking about her like that. Sandra isn’t like my mother. She won’t leave me."

A heavy silence falls, broken only by the sound of Sandra's ragged breathing. Her hands reach for the door, uncertain where to find the knob.

"You dare defy me, boy? You dare question the word of the Lord? 'For the lips of a strange woman drop as a honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil. But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.'"

“No!” Maxwell’s scream fills the darkness. “This will stop. I’m not a child anymore, and I won’t let you hurt her. You can’t take Sandra from me. She's all I have, all I've ever wanted.”

The second man laughs with cruel amusement. "All you've ever wanted? You're pathetic. Weak like your mother. But you know what happens to the weak, don't you? 'The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth the vengeance: he shall wash his feet in the blood of the wicked.'"

A squeal builds in Sandra’s throat. This man means to kill her. Is he the one who subdued her in the kitchen? She never saw a face.

Yet she only allowed Maxwell to enter her apartment. She didn’t unlock the door for anyone else. Maxwell could have sneaked out of the bathroom and opened the door for his father while she heated the kettle. But why would he?

This is her chance to escape while Maxwell argues with the man. Her hand glides down a smooth wooden surface. Can’t find the doorknob. It must be here.

She senses the presence beside her before the voice whispers and tremors in her ear.

“We must leave, Sandra,” Maxwell says. “He’ll kill us both. There’s no reasoning with him. Take my hand.”

His fingers lock with hers. Sobs. He’s crying.

“I keep knives in the drawer. Take them. I pray it won’t come to it, but if you have to defend yourself⁠—”

“Do you think I can’t hear your schemes?” the father bellows.

He’s close. Right on top of her.

“Never, Father.”

“You will not leave until you take your punishment.”

Maxwell's tears splash against her face. His palm sweats.

"Please, Father. Don't do this. Not in front of Sandra. I'll be good, I promise. I'll do whatever you want."

"You've always been a sniveling nothing. But I'll beat that weakness out of you. Shall I get the belt?"

The doorknob. Where is it?

Maxwell's lips brush against her ear. "Sandra, listen to me. I won't let him hurt you. I love you. You're everything to me, the only good thing in my life. But you need must run."

“I don’t know where I am,” she cries.

“Inside my studio. In a room you haven’t seen. Where I create.”

The stench of the father’s breath makes her gag. “Kill her, boy!”

“Never.”

“'And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.'”

Cut off the hand. The police found that poor man’s severed hand in “The Creation of Adam” abomination.

Her hand finds the doorknob. Twists.

“Go, Sandra,” Maxwell says into her ear. “Flee while there’s time. I’ll hold him back. But no matter what you hear, do not return for me.”

She still can’t see him. “Why did you bring me here?”

“It was the only way. No more words. Hurry, Sandra. Hurry before he⁠—”

A screech rips through the darkness. A body crashes against the wall and rattles the floor.

The door flies open. More blackness. She remembers the studio’s layout and should see streetlights beyond the windows. But there’s only a wall of nothingness.

Her footing fails, and she topples. Hands slap against the floorboards. Gray shapes form around her. She recognizes the studio. Knows where the exit is.

Behind her, the gates of hell open.

As she grabs hold of a table and drags herself up, leather whips against flesh. Maxwell howls.

Footsteps. A shadow lurches out of the room.

“I’m coming for you, Sandra.”

40

Darcy stands in the conference room with a map of the city spread out before her, while Julian leans over the table and studies the route while Lisa consults with Detective Müller. The officers prepare for the rescue operation, but it’s taking too long. Darcy worries they won’t find Sandra alive.

"Sterling's studio is in an old complex downtown," Julian says, tapping the location on the map.

“We need to move now,” Lisa says. “But we have to be careful. If Sterling is as volatile as Chloe Rowan says, we can't risk spooking him. This is our one shot to get him.”

Müller joins them with a grim expression. "I put the tactical team on standby. They're ready to move in as soon as we give the word."

Darcy crosses her arms. "We need eyes on the place first. Make sure Sandra is there and Sterling doesn't have any nasty surprises waiting for us."

“Of course she’s there,” Lisa says. She turns to the lead detective. "Get a surveillance team in position. I want constant updates. When we go in, we move with purpose."

Müller nods and hurries out of the room. Darcy watches him go, then glances at Julian.

"She’s still alive," he says.

He doesn’t need to say Sandra’s name. Like Darcy, his priority is rescuing the abducted woman.

"I have a sick feeling about this," Darcy says.

“Stay positive. Müller’s team is top-notch.”

As the police complete their final preparations, the room falls into a tense silence. A law enforcement video feed shows the tactical team as it arrives across the street from the apartment.

Lisa outlines the plan once more. “We approach from the east and west. Two teams, synchronized entry.”

“No one makes a move until we have eyes inside and confirm Sandra's location,” Darcy says.

Lisa fixes her with a glare. “I appreciate you got us this far, Darcy, but this is my call. We don’t have time for caution.”

Minutes later, they ride in unmarked vans. After they near the apartment, the vans stop one block away, and the team disperses, moving through the alleys.

Darcy, Julian, and Lisa take up position behind a parked truck with binoculars trained on the apartment. A light shines in Maxwell Sterling’s window.

"Team One, in position," comes a voice over the radio.

"Team Two, in position," follows another.

Lisa looks at Darcy. "This is it. The two of you will stay back while we handle the extraction."

“Negative,” Darcy says.

“This isn’t up for debate.”

“It is, if you want me to consult for the FBI again.”

“So this is how it has to be?”

It’s obvious Julian doesn’t want Darcy to risk her life, yet he looks back at the special agent in challenge.

“Fine, but I call the shots,” Lisa says.

"Let's bring her home."

With a huff, Lisa grabs her radio. "On my mark. Three, two, one. Go."

The tactical teams dart out of the alleyways, swift and silent. A second later, Darcy and Julian run behind Lisa as they storm into the apartment complex. Sterling lives on the third floor.

They encounter one person on the way up the stairs—a gangling man in his thirties who presses himself against the wall to give them room.

Outside Maxwell Sterling’s apartment, a tactical team leader listens for sounds inside. He shakes his head.

Lisa kicks open the suite’s door and rushes in. She recoils, her hand flying to her mouth. Darcy, a step behind her, stumbles into the room and freezes.

A patchwork of human skin, each piece stitched together to create a grotesque tapestry, covers the walls. Tattoos and birthmarks. Blood stains.

Julian steps in behind Darcy, his eyes widening. "Dear God," he breathes.

Lisa regains her composure. "Secure the room. Search every inch. We need to find Sterling." She turns to the tactical team. "And find the woman."

Darcy forces herself to move, to look beyond the horror.

Beside Julian, she follows one team as they clear the kitchen and living room. The second team returns from the bedroom with Lisa, who shakes her head.

“Nobody here,” the agent says, holstering her gun.

“How many people did Maxwell Sterling murder?” Darcy asks.

No one answers.

The stench of decay hangs in the air. Sandra isn’t here. Nor is Sterling.

Lisa turns to Müller. "We need forensics. Secure the scene and call it in."

Müller nods, already reaching for his radio. "Roger that. Forensics team, we need you at Maxwell Sterling's apartment ASAP. Secure the perimeter and begin processing the scene."

Darcy walks toward the wall of human skin. Julian tries to pull her back, but she slips away.

“He’s a monster,” Darcy says. “Worse than Haldane. How many, Julian?”

His face pale, Julian pinches his eyes. “Seven, maybe eight victims here.”

"And Sandra is still out there. We should search Sterling's studio."

Lisa joins them. "Think this through. Sterling's studio has floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. It's completely exposed. There's no privacy. He wouldn't take her there."

"What better place to kill Sandra than where he brings his visions to life?"

“It makes no sense. The satellite pictures prove that anyone on the sidewalk can look straight up into his studio. If he held someone captive, the entire city would know.”

Julian appears ready to argue, but Müller steps in.

“Darcy Haines has been dead on about these murders since she arrived,” Müller says. “I suggest we listen to her.”

Julian steps forward, siding with Darcy. "She's right, Lisa. Sterling's not hiding. He's flaunting his work. He wants to be seen."

Lisa’s face tics. “The FBI put me in charge of this investigation.”

“But Vestal PD runs the city, and this is my case.”

The special agent claws at her hair and paces. “Fine. But if Sterling gets away, it’s on your head, not mine.”

Müller shares a look with Julian. “We’ll split the teams. Half the team stays here to process the scene with forensics. The other half comes with me to the studio. Team Alpha, stay and secure the scene. Team Bravo, with me. We're heading to Sterling's studio.”

Lisa rides with Team Bravo and leaves Darcy and Julian to travel with Müller and two officers.

“She’s losing it,” Julian says to Darcy.

They sit in the back of the van. The afternoon grows late, and the storm forces the streetlights to turn on.

“I’m aware.”

“If Special Agent Lisa Monroe can’t handle the siege, someone needs to step in.”

“She’s capable, Julian.”

“Then why is she flying off the rails?”

“Because the deputy director is in her ear,” Darcy says. “He wants results, and Lisa has to deliver.”

“That’s no excuse for treating everyone like second-class citizens.”

Darcy doesn’t reply.

Riding shotgun, Detective Müller turns to face them. "Listen, there's something you need to know about Maxwell Sterling. After you gave us his name, I did some digging, and Sterling's childhood was a nightmare."

“That fits Darcy’s profile,” Julian says.

"The mother walked out when he was a boy. Abandoned him and his father, Norton Sterling, who was a drunk and a religious fanatic. The man became obsessed with sin and punishment and believed he was on a divine mission to purify his son."

Julian's jaw tightens. "And no one intervened?"

"The police suspected abuse. Child Services got involved, but they never proved he abused his child. Maxwell always denied the beatings, probably out of fear."

“What happened next?” Julian asks. “Foster care?”

Müller checks his notes. “No. Maxwell Sterling bounced around, living with his grandparents in Chicago, then with an aunt after the grandparents passed.”

Darcy lifts her head. “Where is the father now?”

"Dead. Nine years ago, he committed suicide," Müller says, his eyes darkening. "Hung himself in the living room. Maxwell found the body. The neighbors said the kid was never the same."

41

The rain won’t stop. Droplets bludgeon Darcy’s face and head as she rushes from the van to a vacant building across the street from Maxwell Sterling’s studio. Detective Müller follows her inside, as Julian brings up the rear and holds a gun, defending their backs.

Lisa barks orders in a room that once held a furniture display room. Boards cover the windows, but holes let the damp air inside. Weather might have chiseled the holes, but they appear as if they came from bullets.

As the team members gather around, Lisa brings up a digital floor plan for the target building. Darcy thinks the special agent should have done this hours ago. Now they’re running out of time. Is Sandra dead? Is Sterling killing her now?

Lisa taps a pen against the screen. "Maxwell Sterling's studio is upstairs, northeast corner. There's a main entrance here, and a fire escape on the east side."

She clicks a section of the schematic, zooming in. "I found an unused utility room that shares a wall with the west side of the studio. That's a potential point of entry, but only if he barricaded the front door."

Darcy approaches. "What about the rest of the building? Any occupants we need to worry about?"

Lisa shakes her head. "The building is mostly vacant. There are a couple of small businesses on the ground floor, but they’re closed at this hour. We'll have a unit stationed outside, just in case."

Müller checks his firearm. "What's the play once we're inside? We can't barge in there, guns blazing. If Sterling has the girl, we have to save her first."

"Agreed. That's why we'll go about this smart. No sound, no flashlights until we breach the door, understand?"

“He’ll see us coming when we cross the road.”

“That’s why we’ll go in from below.” Lisa zooms out and reveals an underground tunnel. “During the first world war, Vestal built tunnels under much of downtown. This one goes under the street and connects our building to Sterling’s.”

“Nobody uses them these days. They flood when it rains.”

“Then wear rubbers over your shoes. I don’t care. This is the best way to take out Sterling before he knows we’re coming.”

The detective clenches his jaw. Lisa doesn’t need to berate him.

Yet Darcy can’t disagree with the plan. Lisa locating the tunnels gives them their best way in. And there’s the utility room. They can hem in Sterling and ensure nobody escapes their net.

“I’ll lead the way,” Lisa says.

A door at the rear of the furniture store gives way with a shriek. Dust and decayed wood fall into Darcy’s hair. She stifles a sneeze.

The special agent’s flashlight beam reveals a spiraling stairwell. Water sloshes in the darkness. Down they go.

Julian jogs alongside Darcy with a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other. Müller keeps pace with Lisa, as if he intends to pass her. Six armed officers in assault gear make up the rest of the team.

Boots and sneakers splash through the water. The current flows toward Sterling’s building and drags Darcy forward. Around them, the murky water rises. They must be descending, though it’s impossible to tell.

A squeak from the right. Rats.

“Don’t look at them,” Julian says.

Darcy seems to run forever before another door blocks the way. Overhead, the street rumbles from a passing tractor trailer. Lisa twists the knob and throws her shoulder into the barrier. Won’t budge.

“I’ve got it,” a massive officer says.

He steps in front of Lisa and muscles the warped door open.

More stairs. They’re in the target building’s basement. A table holds cleaning supplies and a floor buffer with its parts dangling like a gutted animal.

A door in better repair opens to the first floor and gives way to a straight staircase. Climbing. Lisa moves too fast and doesn’t check her blind spot. Darcy shares a look with Julian. Müller looks ready to explode.

When they reach the studio, Darcy turns west and locates the room Lisa identified. She tests the knob. The door is locked.

Lisa listens outside the studio before shaking her head. No sounds from inside. The muscular officer holds a battering ram. At the hallway window, lightning flashes.

The special agent holds up a hand to command their attention. She uses her fingers to issue a silent count, but Darcy stops her.

“What?” Lisa asks, irritated.

“Wait for the thunder.”

The others understand.

When thunder rolls and masks their presence, the battering ram shatters the door. Officers clamber through the opening and sweep weapons across the studio. Paintings and sculptures everywhere.

Darcy aims her gun into the shadows. Despite the floor-to-ceiling windows, the relentless storm makes the afternoon seem like night. Julian finds the wall switch, but the lights won’t turn on.

Lisa looks over her shoulder in question. A challenge for Darcy burns in her eyes. Where are Sandra and Sterling?

Too many hiding places. Countertops and tables conceal what lies on the other side. Darcy rounds one table loaded with blank canvases and finds no one hiding. Julian comes around the opposite end and shakes his head.

Throughout the studio come calls of clear. Darcy spots more rooms to check.

A bathroom stands empty, as does the kitchenette. To the right, a corridor. One room stands at the end. Following the assault team, Darcy finds a cot with the sheets and blankets bunched around the foot. A mug contains cold, stale coffee. Speckles of paint on the floor—red like blood.

“They’re not here,” Lisa says, lowering her gun.

A thump causes Darcy and Müller to swing around in unison.

“Behind the wall,” Julian says, aiming his flashlight at a splash of white plaster.

Darcy approaches the wall and presses her ear against the barrier. Something is different. The rough texture makes it stand out from the others, as if an untrained hand constructed this wall.

Before Lisa can question her, Darcy kicks out. Her sneaker punches through and turns the plaster into dust.

Darcy doesn’t need to tell the others that Sterling built this. It’s a false wall, cutting off a third of the studio.

A scream comes through the opening. Sandra.

The assault team uses the battering ram and the butts of their weapons to obliterate the plaster. They crash into impenetrable darkness. Can’t see anything.

Julian’s flashlight finds another wall that shouldn’t be here.

“The bastard built a maze,” Julian says.

Another shriek. From where? The sound bounces off the walls and comes from all directions.

“Maxwell Sterling,” Lisa commands. “FBI. Come out with your hands up.”

Nobody responds.

“Team Alpha,” says Müller, “take the left corridor. Team Bravo with me.”

Darcy and Julian, part of the Bravo team, rush after the detective as Lisa leads Alpha. Another wall. The corridor branches in two directions. Müller chooses the first way and encounters a dead end.

As they reverse direction, Darcy can hear the other team, with the wafer-thin barrier standing between them. She considers telling the others to smash the walls until there’s nothing left, but she’s not in charge.

Another choice—left or right? Müller points, signaling Julian and Darcy to go right, while he leads two officers down the other path.

Julian’s flashlight beam bounces as they hurry. The figure lurches out of the darkness before either can react.

A flash of steel. Julian cries out.

Darcy aims the weapon and fires. The bullet forms a gaping maw. Plaster and smoke.

Footsteps rush off as Darcy retrieves the fallen light and directs it where Sterling fled. She bends over and grabs Julian, who clutches his back.

“You’re bleeding,” she says.

“Go on. I’ll live.”

He’s lying. Blood pumps from the wound and pools on the floor.

“Julian, I can’t⁠—”

“Save Sandra.”

With tears in her eyes, she rips off her coat and presses it against Julian’s back. No more time. Sandra is the priority.

Darcy leaves Julian bleeding and dying.

42

Out of the darkness comes a woman’s shriek for help. As if Sterling is slicing into Sandra’s flesh with a butcher’s knife.

Darcy collides off a wall and ricochets into another. The barriers tremble, and she glances up as bits of plaster bounce off her face. He has to be close.

The moment she entered the studio, she sensed something was wrong. The floor space should have been larger. But she never expected he’d walled off half the interior and turned it into an insane asylum.

Around another corner. More screams. Closer now.

From behind come shouts from the assault team. Did they find Julian? Lisa’s voice carries over the others. She’s lost and desperate to locate the maze’s exit. If the officers use the butts of their guns to decimate the wall, they can march straight to Sterling.

The walls extend to the ceiling, but cracks between the connections suggest Sterling rushed the process. If he’s smart, he gave himself an escape route.

Footsteps. The madman is just ahead, but she can’t see.

“Who’s here? He’s trying to kill me!”

Sandra’s voice again.

Should Darcy call out to the woman and follow her voice? Doing so will give away her position. Sterling might wait around the next corner. She never saw him before he leaped off the wall and stabbed Julian. But it’s a risk she needs to take.

“Sandra Finlay? FBI. Tell me where you are. I’ll come to you.”

“I’m in the dark, for God’s sake! Come get me!”

“I need to know where you are. Describe everything around you.”

“There’s no light, you stupid bitch! Can’t you see? Get me out of here before he kills me!”

A thump to the left. Darcy stops and raises the gun. Aims at the vast nothingness that is Maxwell Sterling’s studio.

An idea occurs to her. She turns around and directs her voice toward the way she came from.

“Stay calm, Sandra. The police and FBI are here. We’ll find you.”

Sterling is near, and if he’s listening to her voice, he’ll believe she’s lost and heading toward the entrance. She turns back to the darkness. Knows Sandra is on the other side of this wall. Senses Sterling is here too.

More cursing, but Darcy doesn’t listen to the frantic woman’s words. She concentrates on the floor beneath her shoes. Feels the undulating ripples as someone’s weight pushes down on the boards.

“Get me the hell out of here!”

Darcy places both hands on the gun and raises it toward the black. She points it where Sterling’s head must be and whiffs the earthy, dusty plaster as it crumbles down from the ceiling.

Just a little closer. Come to me.

She places her back against the wall and slides along, keeping the gun where she suspects Sterling stands. Her finger curls around the trigger and waits for the psychopath to give up his position.

What if she shoots and kills a police officer?

She has to be sure.

“Dammit, where the hell are you?”

This time, Darcy doesn’t answer Sandra. She must remain quiet.

Another step through the darkness. Back pressed against the wall, sliding, sliding, the firearm shaking as she succumbs to the terror.

He brings the infrared binoculars to his eyes and snickers. So close. He can smell her perfume, her sweat, the bubbling fear that makes it impossible for her to hold the gun.

The FBI is here with the police, but they can’t find him. He was wise to build the maze.

The woman holds a semi-automatic pistol. He doesn’t know much about guns, but assumes it’s a Glock. Might be a 19 mm. It’s not a six-shooter. The agent can fire 15 rounds or more. He must kill her quick and not give her a chance to fire the weapon. Then he’ll return to his love. If he dies today, he will take Sandra with him. Unlike the others, she understands.

The woman sticks an uncertain foot out and moves closer. Sterling’s fingers curl around the scalpel as he holds the binoculars in his other hand. She blossoms like the petals of an opening flower as the focus fails. Her form expands until it fills his vision, and he loses track of where she is.

He brings the hand with the scalpel up to the focus adjustment.

And loses his grip on the weapon.

Breathing comes from the corridor’s interior. It has to be Sterling, but Darcy can’t shoot. Not until she’s certain the person isn’t Lisa, Müller, or an assault team member.

I left Julian to die.

No, she didn’t. He’s a fighter, and an officer must have found him by now.

I killed him.

Focus.

Take care of Sterling and go back to Julian. Then save Sandra.

She can’t tell how long she’s waited for him to make a sound. The floor hasn’t squeaked, which tells Darcy he’s standing still and watching her. How can he see her when she can’t find him? Sandra’s screams make it impossible to concentrate, and she can hear Lisa and the officers approaching. They made it to her side of the maze.

A whiff of cardamon. Where is it coming from?

Cologne. It has to be Sterling.

She directs the gun toward the scent. Arms refuse to be still.

Clink.

An object collides with the ground. The scalpel. He dropped the scalpel.

Now. Do it now.

Before she pulls the trigger, a crash rocks the studio. The force throws her against the floor. Wintry snow drifts down around her. Not snow, but plaster. Somewhere in the maze, the ceiling gave way, and the false walls collapsed inward.

Julian.

A green glow forms above her head. Infrared binoculars. Sterling is standing over her.

The luminescence shows her where the scalpel is. It tears toward her face with a violent arc.

She squeezes the trigger. One blast. Another.

In the black, she hears him stumble and collide with the only remaining wall. The ceiling slams down around her with rolling thunder. Plaster strangles her lungs, but she can move.

“Sandra?”

No answer.

Darcy pushes up to her hands and knees. A gurgling sound comes from down the hall, as if the bullet struck a water pipe.

It’s Sterling. She hit him.

Beneath the wreckage, she spots two cat’s eyes, emerald and glowing. Finding the binoculars, she lifts them and scans the corridor until she spots him. He sprawls on his back. His legs spasm and twitch as he presses a hand to his chest and shoulder.

“Tell me where Sandra is,” Darcy says, directing the gun at the fallen murderer.

He chuckles, causing his body to heave and cough. Blood spurts from an open wound.

Injured moans from the officers fill the maze. She imagines them buried. Did the walls collapse on Sandra?

Part of the fallen ceiling extends over her head. Unable to stand, she crawls toward the killer. Without the binoculars, she can’t see him.

Sterling lurches off the floor and collapses. The scalpel tumbles from his hand, which uncurls and lies flat against the floorboards. He’s in death throes.

“Sandra Finlay, can you hear me?”

A cough comes from the black. “I can hear you.”

“Are you harmed?”

“Untie me.”

A mountain of rubble prevents Darcy from finding the woman.

“Sandra, are you injured? Did the walls fall on you?”

“No. Come get me before he comes back.”

“I shot him,” Darcy says.

“No, you can’t kill him. He’s the devil.”

“Sandra, listen to me. I need to check on the other officers. We need more people to clear the path.”

“Don’t you dare leave me alone!”

Darcy turns her back on the screaming woman. She has to find Julian and the others.

43

Cries for help pull Darcy toward the maze’s entrance. At a corner that once connected two walls, she climbs over the crumbled ceiling and calls to Lisa and the others. One officer answers, but she can’t hear the special agent or Julian. The possibility that both are dead makes her want to collapse, but she continues onward, tossing chunks of plaster aside to clear the way.

Sandra’s voice fades into the background. With no way to reach the abducted woman, Darcy’s only choice is to rescue the officers and hope one or two have enough strength to help.

Tears wet her cheeks. She never should have left Julian.

“Darcy.”

Her heart stops. He’s here. And alive.

She searches the darkness and coughs as more plaster topples from the ceiling. Sirens announce another crew of officers on the way.

“Julian, I can’t see you.”

“Down here.”

It isn’t until he speaks that she realizes she almost fell over him. His fallen flashlight lies a step away. Darcy clicks the button and sets the light on its end, creating a torch that illuminates what remains of the ceiling. She drops to her knees and cries into his shoulder.

“Don’t waste your tears. Help me to my feet, and I’ll get us out of here.”

She surveys the blood congealing beneath his back and shakes her head. At least the bleeding slowed. That’s a good sign.

“It’s not safe to move you.”

He tries to shift and winces. “The others are somewhere behind me. Can’t tell where.”

“I’ll look for them. Maybe someone can help me carry you out of here. You need a doctor.”

“Darcy, I swear I’ll live.”

He means it, but given his wound, he might be delirious.

“I believe in you,” she says, drying her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I will never leave you and the kids. Take me hand and pull me to my feet.”

“Not until I’m sure the bleeding stopped.”

“Darcy, I⁠—”

“This isn’t up for debate, Julian Haines. Stay still. Let me check you over.”

He grunts. His scowl makes it obvious that he’s not happy about cooperating.

"Julian, start slow. Move your fingers and toes. Can you do that for me?"

Julian grits his teeth. He wiggles his fingers, then his toes. "I can move them. My back hurts like hell, but I’m not paralyzed. Are you satisfied? We have to find Müller and the team."

"Not until I check your injuries."

She runs her hands over his legs and arms, checking for fractures or other wounds. Julian grimaces.

"You don’t have to do this."

“Stay still while I work. Can you roll onto your side?”

“Yeah.”

She slides her hand over the small of his back and finds the source of the blood loss.

“I’m going to apply pressure to the wound. We need to be sure it’s manageable before I move you. Are you ready?”

God, his face is pale.

"Do what you need to do."

Darcy presses her hands against the wound, feeling the sticky warmth. "Tell me if the pain worsens. No lies."

His eyes squeeze shut. Darcy counts in her head, keeping pressure on his back. Miraculously, his bleeding has stopped.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

"Better. The pain’s still there, but I’m not bleeding out."

"Next step. I’ll help you sit up. We’ll go slow. Let me know if you’re lightheaded."

As she grabs his arm, a creaking comes from behind her. His eyes lock on something over her shoulder.

The killer. He’s standing right behind her.

She meets Julian’s gaze. He presses his lips together and lowers his eyes toward the gun on her hip.

Darcy nods without speaking. She lowers her hand, shielding her movement with her body.

“As soon as I get you to your feet,” she says, “we’ll locate Lisa and the officers. With Sterling dead, we have time to rescue Sandra.”

Julian doesn’t respond. As the floorboards shift beneath her knees, she sees Sterling reflected in Julian’s eyes. Steps away. Bleeding from his shoulder where the bullet tore through skin and bone. The ruined arm hangs like a broken wing. His opposite hand clutches the scalpel.

“Can’t wait to get back to Genoa Cove,” Julian says, and the ironic laughter that passes his lips is genuine. “If I never see Illinois again, it will be too soon.”

She recalls the drills, the hours at the shooting range, the scenarios where her instructors taught her to make split-second decisions. Adrenaline surges through her veins and sharpens her senses. In that moment, she can sense the world spinning and hear the rain pattering against the distant windows. Sterling’s breathing sounds like thunder.

Julian’s fear and trust play out on his face. Her fingers brush against the weapon.

Three. Two.

Time stops as Maxwell Sterling bellows.

One.

Darcy pivots on her knees and raises the weapon in one motion. Sterling’s shock registers before she squeezes the trigger. The recoil jolts through her arms as the bullet strikes Sterling in the chest.

Again. Again.

The shots send him pinwheeling backward.

Sterling strikes the floor and collapses on a hill of ruined wall. His body convulses, the scalpel slipping from his grasp.

She follows him and stands over his body. Their eyes meet, and she fires one last shot. The bullet punctures his forehead. He goes still.

This time forever.

The sirens are outside the building as Darcy pulls Julian up. He stands for a second, then drops to one knee.

“Wait while I get the others,” she says.

“No, I can do it.”

Somehow, he forces himself to his feet. She doesn’t understand how he can stand or walk, let alone help her save the buried officers. He refuses to succumb.

“Careful,” she says as they step around the wreckage.

The officers’ voices come from around the corner. Footsteps enter the studio as more officers shout.

“In here,” she answers.

Flashlight beams enter the collapsed maze. Hope quickens Darcy’s step, though she’s worried about pushing Julian. They need to find the team and rescue Sandra before the studio comes down on them.

The new officers force their way inside and start unloading chunks of plaster, desperate to reach their comrades. Darcy and Julian aid their efforts.

Detective Müller is the first to crawl out of the wreckage. No sooner does he free his legs than he tosses more plaster aside. Two more officers pull themselves out from under the walls. Then two more. Some bleed from their foreheads. Others place a hand against the wall for support, their bodies refusing to cooperate.

When they’re all free, Darcy’s head swivels left and right. “Where is Agent Monroe?”

Müller looks away.

A woman’s hand protrudes out from under a mound of plaster. The police unload the debris until Special Agent Lisa Monroe’s body lies in the open. Dust cakes her lips. Dried blood forms a frozen river from her mouth to the floor.

Darcy hurries to her protégé, but Müller pulls her back. “I’m sorry, Darcy.”

44

The rain continues its assault, blurring the flashing lights of police cars and emergency vehicles as they converge on the scene. Darcy holds Julian. Her fingers brush his hair. They sit amid the wreckage, surrounded by fallen beams and shattered plaster, waiting for the paramedics to reach them.

Julian’s breathing sounds shallow, each inhale a laborious effort. “Just a little longer,” Darcy says. “Help is coming.”

Across the room, Detective Müller’s voice rises above the din. “Get these vultures out of here!” His face is a mask of fury as he confronts a group of reporters and media members who infiltrate the studio. Cameras flash and reporters thrust microphones at the surviving officers.

“This is a crime scene,” Müller says, pointing toward the door. “You have no right to be here. Out, now.”

The reporters hesitate. Some mutter protests about the public’s right to know.

Müller’s eyes blaze. “You want a story? The story is outside. You’re trespassing on an active investigation. Leave, or I’ll have you all arrested.”

A firefighter, muscular and covered in soot, steps forward to support Müller. “You heard the detective. Move out.”

The reporters retreat. Their cameras still roll as they back away from the scene. Müller follows them to the door and ensures they leave the building. “Set up a perimeter,” he orders the officers standing guard. “No one gets in without clearance. This area is off-limits.”

The police comply and establish a secure boundary around the apartment building. Müller approaches Darcy and Julian and kneels beside them. “The paramedics arrived. They’re dealing with the assault team first. How are you holding up?”

“I’ll live,” Julian says. “But I’ve seen enough of this maze.”

“You did good, both of you. It’s terrible what happened to Agent Monroe. I told her to back off when the walls came down, but she wouldn’t listen.”

The wail of approaching sirens grows louder, and moments later, more paramedics rush into the studio. They assess Julian’s injuries.

“We need to get you to the hospital,” a woman in a black ponytail says. “You lost a lot of blood, but you’re stable. The stretcher is on the way.”

To Darcy’s surprise, Julian doesn’t protest. His grip on Darcy’s hand tightens. “Stay with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Darcy says.

As the paramedics lift Julian onto the stretcher, she rises to follow them.

Müller places a hand on her shoulder. “You should get checked out too, Darcy. You’ve been through a lot.”

“I came out of this with a few scrapes and bruises. For that, I’m fortunate.”

“Some scars form beneath the skin.”

Müller doesn’t know how right he is. The detective steps aside and gives her room to follow the paramedics out of the studio. The rain continues to pour.

They survived a nightmare. Now, it’s time to heal.

At the hospital, Darcy waits outside Julian’s room. The doctors stitched his wounds, and though he lost a lot of blood, he didn’t require a transfusion.

With Sterling dead and Julian on the long road to recovery, her mind shifts to the only other surviving victim of the killer’s rampage. Sandra.

After checking on Julian, who snores in his bed, she follows the signs to the trauma ward. The door to Sandra’s room stands ajar, and Darcy pauses before pushing it open. Inside, she finds the victim sitting upright in bed, her eyes hollow and vacant, staring at nothing. Darcy has seen this look many times. She has worn it herself.

“Sandra Finlay? Do you mind if I come in?”

Sandra blinks and turns her gaze to Darcy. A flicker of recognition crosses her face. “You’re the FBI agent, right? You rescued me.”

“Vestal PD saved you. I just pointed the way.”

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“I screamed at you,” Sandra says. “That’s not like me.”

“After what you went through, a little shouting is therapeutic.”

Darcy pulls a chair beside Sandra’s bed and sits. “I need to ask you some questions about Maxwell Sterling.”

Sandra’s expression crumbles. “I was foolish.”

“No, you weren’t. Tell me about your relationship. I understand you modeled for him?”

“That was how it started. I think I loved him. Crazy, right? I never believed he . . .”

Darcy takes Sandra’s hand in hers. “I realize this is hard. But we need to understand what happened. Did you see any signs of violence before tonight?”

“No, never. Maxwell was gentle with me. He had his moods, sure, but I thought it was just part of being an artist. He never hurt me. I don’t understand how he could do those things.”

“Did Maxwell ever mention his past? His family, his father?”

“I thought his father was in the room with us, but it was only Maxwell.”

Darcy sits forward. “What do you mean?”

“It was so dark. All I heard were voices.”

A psychotic breakdown. While mimicking Victor Haldane’s murders, Maxwell Sterling became his abusive father.

“Maxwell changed over the last several days,” Sandra continues. “He spoke about creating a masterpiece and how it would make the world see the truth. He became obsessed. I wanted to understand, but all I saw was hate.”

“It’s over now.”

As Sandra recounts the horrors, Darcy feels anger and sorrow. Anger at Maxwell for the pain he caused, and sorrow for the woman before her, who trusted and loved a monster.

“Agent Haines, did Maxwell really try to recreate Damon Haldane’s murders? Is it true what the police are saying?”

Darcy hesitates. “Yes, he did. It’s clear he idolized Haldane and wanted to create his own legacy.”

Sandra shakes her head in disbelief. “How could I be so blind? I thought I knew him.”

“You couldn’t have known, Sandra. He hid his true nature from everyone. That’s what makes people like him dangerous. They’re chameleons.”

Darcy’s thoughts spiral. With Damon Haldane still alive in prison, she worries he will inspire copycat killers, just as Michael Rivers did. Haldane’s influence might not end with Maxwell Sterling. There could be others. What if they target her family?

A knock at the door interrupts Darcy’s thoughts. She turns to see Detective Müller standing in the doorway.

“Agent Haines, we need to talk.”

She gives Sandra’s hand one last squeeze before standing. “I’ll be back, Sandra. Rest and try to focus on healing.”

In the hallway, Darcy closes the door and faces the detective.

“What’s going on?” Darcy asks.

“We’re getting calls. Media outlets are running stories about Maxwell’s connection to Haldane. It’s causing a stir, and there’s a rumor the prison will allow a national news organization to interview Haldane.”

“That’s a mistake.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.”

“We need to keep Haldane isolated and minimize his influence.”

“I’m working on it,” Müller says, “but the warden is apparently on board. My guess is someone slipped him money.”

Müller’s radio squawks and he says his goodbyes. Darcy closes her eyes and leans against the wall.

A depraved murderer will soon influence the entire country.

45

Around a hundred people crowd the predawn flight from Chicago O’Hare to Wilmington International in North Carolina. Some fliers have disheveled hair that sticks up in cowlicks. Snoring fills the coach section. The FBI didn’t splurge for first-class.

As the plane descends, Darcy looks over at Julian. His face is pale and drawn with exhaustion, but he offers her a weak smile. She reaches over and squeezes his hand, promising herself that they will get through this together.

The plane lands at sunrise. Golden light floods the tarmac. Darcy waits as the other passengers shuffle off. She can’t wait to stretch their legs. When it’s their turn, she stands and retrieves their bags from the overhead compartment. She doesn’t want Julian tearing his stitches.

He watches her with frustration. “I’m not completely helpless, you know?”

“I hear you. But let me take care of you, okay?”

He nods, giving in. They make their way through the quiet airport. The early hour keeps the crowds at bay. Darcy arranges an Uber, and soon they’re on their way to Genoa Cove, the familiar landscape rolling past the windows.

Julian shifts in his seat and pulls a packet from his pocket. “Here,” he says, handing her an antihistamine. “You should take this.”

Darcy raises an eyebrow, suspecting his intentions. “Julian, my allergies are fine.”

“You need sleep, Darcy. You’ve been running on fumes. Just take it, please.”

She hesitates, then takes the pill from his hand. “All right, but only because you asked nicely.”

As the car speeds down the highway, she leans back against the seat. The hum of the engine lulls her into a sense of calm. She closes her eyes and lets the antihistamine take effect.

Before she falls asleep, the driver glances in the rearview mirror. “Long trip?”

Julian nods. “Yeah, you could say that.”

The driver appears curious, but he doesn’t press for details. Good thing. Julian will bite his head off if he bothers her again.

As they near Genoa Cove, Julian nudges her with his elbow.

She blinks, disoriented for a moment, then smiles as she takes in their surroundings. “How long did I sleep?”

“Not long enough.”

“Home sweet home.”

Julian thanks the driver and grabs the bags, but Darcy pulls them from his grasp with a huff. Inside, the house is quiet and welcoming.

Darcy sets the bags down and turns to Julian. “You need rest.”

He chuckles. “I think we both do.”

Darcy helps Julian into bed, adjusting the pillows to make him comfortable. He reaches for her hand and pulls her down beside him.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, his eyes heavy with fatigue.

“Did you think I was leaving?”

“You have a habit of working when you’re supposed to sleep. The private investigation cases can wait.”

She lies next to him. Sleep takes her.

Darcy wakes at noon. She looks over at Julian, who is still snoozing. Careful not to wake him, she slips out of bed and heads to the kitchen. After making a cup of coffee, she grabs her laptop and sits on the back deck. No rest for the weary. She opens her laptop and catches up on her private investigations work.

She’s deep into a background check for a new client when the phone rings. It only takes a moment for her to recognize the Quantico number. Deputy Director Magnus Carter of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit is calling. She hesitates, then answers.

“This is Darcy Haines,” she says.

“Darcy, it’s Deputy Director Carter. I’m calling to express my condolences about Agent Monroe. She was a valued member of our team, and I know you mentored her.”

“It was a tough loss.”

“I also want to commend you on your bravery and dedication in the face of such unimaginable horror. You handled the situation with strength and dignity.”

Carter’s praise is genuine, but she can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this call. She only hears from the FBI when they want something from her.

“I appreciate that, sir. But why are you really calling?”

A second passes before Carter speaks again.

"Darcy, I’ll cut to the chase. We need you back at the BAU. I’m offering you a lead profiling position."

She chokes and coughs into her arm. She left that life behind eight years ago.

“Sir, I appreciate the offer, but I’m content with my life here in Genoa Cove. I left the BAU for a reason.”

“I understand, but I need someone with your unique skills and experience, especially after Agent Monroe’s tragic death. We’re stretched thin, and there’s no one who can fill your shoes.”

Darcy chooses her words carefully. “Thank you, Deputy Director Carter. But I’ve found peace here. My work as a private investigator allows me to help people without the constant threat and stress that comes with the BAU. I have a family now. The FBI doesn’t fit into my life.”

“What if I offered you a supervisory position? You’d have more control and unlimited resources. Think about the good you could do, the lives you could save with the authority and influence of a leadership role.”

The offer tempts her, but she shakes her head, knowing in her heart what she needs. “I appreciate that, sir, but my answer is still no.”

There’s a pause, and Darcy can sense Carter’s frustration. “As you wish. But know this—if you ever change your mind, the door will always be open.”

“I’ll always be available as a consultant. If you need my help, I’m a phone call away.”

“Take care of yourself and your family.”

Darcy ends the call and sets down the phone, staring out at the overgrown lawn beyond the deck. She’ll need to mow. Julian isn’t ready to push himself.

As if her thoughts drew him outside, Julian emerges onto the deck, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Who was that?”

“Deputy Director Carter.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust anyone with the FBI.”

“True.” He slides into a chair. “What did Carter want?”

“He offered me a supervisory profiling job at the BAU.”

His eyes shoot to hers. “And?”

“I declined. I’m staying here with you.”

Julian’s head falls back, and he exhales at the sky. “You made the right choice. We have a great life here, Darcy. Why upset the applecart?”

“I don’t intend to.”

“Genoa Cove loves you,” he says, sipping from his own cup of coffee.

“I realize that now, and I will never leave.”

46

The autumn breeze tugs at Darcy's hair as she steps out of her car with a case file tucked under her arm. The leaves are just turning, hints of gold and crimson peeking through the green.

A month after the nightmare in Vestal, a month since she watched Maxwell Sterling's blood pool on the floor of his studio, the memories still linger.

As she cuts a rose from the bush in the back garden, she turns away from the wind. The air is cooler in Genoa Cove, the summer warmth giving way to the coming chill of fall. Just yesterday, she had to dig out her favorite sweatshirt, the one with the frayed cuffs and the faded logo of her alma mater. It seems last month’s cold in Illinois has reached North Carolina.

Outside the deck door, her phone hums. She fishes it out of her pocket and smiles. Hunter's name appears on the screen.

"Hey, sweetie," she says. "How's my favorite college student?"

"I'm your only college student, Mom. But I'm good. My flight lands in Wilmington in two hours."

"Can’t wait until you get here. Julian is picking you up. Jen is so excited to see you. She's been counting down the days."

"I can't wait to hang out. We have big plans—movie marathons, board game tournaments, the works."

“Fall break is only one week. Can you get that much done before you fly back to Georgia?”

“I’m efficient, Mom. You know how I roll.”

Darcy chuckles, picturing Hunter and Jennifer sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by junk food and laughter. It's an image that warms her from the inside out.

"Sounds like we’ll have a great time. I'll wrap up my investigation as soon as I can so I can join the fun."

"No rush, Mom. I know you're out there saving the world, one case at a time."

“Yeah, something like that. Either that or I’m catching unfaithful spouses.”

“It pays my college bills,” he says. “Hey, Mom?”

She switches the phone to her other ear. “I’m listening.”

“I just wanted to say I love you.”

She stops inside the door. “Hunter, I love you too.”

“Well, I don’t say it enough. I appreciate everything you and Julian do for me and Jennifer. Not just paying for college expenses. Everything.”

She dabs a tear from her eye. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“Anyhow, the Wi-Fi on this plane sucks. I’d better go. See you in a few hours, okay? Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too, Hunter.”

For a moment, she stands there, letting the sunshine through the window warm her as footsteps approach from the living room.

"Mom?" Jennifer asks. "Are you okay? Why are you crying?"

Darcy looks up to see her daughter leaning against the jamb. She quickly wipes away the tears, a laugh escaping her lips.

"It’s all good. These are happy tears." She pulls her daughter into a hug. "I just got off the phone with your brother. He said the sweetest things."

Jennifer's face brightens. "Hunter's landing soon, right? I haven’t seen him since August."

Darcy brushes a strand of hair from the teen’s face. "He'll be here in a couple of hours. Julian's picking him up from the airport."

Jennifer bounces on her toes. A grin spreads across her face. "That's awesome. So much to catch up on. But don’t forget that Kaitlyn and I have tickets to the Arcade Fire concert tonight. I promise I'll spend the afternoon with Hunter before I meet up with her."

A few months ago, the thought of letting Jennifer go to a concert would have crippled her. Not anymore. With the last of Michael Rivers’ acolytes dead, she wants her kids to make up for lost time.

Darcy steps back and assesses Jennifer’s outfit. Her short-shorts leave nothing to the imagination.

“Please tell me you aren’t wearing those to the show.”

“What’s wrong with my shorts?”

“Even for shorts, they’re uh . . . short. I mean, why bother wearing anything at all? You’re basically walking around in your⁠—”

“Mom, I thought we talked about you loosening up.”

“I’m kidding. But seriously, change before you leave for the concert.”

Jennifer rolls her eyes. “If you insist.”

She gives Darcy another hug before dancing off to her room, already chattering about the outfit she'll wear tonight.

Darcy watches her go. Her babies are growing up. She wanders out to the deck, where Julian sits in an Adirondack chair, his face turned toward the sun. He looks content in a way that Darcy hasn't seen since before the Maxwell Sterling murders.

"Hey, you," she says, settling into a chair beside him. "How are you feeling?"

Julian turns to her. "Good. Really good, actually. The doc says I'm healing up nicely and shouldn't have any lasting effects from the stab wound."

Her hand finds his and squeezes. The memory of Julian lying in that hospital bed, his face pale, is one that will haunt her for a long time.

But he's here now. Alive and whole and by her side.

“Thank goodness. I don't know what I would've done if that knife had stabbed you a few inches closer to your⁠—”

"Don't. Don't go there, Darcy. We accept the risks."

They listen to the distant crash of waves against the shore. The air carries salt and pine and the promise of a new beginning.

"It will be great to have Hunter home," Julian says. "And Jennifer going to that concert with Kaitlyn. I never imagined we’d see this day."

“Nor did I.”

“What the hell is an Arcade Fire, anyhow?”

“They’re not new, Julian. You should listen to the radio more often.”

“I play the radio all the time.”

“Yeah, eighties metal,” she says.

“Still the best. They don’t make songs like that anymore.”

"Jennifer and Hunter are stronger than we give them credit for."

"They get that from their mother. Stubborn as hell and twice as tough."

“It seems like everyone is full of compliments today.”

He gives her a questioning look. “Come again?”

“Nothing. It’s just something Hunter said.”

He checks his watch. "Speaking of the college boy, I'd better head out. Don't want to keep Hunter waiting at the airport."

"Call me when you arrive."

Julian leans in and presses a kiss to her lips. "Will do."

He pushes himself out of the chair with care, reminding her of what almost happened in Vestal. Then he’s on his way to the airport.

Darcy leans back in the chair. The backyard is a riot of color, the trees ablaze with crimson and amber, the grass a lush green carpet. Seagulls wheel overhead.

It's a moment of perfect tranquility, a snapshot of the life she fought so hard to reclaim.

They made it. Against all odds, against everything that the universe threw at them, they survived.

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Copyright Information

Published by Dan Padavona

Visit my website at www.danpadavona.com

Copyright © 2023 by Dan Padavona

Artwork copyright © 2023 by Dan Padavona

Cover Design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

All Rights Reserved

Although some of the locations in this book are actual places, the characters and setting are wholly of the author's imagination. Any resemblance between the people in this book and people in the real world is purely coincidental and unintended.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

No writer journeys alone. Special thanks are in order to my editor, C.B. Moore, for providing invaluable feedback, catching errors, and making my story shine. I also wish to thank my brilliant cover designer, Caroline Teagle Johnson. Your artwork never ceases to amaze me. I owe so much of my success to your hard work. Shout outs to my advance readers, including Marcia Campbell, for catching those final pesky typos and plot holes. Most of all, thank you to my readers for your loyalty and support. You changed my life, and I am forever grateful.