A DARK KILL

BOOK #1 IN THE ERIN’S BAY THRILLERS

JK ELLEM

Copyright ©

28th Street Multimedia Group & JK Ellem

A Dark Kill is work of fiction.  Generative AI has not been used at any stage and this work is entirely the author’s. All incidents, dialogue and all characters are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

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* * *

CONTENTS

1. The List

2. Gratitude Journal

3. Mask

4. Abigail

5. Carolyn

6. Ride

7. Beach House

8. Panic Room

9. Morelli

10. Headless

11. Missing

12. Haunted House

13. Poor Jennifer

14. Think Worst Case

15. Road Rage

16. Dark History

17. Revenge

18. Teeth Marks

19. Tick Tock

20. Faceless

21. Visit

22. Chained Up

23. All Dead

24. Guest

25. Night Search

26. The Prisoner

27. Uninvited

28. Footprints

29. Hidden Room

30. Under the Sea

31. Prisoner

32. Fight

33. Retribution

34. Clue

35. Run

36. Spooky Cabin

37. Arrival

38. Caught

39. Shortcut

40. Flash Bang

41. Monster

42. Burn the Boats

43. Run Baby Run

44. Dark Stain

45. Gunshot

46. Can’t Leave

47. Jessop

48. Kill Him

49. Skull Face

50. Fight

51. Smashed Face

52. Sphere

53. Missing

54. Sneaky

55. Blinding

56. Scapegoat

57. Last Rites

58. Vanish

59. Questions

60. Tofu

61. Lioness

62. More Lies

63. Murder & Margaritas

64. Abraxas

65. The Fallen Angels

66. Sigma

67. Molly

68. Dear Mark

Epilogue

A Forgotten Kill

Synopsis

The Erin’s Bay Universe Diagram

The Erin’s Bay Universe

Also available by JK Ellem

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About the Author

A DARK KILL

1

THE LIST

“I’m making a list and checking it twice,” he sang to himself. “I’m gonna find out who’s naughty and nice. Someone bad has come to town.”

And it was a new town for him, full of promise, wonder, and new beginnings.

He had to be careful, though; he had to plan well and have contingencies in place. New faces in a town like this drew special attention. A lingering look, a frown, a snapshot of his face to be stored away inside some curious head only to be recalled at a later date.

There was the chief of police, Morelli, who he had seen strutting around town with the swagger of John Wayne in some dusty old 1960s western. Who the hell did he think he was? Smiling and waving to everyone like he was atop a Macy’s parade float. He looked slow, soft, and always the last to the bleeding edge.

Curious about what talent was on offer from the local police, he had stood outside Erin’s Bay PD one day and watched the comings and goings.

First, an older police officer, who looked like he couldn’t run ten yards without having a heart attack, waddled in as though he had all the time in the world. Next, a young kid, a rookie by the look of him, glued to his cell phone and giggling like some half-wit, walked out. Then an older woman appeared carrying a paper bag and takeout cups from that bakery on Main Street. He knew she had worked at the police station for a few years now; she was the dispatcher and all-around office grunt.

She had piqued his interest. She’d probably walked that route a million times before, like some decrepit gopher, to the bakery and back, but her eyes took in everything as if seeing the town for the first time. Maybe that’s why she had the look of a village busybody from an Agatha Christie novel.

Apparently, the old biddy had her finger on the pulse of the entire town and knew all the gossip. Probably fancied herself as an amateur detective, always sticking her nose into other people’s business. Observant, though. Definitely one to keep an eye on.

Then, to his surprise, he had seen Carolyn Ryder. She had stormed out like she was in a hurry or just pissed off at the world and everyone in it. The rumor around town was that she and Morelli were an item. Maybe she was just visiting, and they’d had an argument.

Trouble seemed to follow her wherever she went. She stirred up trouble in Ravenwood around Halloween and was also responsible for what happened in Erin’s Bay the summer before. Then there was that murderous trio who had kidnapped then held hostage that mother and daughter in their home just before Christmas. She was involved in that too. She became an overnight celebrity.

Rotten bitch.

She may have retired from the FBI, but she looked whip-smart and sneaky as all hell. Unlike Miss Marple from the police station, Ryder was the real deal, not some local stooge who could be easily fooled.

Even though he was good at flying under the radar, not being noticed and leaving no tracks, he’d have to watch himself around her.

He looked down at the list of names on the notepad and kept humming the tune to himself. “Who is being naughty, and who’s being nice?”

He thought the urge would go away, at least fade into the background. But with each passing day since he arrived, the craving had grown steadily worse. At night, he would wake up, dripping in sweat. Other times, insomnia plagued him to dawn. The demon was back, or perhaps it never really left. It was always there, deep in his black soul.

People wouldn’t understand, could never understand, and that was just fine by him. In his own mind, it was he who was the normal one, and it was all the others who were demented.

He worked his way down the list of names, putting a face to each. The list had been much longer. So many to choose from, but begrudgingly, he had whittled it down to half a dozen.

Naughty or nice? Such a delicious dilemma. And not just one. He could have them all if he wanted. Abundance.

Experience had taught him that it was the ones who were naughty who were oddly the most vulnerable. Sure, outwardly, they projected resilience, confidence, an aura of invincibility. Yet, when you started to dismantle them, piece by piece, and flood them with a type of raw, clawing fear they never thought existed, they soon caved and fell apart.

The nice ones were more cautious, always doing the right thing, their lives dictated by rules and societal norms. They buried their resilience below the surface so you couldn’t see it. But it was there all right.

The tip of his pencil hovered, moved down one line, then slid back up to the name at the top of his list. His first choice. He circled the name. She would do nicely.

He knew where she lived. He knew her mother and had spoken to her several times. She was a single mom struggling to make ends meet. He was familiar with the layout of their house, including the number of doors and the types of locks: no pets, no alarms, no high fences, no security cameras.

God, he loved this sleepy little town.

Well, that was all going to change.

The urge was now too strong. He had to feed it soon, before it devoured him completely.

2

GRATITUDE JOURNAL

The psychiatrist, Dr. Greenwood, said I should keep a gratitude journal to record all the things I should be grateful for in my life.

Well, I’m grateful that I’m still alive. Who wouldn’t be after what I’ve been through?

They say that once gratefulness is gone, you lose the will to keep living and release the dark demon we all keep locked in the basement of our minds.

Then, it’s over.

I’ve made a new friend too. So, I guess I’m grateful for that as well. It’s early days yet, but I really like her. We seem to share the same rare DNA about what’s right and what’s wrong. What others may tolerate, and what we won’t.

It’s said that you don’t have any real friends at first, just people you know who you’re still judging worthy of earning the title of genuine friend. A genuine friend is someone you share all your secrets with—no matter how dark and bad they are. And I’ve got some terrible secrets—one in particular.

But can you really call it bad if you believe deep down that you are doing the right thing, even if most people think it’s murder?

In the past, I’ve been such a poor judge of character, but I have good feelings about this person, feelings I’ve never had before about anyone. Mind you, considering what just happened, I’m still cautious. How could I not be? I almost died.

I’m also grateful for how I’ve changed as a person in just a few short months. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger? Isn’t that what they say?

Perhaps cheating death really changes you for the better. Well, it has certainly made me a better person. It has brought me closer to the person I always knew I could be.

The psychiatrist also said I could either use the experience as a positive, to fortify my resilience and bolster my determination, or I could view it as a negative and allow it to weaken me and become a fearful person.

So, I choose to be stronger, and I will keep getting stronger.

Last but not least, I am most grateful for the fact that he is dead and that I killed him. At first, I didn’t enjoy having that responsibility—the blame hanging over my head. Yet the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that through his death, I saved the lives of others, not just my own.

I’m not a bad person, honest. I’ve just had bad things done to me by truly evil people. Now, I can move on—not rebuild my life but create an entirely new life: a clean slate, a fresh start.

Sure, the past will always lurk in the back of my mind. However, I’m looking forward to a brighter future.

Closure. It’s such a strange term. I believe there’s never really any actual closure, just varying degrees of closing the door that leads you back to that dark place you never want to return to—the door that is never truly closed for good. It always remains slightly ajar, offering you a narrow glimpse of what once was and what could so easily be again—if you allow it. Allow that demon to slither out of its dungeon again.

The hurt, pain, and suffering never really go away. Partially closing the doorway to Hell only stems the flow to a trickle, like blood trickling out of your heart. It’s a constant wound, partially sutured, never truly healed.

Jeez! This gratitude journal is sounding grim.

I’m grateful spring is finally here and the chills of winter are gone. While I love crackling log fires and cozy evenings spent curled up on the sofa, I’m looking forward to walks on the beach, the warm sun on my face, and the soft sand beneath my feet.

Dr. Greenwood was right. Keeping a gratitude journal, getting my thoughts down on paper, forces me to reflect on all the good that has come out of the bad.

I'll continue to keep my journal, but I cannot promise to write in it every day. I’ll only write in it when I have something to be grateful for.

I just have to be careful, though; I have to watch my step. I know the truth about what happened. My truth. Others may not see it the same way I do. They have their own version of the truth. That’s the thing about “the truth.” It’s malleable, fluid, not fixed. It changes as sure as the seasons do, and with it, I must also change and adapt. We all do, not just to survive but to live and love.

Now, I just need to figure out how to get rid of the body.

3

MASK

When Bronte Perkins left Something Fishy, the waterfront diner down by Erin’s Bay boat harbor, it was just after eleven at night. It had been a slow evening, the calm before the summer storm when the population in Erin’s Bay quadrupled thanks to the summer tourists.

She was a little more than jumpy as she walked down the street. It was the podcast she had been listening to, “Killers Next Door.” She was addicted to true-crime podcasts. It always fascinated her how people just went missing—on the way home, getting off the bus, ten feet from their front door, or leaving a party on foot rather than catching a ride, people just vanished. She often wondered where they went.

Kelly, another staff member at the diner, said that most people just take off and don’t want to be found. If that was the case, then why, when the police checked their home, were all their belongings still there?

“Maybe they want a new life?” Kelly had suggested. “Out with the old and in with the new.”

Bronte disagreed. People disappeared because something bad had happened to them, not because they were running away from life’s troubles. Plain and simple. They had crossed paths with a killer, and that was it. Game over.

Stupid Kelly. What would she know? She had a boyfriend, Matt, who waited for her in the parking lot after work just to make sure she got home safely. Bronte had no one, just her mom, Elizabeth. Her father, Dan, had died five years back. Emphysema.

Kelly said Bronte was being dramatic, trying to scare everyone with her crazy conspiracy theories.

Reaching the intersection, Bronte paused and looked around. Main Street was deserted, and in the distance, she could hear Taylor Swift singing “Better Than Revenge” from Thirst and Ten Sports bar. The Ravens’ game against Kansas City meant the bar would undoubtedly be full. Christ! Why doesn’t Patrick Mahomes tear an ACL or rip a hamstring this season and give all the other teams a chance?

She crossed the street before passing Driftwood Bakery. It was another three blocks to the townhouse where she lived with her mom.

Matt and Kelly had offered her a ride home, but Bronte had refused. It was only a short walk, and the street was brightly lit. And she hated being reliant on other people, even if it was Kelly and her boyfriend.

Bronte reached the end of the block, then paused and turned around.

A strange feeling came over her. She could see no one else, yet she had a distinct feeling that someone was there, following her.

Revenge?

Her mind drifted back to that guy who had come into the diner a few months back looking for a woman who used to live in Erin’s Bay. He was certainly good-looking, but then Bronte got the distinct feeling that he was perhaps the woman’s ex-boyfriend, trying to track her down for all the wrong reasons. Revenge maybe.

She shook it off and crossed another street.

Only two blocks to go.

Moments later, she caught sight of her mom’s townhouse, the shades drawn but a welcoming glow of lights inside that she had left on for Bronte.

Rummaging through her bag, she pulled out her keys—then stopped again.

Turning, she looked behind her.

No one.

She gave a little shiver, regretting not accepting the car ride after all. But she was almost home. Nothing bad was going to happen to her, and she was within eyesight of home, anyway. She should really stop listening to those podcasts. They were making her too anxious and giving her nightmares.

Bronte quickly opened the front door, slid inside, and promptly shut it behind her, locking it before putting on the security chain. Leaning against the door, she breathed a sigh of relief, her heart thumping.

The living room felt warm and safe now that she was inside and the door locked firmly behind her.

On the kitchen counter, she found a Post-it Note with her mom’s familiar scrawl. Hey, Hon, leftover lasagna in the fridge if you’re hungry. XXX. 

A tear gathered in one eye as Bronte read the note again, her heart feeling like a lump of lead. It was just her and her mom now, the two of them facing the world together.

Bronte wasn’t hungry. All she wanted to do was take a hot shower and crash.

Turning, she noticed that one of the kitchen's sash windows was slightly up, just a couple of inches, and a warm breeze was coming in.

Her mom usually checked all the windows before going to bed.

Then a noise came from behind her.

Bronte whirled around—but it was too late.

Cruel, gloating eyes stared out at her from the sunken eye sockets of a pure black skull. It was as if all the flesh had burned away, leaving just charred bone. Coal-dark feathers, swept back like a huge raven’s ruffled plumage topped the skull’s crown. The beast had no mouth, no nose, just a narrow appendage that curved downward beneath the eyes, forming a sharp, flesh-tearing beak. A scream snagged in Bronte’s throat as the hideous thing—shrouded in a billowing cloak—floated toward her.

Then the beast spoke, its voice hollow and nasal, as if echoing up from the depths of some infernal place where the rotting bones of the undead gathered. “Bronte.”

Bronte sank to the kitchen floor, whimpering moans filling her ears, her eyes fixated on this hellish nightmare.

The beast loomed over her cowering form.

“So much to live for. So little to die for.”

4

ABIGAIL

Atomic blonde was the color of her hair, that blinding shade of white that hits you just before the mushroom cloud billows up from the point of detonation.

Abigail Brenner, or Abby to her friends, was like nuclear fission: hard to contain and almost impossible to control. But if you could, then her loyalty and friendship could power you for the rest of your life.

The speed limit said fifty-five, but Abby didn’t care.

She checked her look in the rearview mirror as the wind ruffled her sharp bob cut.

Perfect, as always.

With her willowy, statuesque shape—thanks to a metabolism that burned off whatever she ate—and her trademark cherry-red lipstick and cherry-red sunglasses that contrasted against her deathly pale skin, Abigail Brenner didn’t just turn heads wherever she went. She twisted spines out of shape.

Her sometimes doe-eyed demeanor had fooled many a boy, young man, and ogling husband. She could pout when needed, look sultry when required, and bring on Academy Award-winning tears if it meant getting her way. People said she was spoiled and that her private school education had been wasted on her. But behind those flint-gray eyes lay a shrewd and calculating young woman.

One summer, her mother had made the unenviable trip to Paris after receiving that dreaded midnight phone call from the French authorities. Abby, who was in Europe at a prestigious finishing school for young women, had gotten into an altercation with the police, who had raided a party she was attending. Intoxicated, Abby lashed out at a police officer, and the police promptly took her into custody.

Needless to say, Abby Brenner didn’t graduate that summer from the Parisian School of Deportment and Fine Learning for Young Ladies. Let off after a stern warning, she returned home to the family property to lick her wounds and lie low.

And while others saw family wealth as a privilege, Abby saw it as a burden.

Ignoring the speed limit, she pressed the gas pedal a little further, enjoying the warm spring sun on her face, the sea wind in her hair, and the fresh smell of the ocean and beach. The cherry-red Mustang convertible lurched, the speedometer needle clawing eighty miles per hour as she hammered along the ocean road, the big throaty V-8 and twin-pipe exhausts belting out a roar in its wake.

The car was the first thing she’d bought herself when she turned eighteen and could access the first portion of her trust fund. Now, thanks to her father, she had access to all of it—and more if need be.

She was cautious with her money and didn’t squander it on frivolous things, unlike most of her friends. Over the last few tumultuous years, she had done a lot of growing up. She had to.

A flock of gulls burst from the rocky shoreline and took flight as the Mustang roared past. Abby threw her head back and screamed with delight, her thin, white-knuckled fingers gripping the steering wheel as a feverish gleam shone in her eyes.

Sand dunes, rocky outcrops, torn cliffs, and an infinite expanse of blue unfurled on the right. The Atlantic glistened and rolled like a carpet of diamonds on a bed of sapphires.

Along a curve of the peninsula, in the distance and through the salty haze, the township of Erin’s Bay lay nestled. Farther along the peninsula sat an imposing line of sprawling beachfront estates of glass and stone and eye-watering wealth, old money that had come to Erin’s Bay long before it was fashionable to leave New York City.

The Brenner property was the last one on the peninsula, at the very tip, and it was the largest. Across the channel from the Brenner property, set among the crashing waves, was the dark, brooding shape of Moors Island with the lighthouse atop it.

Abby gripped the wheel tighter, her grin growing wider, and gunned the engine as the road dipped inland between plains of low scrub and sandy dunes speckled with tufts of sand grass. The road straightened again for the final run into the town. The car was a reflection of Abby, her personality. And she was a reflection of it—brash, ballsy, restrained wildness. People had tried to talk her out of buying it, told her to buy something European, something safe, more ladylike. But as soon as she saw it on the dealership lot, she knew it was waiting there for her, like a predator, hunkered down, ready to pounce. She wasn’t a car person, but once she saw it, she knew she had to have it. The salesman had tried to steer her away from it. “Oh, you don’t want to get mixed up with a car like that. You couldn’t handle it. Too hard to tame for a woman like you. Now, over here, I have a nice little compact sedan—a hybrid made in China.”

In the distance, along the shoulder of the road, she spotted a shape—a person—moving through the shimmering haze.

“Well, what do we have here?” Abby tilted her sunglasses down and gazed over the frames as the back of a person jogging along the coastal road came into view.

The person—a woman—cut a lonely upright figure among the surrounding flatness, jogging along the shoulder of the road in the bright sunshine and heading toward the town.

The Mustang whined like a spoiled child as Abby touched the brakes, then downshifted, slowing the grumbling vehicle to within the speed limit for the first time since she had hit the coastal road five miles back.

Erin’s Bay was a small place, and she knew everyone, and everyone knew her. But the woman growing through the car’s windshield in front of Abby was not someone she recognized. Who the hell jogs along the beach road this early in the morning? They didn’t look like a tourist either.

Abby checked her rearview mirror. The road was deserted.

She kicked down another gear, the car protesting loudly as her momentum slowed.

Still, the woman hadn’t turned around. Either she was arrogant or—Abby’s eyes narrowed, and the tip of her tongue slid mischievously back and forth across a row of sharp and perfectly white teeth. The woman—whoever it was—knew the sound of her car. It didn’t seem to bother her. Now, Abby was definitely intrigued and pleased because she loved being heard before she was seen.

She pulled off the road and onto the shoulder, the wide tires crunching on the gravel and dirt as she slid up next to the woman, who had now stopped running and had turned to her. Her face was red from exertion, and her dark hair clung to it in thick, sweaty strands.

“Need a ride?” Abby peered over the frame of her sunglasses and put on a subtle smile, almost feigning disinterest, as if she were doing her Good Samaritan deed for the day.

Then Abby recognized the woman. “You ghosted me!” Abby said.

5

CAROLYN

Carolyn Ryder stood still and looked down at the young woman looking back at her from within the bright red Mustang, heat radiating off the hood, the untamed purr of the twin exhausts at the rear.

Red lipstick, red sunglasses, deathly white skin, and willowy limbs. Blood red on white snow.

“I’m fine, Abigail,” Carolyn replied. “I’ve got a few more miles left to run.” Carolyn took everything in—the idling car, the young woman, the way she looked, and the way she looked at her. “I like your car, by the way. It suits you.”

Abigail beamed. “You know the sound of it,” she replied, a smirk on her face. “And what happened to our coffee date a few months back? You said you’d call me before christnotchristmas.” She gave a playful pout.

“Christ…not…Christmas? That’s not even a word.”

Abby shrugged. “It’s a mood I get during the stupid season. I hate Christmas and all the crap that goes with it. You know, pretending to be nice and festive to people you don’t like. Hugging relatives who you see less than the mailman.”

Carolyn smiled. Yeah, she knew precisely what Abby meant—keeping up appearances for the sake of fitting in and playing the part. She thought this year would be different with Morelli. Carolyn had been looking forward to it. Then Santa’s Little Helpers decided to gatecrash Erin’s Bay, and her festive mood went out the window when she had walked out the door, leaving Morelli angry, sad, and alone. Anyway, that’s a story for another day.

“Sorry, Abby. Things just got a little hectic.”

Abby gave a knowing smile. “Hectic? They sure did. You kicked some real ass, Carolyn. Put those three murdering SOBs into the ground. Now, everyone around here loves you. You’re a local hero. Hell, I heard you even got a call from Andrea Cooper wanting an interview.”

“Anderson Cooper.”

Abby frowned. “I saw somewhere on TikTok that he was transitioning.”

“Now you’re just talking shit, Abby.”

Abby checked her bangs in the rearview mirror. Her red lips now had a sly shape to them. She turned back to Carolyn and patted the side of the door like she was petting a compliant tiger. “Come on, get in. Spend some time with me.” She raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Or are you too much of a celebrity now? Do my people have to call your people and set something up?”

“Ugh!” Carolyn rolled her eyes. Being thrust into the limelight again wasn’t the outcome she wanted or expected. In her mind, she was no hero and certainly no celebrity. She detested fame in all its forms. But Anderson Cooper had called—God knows how he’d gotten her cell phone number—and Carolyn politely refused.

It was still nice, though, to have complete strangers walking up to her, thanking her, and wanting to shake her hand, much to Morelli’s chagrin, she imagined, and getting more attention than him. She had drawn the line at selfies. She didn’t want to glorify the small role she played in what was a very sinister and ugly incident by having photos of her circulating the Internet. What had transpired was vile enough; she just didn’t want her intervention going viral by appearing to take advantage of it.

Carolyn stepped closer. “I really should finish my run. What about later this week? My treat.”

Abby waved her off. “I’m worth gazillions. If anyone is paying, it’s me. Plus, you don’t have a job. No steady income.”

That part was true. They had first bumped into each other at Snappies last summer, then again at the farmer’s market last fall, where Abigail Brenner had properly introduced herself and insisted Carolyn call her Abby. They parted ways, but not before Abigail insisted they meet for coffee the following week. Abigail said she wanted to give Carolyn a tour of Erin’s Bay in her car and show her all the sights. Then that thing happened with Santa’s Little Killers, and Carolyn had plain forgotten all about it. Since then, Carolyn had seen—and heard—Abigail’s Mustang roaring along the coast road.

Abby twisted and rested both elbows on the windowsill. “Are you sure? It’s warm out.”

Carolyn looked toward the township nestled in the distant haze. Then she looked back at Abby. “Look, I really appreciate the offer, but I’m happy to keep running. It’s fun.”

Undeterred, Abigail cocked her head. “Doesn’t look like fun. Looks more like you’re running from a monster or something.”

Carolyn let out a laugh. She liked this young woman. Despite her age, she was remarkably perceptive, as if she had a sixth sense—mature beyond her years. She could see Ellie and Abigail getting along really well if they should ever meet.

“Abigail Brenner,” Carolyn said. “Do many people say no to you?”

The young woman snorted. “Not many, and those who do aren’t worth asking in the first place.”

She was persistent. Carolyn gave her that.

“I’ll give you that tour around the town,” Abby added. “Lived here all my life.”

It was an offer worth considering.

Abby’s eyes softened. “Please.”

It was genuine, almost like a request for help. It tipped Carolyn over the edge of indecision. Carolyn sighed, then climbed into the passenger seat.

“Buckle up,” Abby said, a sly smile on her face.

“I want to get home in one piece eventually,” Carolyn replied, double-checking that the seatbelt was firmly in place. Was this a bad idea? Now, she felt like a child who suddenly regretted strapping herself into a rollercoaster and was considering waving down the attendant not to start the ride, allowing her to get off.

Abby sat back in her seat and gunned the engine. “Don’t worry.” She slid the sunglasses back up her nose. “Trust me. I’ll go real slow.”

Somehow, Carolyn didn’t feel better.

Abby kicked the car into gear and floored the accelerator pedal. The Mustang fishtailed off the shoulder in a flurry of dust and gravel before the spinning rear tires gripped the blacktop, and the car shot off down the highway like a space shuttle from its launch pad.

6

RIDE

The town of Erin’s Bay had a population of approximately 2,000 people.

In the summer months, that number increased. However, the town kept a low profile, thus avoiding the typical tidal wave of tourists that hit the more fashionable towns and ports of Suffolk County.

The Mustang sliced slowly down Main Street like a leopard stalking ever so watchfully through the tall grass of an African savannah, Abby pointing out typical places of interest that she may have missed during her first few months in the bay.

Cute gift stores, rustic coffee shops, and numerous eateries, all with outdoor seating, were filled with people enjoying the sunshine and clear skies, gliding past while Carolyn wore her Oakley running sunglasses. She had to admit, she rarely came into town if she could help it. That wasn’t because she didn’t like the town, far from it. She just preferred—for obvious reasons—to keep a low profile, and being perched in the passenger seat of such a conspicuous ride next to such a conspicuous person didn’t help.

“Chill, Carolyn,” Abby said, seeming to enjoy the turning heads. “You can’t squirrel yourself away forever.” She shot Carolyn a sideways glance. “Let them see you. They’ll soon lose interest and move on to something else.”

It made sense to Carolyn, who was pretty sure that a few miles back on the highway into town, she had left behind her stomach when the Mustang had hit ninety. Abby had brushed off Carolyn’s protests to slow down, that she’d get them both killed, saying that she thought the limit was ninety.

Much to Carolyn’s relief, and leaving the township behind, Abby turned back onto the coastal road and headed toward the peninsula.

Two miles out of town, a line of magnificent beachfront properties slid into view. Huge sprawling gated estates, partially hidden behind tall walls of brick or perfectly manicured hedges, gleaming German or British marques sitting in their driveways.

“I did not know all this existed around here,” Carolyn said in awe. While she had been living in Erin’s Bay for a while now, this was an area north of the township she had never explored. It was also farther along the curve of the coastline and hidden from view.

The architecture ranged from modern industrial chic, featuring cold concrete, industrial glass, and steel, to the more traditional Hamptons style, characterized by long, sweeping rooflines, white weatherboards, and gray shutters. It was a small enclave of ostentatious wealth and privilege, all marked by imposing driveway gates and security cameras.

“Old money mostly,” Abby said. “Lifestyles of the rich and undeserving,” she added with a hint of sarcasm. The rear of the sprawling estates ran all the way to the dunes, with unfettered access to the pristine beach beyond. Most had multiple structures separate from the main house, such as individual guesthouses that were themselves the size of a typical three-bedroom suburban house. Carolyn assumed the owners of such places likely didn’t know what inflation was or didn’t care about the cost of premium gas or store-bought milk. They likely had chauffeurs and housekeepers to attend to all that for them.

On the opposite side of the coastal road, a line of rugged cliffs rose on the left that overlooked the mansions below and the ocean beyond.

An isolated mansion, desolate and gothic-looking, sat perched at the very edge of the cliffs, almost as if it was about to topple over and come crashing down onto the road. Its sharp gables, dark shingles, and conical turrets reminded Carolyn of Norman Bates’s house in Psycho.

Carolyn pointed. “Who lives up in Dracula’s mansion?”

“The Ballards used to,” Abby said, gazing up at the cliff tops.

“The Ballards used to?”

Abby nodded. “Newspapers, old media. Made their money in the seventies. Nice enough people, but their son, Luke….” Behind the cherry-red sunglasses, Abby’s face turned to stone-cold alabaster, and she clenched the steering wheel tighter. Then she shook it off like she was breaking from some trance and was all red-lipped smiles and white teeth again. “The parents moved out some time back.”

Carolyn didn’t know what to make of Abby’s sudden back-and-forth mood swing. Luke Ballard? Maybe some bad blood there.

“The place is locked up,” Abby continued. “It’s for sale, has been for a while, but no one is interested in it. But it’s the perfect place.”

“Perfect place for what? Shooting a horror movie?”

Abigail laughed. “No, silly.” She threw Carolyn a devious look. “It’s the perfect place to hide yourself or hide someone else.”

Carolyn glanced at the creepy mansion in the side mirror as they continued past, following the gentle sweep of the road around the base of the cliffs. “What’s the story with their son?” she asked. “Luke?”

Abby wrinkled her nose. “Another one of those stories for another day.”

Carolyn decided not to press the point.

Abby nodded ahead to another high wall that came into view. “That’s the Hanson Family estate.”

Like the others, it was a sprawling, gated monstrosity. However, unlike the others, which only had one security camera at the front, the Hanson estate was equipped with several cameras, much like a CIA building. And the gates and walls appeared a little more heavy duty.

The name sounded familiar to Carolyn. Morelli might have mentioned it. “And what do the Hansons do?” she asked.

“Packaging. They have a plant in Idaho and one overseas.”

“Didn’t their son…?”

“Teddy Hanson,” Abby cut in with a sneer. “Yeah, a prick he was. He vanished a few years back.” She glanced at Carolyn. “And good riddance to him, I say. I hope he never turns up.”

Carolyn raised an eyebrow. More bad blood. It seemed that Erin’s Bay, like most small communities, had its fair share of family feuds. All this was news to Carolyn. While she was never one to care about such things, it certainly was good to know. You never know when such information might prove useful.

Abby pressed the gas a little more, and the engine purred in appreciation. “Do you know much about cars?” They drove past the last estate to reveal a wide, clear stretch of beach and ocean in front of them.

“No, not really. Just know how to drive them.”

Carolyn didn’t really know much about cars mechanically, including what was under the hood or what made them run again if they stopped. But she could identify almost every make and model of car at a glance. She also knew how to evade a tail if she was being followed. She knew emergency maneuvers and how to use a car as a weapon if needed.

“So, where to next?” Carolyn asked, her gaze on the passing landscape. A stretch of dunes followed, and then another enormous property, about a quarter of a mile farther away, came into view.

Abby smiled, then slowed the car. “My place.”

The Mustang slowed a little more, and they turned into a wide, paved driveway, parking in front of a set of tall, black, wrought-iron gates. She turned to Carolyn, lifted her sunglasses, and propped them on the top of her head. “You can stay with me for a few days if you want.”

“I have a place of my own,” Carolyn said, looking at the vast mansion beyond the gates that was set among an oasis of manicured lawns, topiary hedges, fountains, and flowering blooms. It would take an army of gardeners and house staff to maintain the place.

Abby radiated one of her sly smiles. “You had a place of your own. Isn’t that what you meant?”

Carolyn eyed Abby. How the hell could she know? No one was supposed to know. “Who told you?”

Abby gave a dreary look. “Not much happens around here without me knowing.”

“You mean not much gossip, that is,” Carolyn replied. It had to be Alice Munroe back at the Erin’s Bay Police Department. She had promised Carolyn she wouldn’t tell anyone, and, of course, Morelli was too embarrassed to tell anyone—typical male.

“We have a separate guesthouse near the beach at the back of the property. It’s empty, fully self-contained, and private.” Abby was doing her best sales pitch to convince Carolyn. “All meals provided,” she added. “We have a staff of five, who will provide anything you need—better than any five-star hotel.”

“I’m good,” Carolyn replied.

“Well, at least come inside then,” Abby relented, pressing the gate remote. The enormous gates began their laborious opening.

“What about your parents?” Carolyn asked. “What would they say about you turning up with a complete stranger?”

“My father is out sailing.”

“And your mother?” Carolyn knew very little about Abigail Brenner, the entire Brenner family, come to think of it.

Abby’s smile vanished, her face became cold, and her voice had a raw edge to it. “My mother is dead.”

Like before, the transformation in Abby’s personality was amazing. Carolyn could feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She could switch from beautiful gazelle to ruthless lioness in the blink of an eye.

“My God, Abby. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to….”

“Don’t worry about it,” Abby said. She turned to Carolyn as they drove through the gates, the smile now back on her face. The gazelle had returned.

7

BEACH HOUSE

Carolyn walked along the dirt track that led down from a lonely back road of broken blacktop, through the tangled undergrowth and onto a sandy path that snaked its way among sand dunes speckled with tufts of beach grass.

During the short walk toward the crashing sound of the surf, which intensified with each step she took, her mind drifted back to the last few hours spent with Abby. They had lazed by an enormous pool overlooking a private beach and the ocean beyond. Abby told Carolyn about the horrible events that had happened to her and her mother and father. Carolyn was shocked, to put it mildly. After a leisurely lunch, Abby dropped her back, and before Carolyn climbed out, she gave Abby an enormous hug and tried to hide the tears in her own eyes. Abby’s powerful will, fierceness, and grit to survive such a hideous trauma reminded Carolyn so much of Ellie.

She should call her and see how she’s doing in New York with Vega. Would it seem like she was checking up on her, though? Mothering her too much? Maybe a quick text would suffice. Hi, how’s it going? Ellie wasn’t her daughter, so she shouldn’t be expecting a weekly call or anything from her. But how she missed her. Her moving to New York—while probably for the best—had left a hole in Carolyn’s heart.

Ahead, a structure came into view, pulling Carolyn back from sad thoughts.

Secluded and cozy beach house. That’s what the sign had said in the realtor’s window in town that had caught Carolyn Ryder’s attention. Upon inquiry, the agent stated that the house was not appealing to families and summer renters, who typically sought something larger and closer to the center of town. It was still within a few miles’ drive of the township, and for Carolyn, it was the idyllic hideaway far from prying eyes and with the beach at her back door.

Since moving in two months ago, Carolyn had added a few personal touches of her own in her spare time. And at the moment, she had plenty of spare time on her hands.

The beach house was hardly big enough to be called a house, more like a cottage. But to Carolyn, beach house sounded better.

It had a gabled roof, cedar shingles, white wooden shutters, and a sturdy wraparound porch where she spent her mornings drinking coffee while watching the sunrise. In the evenings, she sat on a deck chair, drinking red wine from a local vineyard while watching the moon rise in the night sky.

The shutters were sky blue, recently painted by the look of them. But the white double-hung windows were peeling and in dire need of paint. The owner provided the paint, brushes, and free rent for the first month, and in return, Carolyn sanded and painted them.

Inside, it had just one bedroom, an open, airy kitchen with glass cabinetry, and a small breakfast bar with two stools. A heavy ceramic farmhouse sink sat beneath a wide panoramic window that looked out onto the rear porch and an uninterrupted view of the beach and ocean beyond.

It was smaller than the previous beach house she had rented at the top of the cliffs just outside of town, and she soon adopted a daily routine of exploring the surrounding dunes, rugged coastline, and deserted beaches. Her regimen involved long walks, and she quickly discovered a plethora of small coves, secluded inlets, and rock pools teeming with marine life.

During these excursions, she would spend hours just sitting on the rocks or barefoot on the beach, alone with her thoughts, preferring the solace of her own company. The birdlife, the soothing to-and-fro of the waves, the clear morning skies of spring, and the warm nights provided a perfect backdrop for her to clear her mind once again and reset her life.

Her daily walks, local fresh produce, and time spent outdoors in the sun and salt air had melted away the extra pounds, giving her a lean, supple, and hardened body and mind as well.

The house had come furnished—nice, practical pieces in almost new condition. But it was the hallstand by the front door that she gravitated to. Made of solid teak, someone had worked lovingly to restore it. Recently, too, just like the window shutters. Maybe the previous tenant did it. It had only a single small drawer at the front, with a large brass handle. The inside of the drawer smelled of candle wax. Someone had lubricated the slides, so it was smooth and fast to pull out.

Reaching the porch, Carolyn unlocked the front door and went inside.

She opened the hallstand drawer and felt a ripple of reassurance as she stared inside.

Some fears—maybe old habits—never went away. Some demons could never truly be exorcized. They always lurked somewhere in the dark spaces of the human mind. Carolyn knew this all too well. So she kept her spare gun in the hallstand drawer, barrel pointing in, grip facing out, round in the chamber. Good to go.

If the demons of her past were to come knocking again, she would be ready for them—again.

8

PANIC ROOM

She stood at the front door.

To the untrained eye, it looked like any other entrance door one would expect to find at a rural homestead.

While its outward appearance was designed not to draw attention, there were subtle nuances if you looked closely. The door was now made of solid American Oak. It had thicker hinges with steel shields and tamper-proof screws. The reinforced door jamb had metal folded inserts and an all-metal frame painted to resemble wood.

Susan Edison turned behind her and looked past where she had just parked her white Tesla to the new wrought-iron automatic security gates a hundred yards farther away. Good, they had locked firmly.

She turned back to the front door. Security cameras were watching her, but they were not obvious. Because being obvious drew attention, and that’s not what she wanted.

In the last few months, she had deleted the family’s social media accounts—switching them from public to private only meant that hackers could still access them. It was a far cry from when their social media proclaimed to the world everything she and her family had done and were going to do in the future.

She entered the code into the keypad next to the door, and it opened with a resounding clunk. Similar keypads provided access control on all the other external doors, along with internal security cameras that monitored every square foot with a constant live video feed streamed back to her cell phone and the display in her Tesla.

New high-tech security cameras with motion sensors had been installed in the woods surrounding the property. They covered every approach to the house, whether from the road or the woods, all in crystal-clear, 24-megapixel, high-definition resolution, with a night vision range of up to 200 feet. With their woodland-tree-bark camouflage and curved, tree-hugging shape, the all-weather cameras were virtually invisible during the day, let alone at night.

She hadn’t told Roy, her husband, about these cameras, and the contractors had been very discreet during the installation. Not that she didn’t trust him. But for her and Molly’s safety within their home, there were just some things you shouldn’t share with your husband. It wasn’t a matter of trust. It was a matter of forgetfulness on his part, whether with friends at a bar or colleagues at work standing around the water cooler. Roy, like any typical salesman, liked to brag.

In the kitchen, Susan placed her bag on the countertop. Molly, their five-year-old, was spending the week with the grandparents, and Roy, a salesman for a medical supplies company, was attending yet another conference and wouldn’t be back for a few more days.

Lifting her shirt, she slipped out the Glock 43 compact handgun, press-checked the slide, making sure a round was in the chamber, and slid the gun back in its holster before concealing it again under her shirt. At home, in the car, at the store, she was never without it. It had taken some time getting used to carrying it concealed. At first, it felt alien and awkward, making her self-conscious. She was hesitant to carry it with a live round in the chamber, but her instructor had told her it was preferred. “Racking the slide will cost you precious seconds, Susan, if you need to stop an imminent threat,” Carl, a retired US Army veteran who had been active in Desert Storm, had said. It required Susan to alter her everyday clothing but not her style.

Behind the kitchen, Susan made her way into the open pantry and down a small, narrow corridor to the far end, where there was a sliding pocket door. There was no handle insert, no visible lock or latch, and no obvious way to open the door. A small panel with a square glass screen sat on the wall at her precise shoulder height.

Since its completion, Susan had only been inside the room three times.

She glanced over her shoulder, back to where she had come from. Perhaps it was just a self-conscious feeling that she was doing something bad, something immoral, by entering the room. Or maybe—and closer to the truth—she was now more fearful than ever, especially in such a big house, and after what had happened. Was anyone truly ever safe, even within their own home?

She turned back and pressed her thumb to the screen. There came a faint click, and the pocket door slid silently back, vanishing entirely into the wall. Lights automatically came on, and Susan stepped inside, the door closing swiftly and silently behind her.

In her brief to the contractor, she'd insisted that the room be minimalist, not cluttered with some of the usual paraphernalia he’d shown her from projects his company had done for its exclusive clientele. It contained a small refrigerator filled with plastic bottles of spring water, three comfortable chairs, and a box of toys and books for Molly. A custom-made, small safe, recessed into one wall at the perfect height, allowed Susan to open it easily with a thumb scan and reach inside.

Power could be cut to the main house, the entire state, even the whole county, and everything inside the room, including the motorized sliding pocket door and locking mechanism, would continue to operate perfectly, including the room’s separate ventilation system, all thanks to a clever, solar-powered backup battery system installed on the roof.

The room contained nothing else because nothing else was needed. Susan didn’t expect to hide for over thirty minutes at the most, waiting for the police to arrive. And she prayed to God that she would never have to use the room. But, like everything else in her now carefully constructed life, she had taken precautions, implemented double overage, prepared for the worst-case scenario—not through choice but through necessity. The sudden, unexpected, and violent intrusion by those three men had forced her to reassess her and Molly’s safety within their own home. After seeing Jodie Foster in Panic Room in 2002, Susan Edison knew that if she ever had a family, more than anything else, she would have a panic room of her very own.

While she loved Roy, he was expendable. Quality men of good stature were abundant if you knew where to look and how to conduct yourself. Whereas she only had one child, Molly. She was irreplaceable. There was something to be said about having your own DNA in a person, your own flesh and blood, so to speak. It creates an inseparable bond and a willingness to protect it with your own life if need be.

Susan performed a slow turn inside the room and nodded in satisfaction, then exited, the door sliding and locking in place behind her. She then went back through the narrow corridor, into the open pantry, and back out into the kitchen. Pausing, she glanced back from where she had come. From where she stood, it looked as though the corridor at the far end of the pantry ended with just a wall.

While deliberately designed to go unnoticed, her panic room was the latest—and now most important—part of her home.

And if more demons were to threaten her and her daughter’s lives ever again, not only would she be ready for them…

She was going to kill them.

9

MORELLI

The next morning, Carolyn slid open the drawer of the hallstand and lifted out her gun.

After ejecting the magazine, she checked the seating of the first round at the top. Twelve high-velocity hollow-point rounds, each one-hundred-forty-seven grains of heart-stopping lead encased in shiny brass. The slide moved smoothly as she checked that a round was in the chamber.

Satisfied, she rammed the magazine back into the handgun with the heel of her palm and placed it back into the drawer. Can’t be too careful.

She opened the front door, already knowing who it was. The security camera on the porch had sent an alarm to her cell phone moments ago with a live video feed.

“Hello, Carolyn.”

Carolyn took a deep breath, her body coiled. “I was wondering when you would come knocking,” she said, her tone cutting and acidic.

“You walked out on me,” Clayton Morelli retorted.

Carolyn stood defiantly behind the partially opened front door, ready to ignore him and slam it in his face. Then she saw the scar on his cheekbone. Okay, she had punched him in the face, but he deserved it after saying that she needed mental help and that she couldn’t let go of the past, and it was putting a strain on their relationship. They had argued and yelled, then Carolyn stormed out after collecting her things.

But he still shouldn’t have grabbed her wrist and tried pulling her back inside. She never intended to punch him and felt terrible afterward. It was a reflex action. She had lashed out, but no man grabbed her the way he did without consequences.

“I didn’t know where you had gone,” Morelli continued. “You just vanished.”

“You’re the chief of police,” she scoffed. “You figured out where I am. I wasn’t exactly a missing person, was I?”

“It was Christmas Eve, for Christ’s sake!”

Carolyn shook her head. “Sorry to hurt your feelings. I hope you kept the receipts for those gifts I saw wrapped under the tree for me. Was one a gift voucher to the nearest mental institution?” she mocked.

Morelli’s eyes went wide.

Carolyn nodded. “You said I was crazy.”

“I didn’t use the word crazy.”

“That maybe I needed mental help.”

Morelli threw his hands up. “Because you kept going on about monsters being everywhere! Even here in Erin’s Bay. In my town.”

“I’m not crazy, Clay. I know things. I’ve experienced things. You have also.”

“No thanks to you!” he shot back. “This town used to be peaceful until you—” He stopped short.

“Until I what?” Carolyn pushed open the door and stepped out onto the porch, her right hand in a fist, ready to sock him again. “Until what? Until I arrived and began sharing your bed with you?”

Morelli averted Carolyn’s wild glare and looked at the floor. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “This wasn’t the reception I was hoping for.”

“What the hell were you expecting? For me to drop to my knees at your feet and say I can’t live without you?” She jerked a thumb over one shoulder. “So, you’re saying we should just have make-up sex and forget about it?”

He was still staring at the floor. “It’s me who can’t live without…,” he whispered. The last word seemed stuck in his mouth.

Carolyn faltered, feeling her breath catch in her throat, but quickly swallowed it so Morelli wouldn’t notice. You? Is that what he was going to say? I can’t live without you? No one had ever said that to her. It was usually, I want to kill you. Literally.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said.” He looked up. “I’m really sorry.” 

Carolyn blinked hard. This was a new, softer side to him she hadn’t yet seen.

“Please. Let’s start over.” He offered his hand. “Let’s call it water under the bridge.”

Water under the bridge? She thought of Tyler Finch. He had said the same thing—and he had slept with Jodie, Carolyn’s sister. That was far worse, and yet she had forgiven Tyler.

They still hadn’t found his body.

Carolyn looked at Morelli’s extended hand. She never held grudges, only against criminals.

“Come inside,” she said, turning her back and walking back inside.

10

HEADLESS

Bronte floated up from the watery depths of unconsciousness.

She was never one to take a leisurely stroll toward waking, no matter how deep a sleep she was in. It was the same when she was a child, able to come fully awake at the flip of a switch.

But something was different this time. Something foreign was in her bloodstream, keeping her down below the surface, pulling her back each time she tried to fight and claw toward the daylight. Like a fairground carousel, images and sensations flickered past the insides of her half-open eyelids and swirled through her mind. The inside of her mother’s townhouse. A Post-it Note on the kitchen counter. Hey, Hon, leftover lasagna in the fridge if you’re hungry. XXX. Wanting to take a hot shower and then sleep. Noticing that one of the kitchen windows was slightly up. A warm breeze coming in. A noise from behind.

A horrific skull face of pure black with a massive, cruel beak and a head of dark feathers. It had spoken to her, the beast.

“So much to live for. So little to die for.”

Then something sharp in her neck and… now.

Bronte opened her eyes.

She was sitting upright on a chair with thin padding, her hands and feet bound. Plastic ties? Thin rope, perhaps? She couldn’t tell. Her wrists and ankles felt numb, but something abrasive and cutting was holding them in place.

A man sat across from her on a chair, reversed so that his forearms rested casually on the top of the backrest. He was watching her closely. No unhinged look of craziness in his eyes. More like a look of idle curiosity.

Bronte’s mind jolted. “You?” Her voice sounded harsh, gravelly. It was him, the guy who had come into Something Fishy just before Christmas asking about… What was the name? Alex? No. Elsa? No. Allie. Yes, that’s right. He was asking about a woman named Allie, and Bronte suggested perhaps it was Ellie Sutton, the young woman who had rented the apartment above the diner and had just vanished at the end of summer. Her instincts were right about this guy. He was no friend of Ellie Sutton. He was her ex, trying to track her down because she had fled from him. He was dangerous.

“Hello, Bronte.”

She pulled at her wrists. No good.

“The effects will soon wear off,” he said calmly, like a doctor trying to reassure a patient that everything was fine. But everything was far from fine.

“You may feel a little nauseous, but that’s to be expected. That’s why you’re not gagged. But if you scream, I will gag you.”

Bronte blinked hard, and more of her surroundings came into focus. Bed, chair, threadbare rug on a stone floor. Rough wooden walls and a… tripod?

A tripod sat off to one side, its legs extended with nothing attached. Panic rose in Bronte. The sight of a tripod struck fear in her. It was subtle, but the connotations were unsettling. Nothing good was ever filmed with an amateur tripod setup. Suddenly, she pictured the bedroom scene from American Psycho: Patrick Bateman, two hookers, and a tripod.

Christ!

“What do you want?” She needed to stay calm, not give in to the fear that was slowly corkscrewing up through her. Who was this guy? Some nutjob who wanted to kill her? Why? Why her? Was it really that random? Apart from that one time he had come into the diner, she had never seen him since. She thought he had left town.

Obviously not. But what would he gain from kidnapping her? Ransom? God! Her mom was broke. They were living from paycheck to paycheck, trying to keep the bank from foreclosing on their tiny townhouse. And whatever money Bronte made at the diner, plus tips, was also going toward the loan repayments. She didn’t mind, though. Her mom worked as many shifts as she could, but a cleaner at the local hospital didn’t earn much.

“I want you to text your mom,” he replied. “Tell her that everything is fine. That you spent last night at a friend’s place.”

She watched as he slipped out an iPhone enclosed in a purple bump case with a cutout Ravens’ head on the back. She couldn’t afford the officially licensed NFL case and had to settle for an eBay knockoff.

“Unlock it and text her now,” he said. “I’ll cut you loose so you can. Tell her not to call you, and not to worry, that everything is fine.”

“And if I don’t?” She needed a plan, but her options were worse than limited. Her hands and feet were expertly bound, and even if she broke free, she had no weapon. He was much bigger and stronger, too, she imagined.

The man stood, went to the small table, picked up something, brought it back to the chair, and sat down again. He smiled that devastating smile of his, then lifted his hand so she could see what he was holding. He twisted the knife in his hand, admiring the long blade. “This is a boning knife,” he said. “They use this type in abattoirs.”

A warm, wet sensation spread from Bronte’s groin. Tears filled her eyes, and sheer panic filled her mind. “Please… I didn’t mean to….”

“I’ll use it to cut your head off while you are very much awake. And I’ll do it real slow.” He stared off into space, drumming his fingers on his chin. “Maybe take an hour. Maybe longer. Who knows?”

He turned back to Bronte, his face cold and as hard as granite. “And I’ll staple your eyelids to your eyebrows and put you in front of a large mirror while I’m doing it. That way, you’ll be able to watch your own head slowly come away from your neck from start to finish. Might even cook up a little popcorn for the occasion.”

Bronte’s world collapsed in on itself. Her body began shaking uncontrollably in huge sobbing waves. Her eyes lost focus; everything became blurry as if she were now underwater, looking up at the watery surface.

The man laughed. “I’ve done it before. The head in front of the mirror thing.” He pointed the knife at Bronte. “A young woman just like you.” He chuckled to himself as though reminiscing. “Except she was only thirteen.” He sighed. “You know neck skin is really elastic. It was like pulling away a slice of pizza that had too much mozzarella cheese on it.”

Bronte felt like throwing up. The warm wet patch in her groin was now a stinking puddle that she was sitting in.

He got up, pocketed her phone, and pulled out another cell phone. “Here, you want to look?” He thumbed the screen, instantly filling the small room with a girl’s gurgling, hysterical screams. It sounded like she was screaming and drowning at the same time.

Bronte squeezed her eyes shut and twisted her head away. Yet the horrific screams painted sickening images inside her head.

“You wouldn’t want the same thing to happen to you, would you?” he said. The screams stopped. “It’s okay, Bronte. You can open your eyes again. I honestly didn’t mean to upset you.”

Bronte shook her head, not trusting him. “No!”

He tutted disapprovingly at her. “If you don’t, then I’ll cut your head off right now. FedEx it overnight in a box to your mom. Might even tie a nice ribbon around it. Maybe stick an apple in your gaping mouth. She’ll get the package in the morning. She’ll think it’s a late Christmas present from her only child.”

Bronte’s eyes flew open. Hot tears streaked her cheeks, and mucus dribbled from both nostrils. “Please… not my mom.”

Sure enough, he had put his own phone away and now held her phone again. “Then unlock it and send the text, and I won’t. Or I’ll also pay her a visit if you really want me to? Let myself in and wait for her to come home from the hospital.”

A fresh wave of horror barreled into Bronte. If he had her cell phone, he also had her purse and… house keys—everything she had been carrying.

“What will it be, Bronte? The knife or the phone?” Holding the knife in one hand and her phone in the other, he began advancing toward her. “So much to live for. So little to die for.”

Bronte wrenched at the restraints like a wild animal caught in a trap.

11

MISSING

In the kitchen, Morelli perched himself on a bar stool at the counter while Carolyn busied herself making coffee. It was nothing more. Just coffee. Maybe a truce. But definitely not starting over.

“So the realtor told you where I was?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I didn’t think you had gone too far.” He looked around. “I saw you around town a few times. I figured you had taken a rental somewhere.”

“So you were spying on me?” Without looking up, Carolyn scooped ground coffee into the filter.

“Not really. I was waiting for things to cool off before approaching you.” It had been a massive argument, and Carolyn didn’t want to drag it all up again.

“I’m surprised you found something so quickly before Christmas,” Morelli said.

“It had been vacant for a while,” Carolyn said, filling the water reservoir. “So, how long have you known I was living here?” She flipped on the machine.

“A while. I didn’t want to intrude. It seemed like you were trying to avoid running into me in town.”

Carolyn sat down on a bar stool, the coffeemaker gurgling in the background. “I wasn’t avoiding you. I just didn’t want to see you for a while. I needed my space.”

Morelli gave a wry smile. “So, you’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

“That’s not what I said.”

The coffeemaker gave a final splutter, and Carolyn poured two cups, bringing them back to the counter.

“So tell me what’s happened since I left,” Carolyn said, handing him a cup of steaming fresh coffee.

He smirked over the brim of the cup. “There’s been no monsters suddenly appearing if that’s what….”

“Do you want me to show you to the door?”

Morelli held up a hand. “Okay, okay. Sorry. Nothing’s happened around town. It’s been peaceful. Just how I like it.”

Carolyn had expected as much. Then she thought about the young man she had seen that night Morelli had interrogated her after Santa’s Little Killers. She had just stepped outside the police station. Snow was falling. In the distance, the town twinkled like a Christmas tree with the glow of fairy lights in the storefronts and around the trees that lined the streets.

Across the street, a young man was standing on the opposite footpath. Mid-twenties, with blond hair and pale, chiseled features. He was staring right at her with the look of someone who had suddenly stumbled into their worst enemy. Right now, she called up the image of him, as though he was standing in her kitchen. Six-two, athletic, checked red shirt under a padded dark jacket, jeans, and dark brown boots. He then ducked back behind the corner of the building and vanished.

“So, no unfamiliar faces in town?” she asked casually. “No strangers you don’t like the look of?”

“I don’t like the look of all strangers,” Morelli replied.

“What can you tell me about the Ballards?” Carolyn asked. “The ones who used to live in that big mansion up on the cliffs outside of town.”

“I know little about them. They’ve moved away, and the property has been on the market for a while. Apparently, they left all the furniture behind, too. Everything. The family owns Moors Island.”

The news shocked Carolyn. “You’ve never told me that before.”

“You’ve never asked. The actual island—everything, including an old cabin that burned down —is owned by the Ballard family. It has been in their family for generations. As you know, the lighthouse was built and is maintained by the coast guard, like most of the lighthouses in the country.”

“Are the cliffs around their mansion also owned by the family as well? Can you drive up there and take a look, or is it private property?”

“The road up there is public. You can drive, and there’s a path that runs along the cliff top to a lookout at the point that the National Park Service owns.” He threw Carolyn a cautious look. “Why all the sudden interest in the Ballard place?”

“Oh, no reason. Someone just mentioned it.”

Morelli’s jaw tightened. “Was that certain someone, Abigail Brenner? I saw you in the passenger seat of her car yesterday, driving through town.”

“Oh, so you have been spying on me.”

Morelli put down his coffee cup a little too hard. “Look, Carolyn. You need to stay away from that Abigail Brenner. She’s bad news.”

Carolyn could feel her anger rising again. She was a grown woman. Who the hell was he telling her who she could and couldn’t associate with?

Just then, Morelli’s two-way radio crackled to life. Unclipping it from his belt, he stood up and walked out into the hallway.

Carolyn looked around the kitchen, not really in the mood for another argument. But if Morelli wanted one, then bring it on.

He came back a few moments later, a frown on his face.

“What’s up?” Carolyn asked.

“Nothing. Just a call that came in. Probably a false alarm or something.” Morelli looked around like he was unsure of what to do next. “Look, I need to go,” he said hastily. “Maybe we can catch up later or something.”

“Tell me what’s up.”

He seemed undecided, then spoke. “Someone reported a young woman missing. She didn’t come home last night.”

“Are you sure she’s actually missing?”

“I don’t know. Hasn’t been twenty-four hours, and she’s not a minor.” He took out his notebook and jotted something down. “Add her name to the list.”

“There’s a list?” Carolyn asked.

Morelli shrugged. “Potential list of missing persons. We don’t get many. Until now, there was just one person on the list, a local schoolteacher who didn’t show up to work a few days ago. No call, no nothing, and no one has seen or heard from him since.” He paused, not moving. Then he spoke again, “You know what you said before, Carolyn, about any strangers in town?”

“Yeah.” The hairs on the back of Carolyn’s neck fizzed.

“Well, Bronte Perkins is the name of the missing woman. She works at Something Fishy down at the harbor. I was down there a few days after Christmas, and she was working. She told me about this guy who had come in before Christmas. She said he was weird. I thought nothing of it.” He gave a joyless smile. “She said he looked like one of those Abercrombie & Fitch models. You know, the ones you see on billboards.”

A tinge of fear began to rise inside Carolyn. “Did she say what he actually looked like?”

“Tall, mid-twenties, blond hair, fit-looking.” He looked up at Carolyn. “She said it really creeped her out. He said he was looking for someone.”

“Who? Did he say?”

Morelli met her gaze. “Ellie.”

Carolyn’s heart froze.

Morelli nodded to himself. “He was looking for Ellie Sutton.”

12

HAUNTED HOUSE

Carolyn changed into dark running shorts and a black short-sleeved running top and slipped on a pair of running shoes.

It would look like she was out on a night run along the cliff tops. She zipped a compact flashlight into a pocket and thought better of taking her gun. She locked the beach house behind her, leaving on just the porch light, then climbed into her car.

In the shadows of a picnic area at the base of the cliffs, away from the solitary light pole in the parking lot, she parked and climbed out. Staying off the main road that led up to the cliff edge, she began up one of several hiking trails that ran from the base, through the scrub and trees, and up to the top. Thirty minutes later, she found herself at the top of the cliffs. It was a cloudless night. The moon lit the black surface of the ocean below in a wedge of shimmering silver. She stood within the tree line, catching her breath. Her running fitness wasn’t back to its previous level.

Lights twinkled along the dark edge of the coast, and the row of oceanfront estates below her could be seen clearly in the moonlight. A cone of light tracked slowly out to sea before sweeping inland again as the beam of the lighthouse on Moors Island rotated lazily. Ghostly wisps of mist shrouded the lighthouse as a bank of fog drifted in from the ocean. Something dark and sinister stirred inside her as she watched the lighthouse, her mind drifting back to that night as she sped up the spiral staircase before reaching the lantern room and stepping outside onto the metal gantry that ringed the light. The wind tore at her. The rain hammered down on her. Leaning over, her fingers gripped the rusty rail as she peered down into the darkness.

Sure, she had looked out across the ocean during the day and seen the lighthouse plenty of times. But never at night, in those darkest hours, when sinister memories came out to play.

Now it was all coming back to her—a face, crumpled and hideous, swooned before her eyes.

“I beat you.” The words hissed between her clenched teeth. “I beat you and killed you.”

She blinked hard, and the floating hologram of pure evil faded—for now.

Two hundred yards farther along the cliff edge, the inky, star-speckled background framed the silhouette of the Ballard Mansion—a cutout shape of angles, sharp rooflines, and jutting turrets. The mansion was in total darkness. No lights, no signs of life. God, it really looked like a haunted house from a ’50s horror movie.

The distant sound of waves crashing on the beach below floated up to her. Doubt crept over her, and she thought about turning back, retreating to the solitude of her beach house and finishing the bottle of merlot waiting for her.

She had already called Ellie to warn her about the man asking after her down at Something Fishy. The same guy Carolyn was certain was watching her from across the street that cold winter night. Carolyn had berated Morelli for not telling her sooner about the man. He responded that he didn’t think it was important. That only infuriated Carolyn even more.

She also told Ellie about the missing woman, Bronte Perkins. Train, plane, or car—Ellie wanted to come right away and help. Carolyn talked her out of it, telling her just to be mindful of being followed in New York by strangers.

Ellie had laughed. “Really? This is New York. It’s one big asylum. All that’s missing is Kurt Russell wearing an eyepatch.” She then had to explain to Carolyn about an old movie she and Vega had watched the other night: Escape from New York.

She then shared with Carolyn what she knew about the Ballard Mansion, after Carolyn asked her about it and its role in the disappearance of Edward Brenner, Abby’s father, a few years prior. The new information only confirmed what Abby had said: the Ballard Mansion was the perfect place to hide if you didn’t want to be found—or hold someone as your prisoner.

Ellie ended the call, promising she would be vigilant, even though she was more than capable of looking after herself, and asked Carolyn to keep her informed about Bronte Perkins.

Carolyn crouched behind an outer wall of brick and vine that ran the entire side of the mansion, more determined than ever to satisfy herself about the place. Keeping low, she edged along the wall and came to a wrought-iron gate with a latch. It was unlocked.

She glanced over her shoulder. The sanctuary of the tree line was a hundred yards behind her. She could cover the distance quickly if needed.

She lifted the latch, pushed the gate inward, and stepped through.

Inside the grounds, the mansion loomed over her, a huge stone façade with tall windows and closed drapes. There was a small courtyard with low hedges, manicured foliage, and a gravel pathway leading to the house, as well as another along the side. Her running shoes crunched underfoot as she made her way around the perimeter, glancing up at the tall windows, almost half expecting a face to be looking down at her through a gap in the drapes.

Carolyn stopped dead in her tracks and held her breath. Looking up, she was confident she’d heard something. A moan? A whisper? The wind picked up and ruffled her hair.

She looked around. It seemed colder. The atmosphere had a malevolent feel to it as if something evil dwelled there.

A bank of clouds covered the moon, and darkness suddenly enveloped her. Her heart sped up a notch, and her throat tightened.

She strained to listen again. Nothing. Just her imagination.

She continued until she reached the back of the mansion. A large octagonal conservatory made of glass and wood opened up from the rear of the building, the interior dark and still.

An ornate swimming pool, complete with decorative columns and Greek statues, occupied most of the rear area of the property; the pool was an empty shell, thick with a layer of leaves and fallen branches.

She stepped back and scanned the roofline, searching for any signs of life inside the house. Maybe Abigail was right. Maybe it was empty and waiting to be sold. But then why, the closer she had gotten to the house, did the feeling that something was wrong, that something evil was lurking nearby, intensify?

As she looked up at the sky, clouds scattered across the moon, and pale gray light bathed everything once more.

Carolyn felt a different uneasiness now, as if she were being watched. Turning, she saw a shape moving along the far wall.

Quickly, she squatted down in the shadows, trying to make herself smaller, her heart thumping in her chest.

She watched the person slink along the wall like a cat out on its nightly prowl, their movements confident, yet subtly cautious.

As if sensing someone else’s presence, the person stopped abruptly and turned toward where Carolyn was crouching.

Carolyn shrunk down even more, hunching herself into a spine-bending ball.

The person didn’t move. From the turn of their head, Carolyn could tell they were searching the shadows where she was.

Seconds ticked by. Finally, the head turned away, and the person took a step and vanished.

Despite her spine screaming in protest and her knees quivering with pain, Carolyn maintained her balled-up shape for a full minute. Then she stood and made her way to the wall. A wrought-iron gate stood ajar where the person had obviously stepped through.

On the other side, sculptured hedges rose around her. She stopped and listened, wondering if she could hear footsteps.

Nothing.

She took one step and heard the crunch of gravel behind her before crushing pain erupted across the back of her skull.

13

POOR JENNIFER

Jennifer Walsh placed on the counter a chocolate cake donut, a cinnamon-honey-glazed twist, and a peanut-butter-filled iced donut, along with a takeout cup of coffee.

She was just an hour from home and desperately needed a sugar hit. It had been a long trip, from Manhattan to Erin’s Bay.

The young man behind the counter gave Jenny a skeptical look as he bagged her purchases.

So what? She was hungry and hadn’t eaten since leaving that stupid energy conference in New York where she’d been for the last three days. Manhattan had felt like a prisoner island, a massive ant hill full of noise, trash, and people all rushing to get somewhere unimportant. How could people live like that? She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t sleep, and longed to be back home to the wide-open spaces, cool ocean breeze, and Mark, her husband.

He wouldn’t be home until late tonight, so she thought she’d surprise him after sneaking out of the conference early. Hopefully, her boss wouldn’t find out. She would prepare a special candlelit dinner and have on ice the bottle of champagne they had been saving for this news. And there was much to celebrate.

She swiped her credit card and thought about the object in the glove compartment of her Buick Enclave parked outside. It had to have been the night of her birthday. Mark had planned a surprise. He’d drawn her a warm bubble bath, added a few drops of her favorite essential oils, and topped it off with a scatter of pink rose petals. After a blissful soaking in the tub and luxuriating in Mark giving her a neck rub, they feverishly stumbled into the bedroom in a tangle of arms, impatient fingers, and intertwined tongues, where they made slow, tender love.

She smiled, thinking about the rhythmic motion of Mark’s hips against her buttocks as they spooned, his muscular arms cradled around her, and the fingers of their hands interlocked forever. And when they both reached that most intimate pinnacle of human coupling, she felt the hot tears running down her cheeks as Mark’s seed filled her ripe womb.

She knew. She just knew their lovemaking had finally spawned something they both desperately wanted after all these months of fruitless trying.

It was such a beautiful, unifying moment; man, woman, and….

“Eating for two, are we?”

Jenny blinked. Her teary eyes focused on the man behind the counter. The craggy face of Brian Cox from her favorite TV series, Succession, appeared in her mind. He smiled at Jenny, then raised a bushy eyebrow as if to say, go on then.

“Oh, fuck off!” Jenny said to the convenience store attendant before snatching up the bag of sugary treats and the takeout cup and heading to the exit.

She strolled across the dark parking lot to where she had parked and climbed into the driver’s seat. She placed the takeout cup in the center console holder and the bag of sugary treats on the dash.

She glanced over at the store. Prick.

She opened the bag, pulled out the chocolate cake doughnut, and took a bite.

Heaven.

Opening the glove compartment, she took out the plastic stick and stared in wonder—for what must have been the hundredth time since she peed on it this morning—at the two pink lines.

Mark was going to be delirious with joy, the way she felt right now.

She closed her eyes and began thinking about the future. She couldn’t wait to be a mother, but she loved her job, too, and planned to work right up to the birth. Sure, they would have to adjust to the drop in income and live on one wage, but they had saved a lot during the last few years and were at least six months ahead in mortgage repayments.

Mark wanted a big family. Five kids, he had told her. Jenny would be content with just two: a boy and a girl. That prevented one child from being outnumbered, unlike her childhood where her two older brothers outnumbered her—and still do, come to think of it. Rory and Michael always took sides against her.

Jenny secretly wanted a baby girl. Mark wouldn’t care as long as the baby was healthy.

The smell of sweet, freshly baked doughnuts forced Jenny’s eyes open. Back to reality and the hour-long drive she still had ahead of her. She gobbled up the rest of the chocolate cake donut, then glanced at the bag on the dash.

Maybe just one more?

No. She would save them for Mark.

Her cell phone chimed. “Speak of the devil,” she whispered, swiping her cell phone. A flock of red balloons floated up the screen, and she watched gleefully as each balloon popped, sending a shower of tiny love hearts cascading out.

God, she couldn’t wait to tell him. She started the SUV, took another sip of coffee, and then watched through the windshield as a few cars emerged from the darkness of the highway and pulled up in front of the store.

Swiveling around in her seat, she glanced back to see if she was clear to back out of the parking space and….

A hideous black skull wreathed with coal-dark feathers swooped toward her from behind the headrest. A powerful hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off the scream halfway up her throat—a knife pressed against her neck.

“Hello, Jenny.” The voice was syrupy smooth. The thin blade pressed harder into her throat. “So much to live for. So little to die for.”

14

THINK WORST CASE

The next morning, after very little sleep, Carolyn was up at dawn, showered, got dressed, then went into the kitchen, filled and turned on the coffeemaker, and swallowed another two Tylenol.

Carolyn guessed someone had knocked her unconscious for maybe thirty seconds at the most. More than enough time for the intruder to take off before she woke. With her head feeling like her brain was bouncing around inside her skull, she stumbled back down the trail in the woods to her car. Using the first aid kit, she patched up the nasty gash, then drove slowly home. In the shower, she nearly screamed the roof off when the water hit the back of her head, but she persisted. Taking her cell phone, she snapped several images of the damage. Thankfully, she didn’t need stitches. She still had a nasty lump, though.

Sleep, then, had been restless. First, she was pissed at being so stupid in following the person through the gate without thinking that perhaps they were hiding on the other side. Second, she was angry that they had clouted her on the skull. Now, she was even more determined to search the Ballard Mansion. The intruder was obviously hiding something up there.

While the coffee was brewing, she went outside. At this hour, the air was fresh and clotted with the muddy wetness of sand. Barefoot, she walked to a tall dune at the rear. It was her daily ritual while the coffee brewed to check the perimeter of the beach house. And the tall dune provided the perfect vantage point for someone to watch her place at night. The dune was maybe twenty feet high, topped with a drooping tangle of beach fence made of old wood slats and wire. It was two hundred yards from the beach house, with a row of smaller dunes in front of it.

The sand was cold, and the sky was a pale orange. She slowly walked around the entire base, checking the ground as she went. There were no new footprints, nor any obvious disturbances in the sand. The surrounding sand was smooth and unblemished, as though the caress of the wind was the only thing that had touched the surface in a hundred years.

It was the same up the slope as well. No new grooves, no indentations, no furrows, nothing. She stood at the top for a while, looking at the surrounding landscape before trudging back down again and resuming her search.

The outlying areas farther away from the beach house yielded nothing either.

The aromatic smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted her when she returned home after twenty minutes of unfruitful exploration. She poured a cup and sat at the kitchen counter, pondering her next move.

She called Morelli. “Any luck in finding Bronte Perkins?” Carolyn could hear traffic noise in the background.

“Yeah,” Morelli replied. “False alarm.”

“False alarm?”

“Last night, her mom received a text saying that she was staying with a friend for a while and not to worry.”

“Bronte texted from her own cell phone?”

Morelli let out a sigh that Carolyn didn’t appreciate. “Looks that way. According to her mom, Bronte often stays at a friend’s place.”

An unsettling feeling began gnawing at Carolyn.

“Anyway,” Morelli continued. “It looks like I do now have a proper missing person’s case.”

“What do you mean? Where are you?”

“At a Sunoco gas station about fifty miles west of Erin’s Bay. It’s just off I-495 East. You take Exit 57, and it’s on a service road.”

“I know the one,” Carolyn said. “There’s a Bolla Market convenience store there.”

“That’s right. I’m standing outside it right now. A woman called Jenny Walsh pulled in here yesterday afternoon to grab some food from the convenience store. She bugged out a day early from a conference in Manhattan and pulled in here on the way home. I called the hotel where she was staying, and they said she had checked out yesterday. She didn’t text her husband saying she was leaving early.”

“So, how do you know she was heading home?”

“Seems like Mark Walsh doesn’t trust his wife. Apparently, she had an affair with a colleague last year, so he put a tracking app on her phone. After he rang the hotel when she didn’t respond to any of his texts and phone calls, he activated it. She didn’t turn up at home, and the tracking app’s last recorded location was here. Then it went dead.”

“So she was heading home?”

“Maybe to surprise him. He’s been frantic all night. He didn’t call the police until this morning, but he looks like he spent all last night driving back and forth between Erin’s Bay and the gas station looking for her SUV. He also called all the local hospitals to see if she’d had an accident. No luck.”

“Did you check the security camera footage at the gas station?”

“Yeah, just did that now. There’s footage of her arriving, then going into the convenience store. Ten minutes later, she exited the store with doughnuts and coffee, walked to her parked SUV, and climbed in. A few minutes later, she drove away. She was clearly alone.”

“So she gets back in her SUV, then heads back east along the Long Island Expressway Service Road before rejoining I-95 East?”

“I imagine that’s what she would’ve done,” Morelli replied.

This was intriguing to Carolyn. “One cup of coffee or two?”

“What?”

“You said when she exited the store, she was carrying doughnuts and coffee.”

“One cup. She was alone.”

Carolyn thought for a moment. “It couldn’t be more than an hour’s drive from that gas station to Erin’s Bay.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Morelli said.

“And unlike Bronte Perkins, Mark, her husband, didn’t receive a text this morning saying that his wife made a last-minute decision to stay at a friend’s place overnight?” Carolyn couldn’t resist, but it was a valid question.

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” Morelli said gruffly.

“I’m not being sarcastic. I just place little credence in the apparent text message Bronte Perkins sent last night to her mother.”

“Hey, kids often drop last-minute plans on their folks, saying they’re not coming home and staying at a friend’s place.”

“Does Bronte Perkins have a boyfriend?”

“Not at the moment I was told. Anyway, Carolyn, I’m getting off track. Bronte’s mom is happy, and I now need to focus on this real missing person’s case.”

“The text message Bronte Perkins apparently sent. Did she say which friend’s house she was staying at?”

“Drop it, Carolyn. It’s case closed.”

“You didn’t ask her, did you?”

Morelli said nothing.

“Do me a favor, Morelli,” Carolyn said after his silence became unbearable.

“What happened to Clay?” he shot back, sounding more than a little annoyed. “Now you’re back to calling me Morelli?”

“You’re still in the doghouse. Anyway, forget about that. As I was saying, do me a favor. Call back Bronte’s mom and ask her if the text message specifically said whose place she was staying at.”

“Carolyn, you’re reading too much into this.”

Maybe she was. But she didn’t—unlike Morelli—believe in coincidences. “Bronte Perkins got creeped out by some guy who came into Something Fishy and started asking questions about Ellie Sutton. Did you forget that, Morelli?”

“No, I didn’t forget that fact. But Ellie is not here. It could’ve been an ex-boyfriend, a family friend, or anyone she knows who just happened to be passing through Erin’s Bay and decided to drop in and say hello.”

“I disagree. No one knew she was here.”

“For Christ’s sake, maybe she told someone!”

“Ellie wouldn’t have. She wouldn’t tell anyone where she was, except possibly her mother, and even then, maybe not. Please call Bronte’s mom and ask her if the text specifically mentioned a friend’s place where she was staying. Treat everything as the opposite. Think the worst.” Carolyn ended the call, cutting off Morelli’s continued protests.

She sat quietly, finishing her coffee, and waited for Morelli to call her back. Two minutes later, he did.

“No,” Morelli said sheepishly. “There was no specific mention of which friend’s house she was at.”

Carolyn’s chest tightened. “Please tell me you then instructed her to call all of Bronte’s friends to see where she was?”

“I did. She’s gonna call me back—hold on, that’s her on the other line. I’ll call you back.”

Carolyn poured another cup of coffee, dread, thick and oily, growing inside her. She knew what the answer was going to be. With each successive phone call, Bronte’s mother would get increasingly frantic until it finally dawned on her that her daughter was actually missing and the text was a ruse.

Carolyn’s cell phone rang, and she snatched it up.

“You are right,” Morelli said. “No one has seen or heard from her. I called the diner, and the manager said she didn’t turn up for her shift yesterday either. They tried calling her, and it went to voicemail. They thought nothing of it after that. Staff often fail to show up for their shifts. It’s just a casual position, and they found someone else to fill Bronte’s. It’s no big deal, according to the manager.”

“She’s now been missing for two days?” Carolyn asked, trying to get the timeline right in her head.

“Looks that way. I’m heading back to Erin’s Bay now. I want to drop in on Elizabeth Perkins, Bronte’s mom, and find out more.”

“What about Jenny Walsh?”

“I’ll put Marvin Tanner on it.” Tanner was a fifty-six-year-old seasoned police officer in the Erin’s Bay PD.

“You mentioned that missing teacher yesterday, Clay,” Carolyn said. “That’s three missing persons in a few days. Do you think there’s a link between them?”

“I don’t know. It sounds awful of me to say this, but I hope so. It would make things a lot easier for us. We’re pretty stretched as it is, and I don’t need anyone else to disappear. I’ve asked Levine to swing by the teacher’s place today and check it out.” Todd Levine was a twenty-one-year-old rookie police officer who was more than capable when he put his mind to it.

After the call, Carolyn thought for a few moments. A man had come looking for Ellie Sutton in Erin’s Bay. How he knew she was there was irrelevant at the moment. What was important was that the same person crossed paths with Bronte Perkins at the diner and had asked her about Ellie.

Now Bronte Perkins was missing. Carolyn was sure it was the same man she had seen standing across the street from the police station that chilly night.

She felt useless sitting here with a throbbing head and nothing to do. She grabbed another cup of coffee and went out onto the back porch.

15

ROAD RAGE

While Carolyn was pouring more coffee, Aamon Jessop had finished pouring blood.

The woman driving the SUV had been a delight. She had put up some fight, though, which had both surprised and delighted Jessop.

But in the end, she died.

In the end, they all die.

But he had enjoyed taunting her, giving her the false hope that if she did as she was told and cooperated, he would set her free. Stupid bitch. Why are women always so trusting, especially of men? Is it because of their insecurity that they look toward a man as something big and strong who will protect them? Sure, a lot of men felt it was their role in life to do so. Whereas for Jessop, it was his role in life to undo that pathetic stereotype, to capitalize on his strength, and a male’s predatory cunning to hunt and kill. He wasn’t a hunter or a gatherer. No, indeed, he was a hunter and killer.

After all, he was a god, the way a true god should be.

The woman had given a pathetic nod, her face streaked with tears, her eyes wide with fear. She kept babbling on that she was pregnant as if that was a suitable reason not to kill her and just let her go on her merry way. She even tried to convince him to look in the glove compartment for the pregnancy test stick as proof.

What a fool.

Didn’t she know that by telling him, it was like a bonus? Like putting your card into an ATM and getting back more money than you asked for? Yes, indeedy deedy. He had, by pure chance, stumbled on a two-for-the-price-of-one deal. Mother and child. The whore and her filthy offspring. A rare find, indeed.

And yet, it never failed to astonish him that when you gave someone the tiniest sliver of hope that they would continue to live on for another forty or fifty years if they just complied, how they stupidly latched on to that hope with both trembling hands.

Women were so easy to fool.

Slicing her throat with his knife, then watching her eyes bulge with shock as she realized she was going to die, along with her unborn child, in a matter of seconds, was priceless.

Yes, he was a god—able to create life and take it away if he wished. So much so, he had ejaculated on her face as she died—life-creating semen mixing with her dying blood.

What a beautiful contrast.

Thankfully, he had the sense to check her cell phone first, then disable the tracking app before they drove off, unlocking it with facial ID before deactivating it completely. Technology could either hide you or reveal you. It was a lesson he had learned long ago.

He had found a secluded spot off the highway, shielded by the surrounding forest.

She was a largish woman, so four milligrams of Midazolam into the side of her neck was adequate. He then carried her into the forest until he reached a small clearing, deep and dark. It was the perfect place to take his time with her.

Yes, the gods indeed were smiling down upon him.

The rest was history.

It had been a delightful interlude, a rest stop of sorts, leaving him feeling refreshed, alive, and ready for his next victim. He then settled back for the long ride back to Erin’s Bay. There was no rush. She was going nowhere.

Now Jessop drove with no music, the window down, his mind swirling with the possibilities and the plans he had for Ellie once he found her. She was special because she had escaped, had run from his clutches back in Ravenwood before he had had a chance to take her.

And while other women had slaked his thirst for the time being, it was Ellie who he truly desired. While their interaction had been brief at the hardware store when she came in looking for a new cell phone, he could tell she would be a worthy challenge.

Not that he hadn’t had his fair share of challenging women over the years. And deliberately so. How else was he expected to grow and improve?

No, Ellie was something else, a rare animal that only strayed across your path once or twice in a lifetime. He could feel it when she was just a few feet from him. He could smell it on her, too.

And Carolyn Ryder? A distraction, nothing more. She was too old, worn out—a useful distraction. Her notoriety had first attracted him when he saw her that night.

Adding her to his resume would be a bonus, a trophy worth mounting in that corner of his mind where he kept all his other trophies mounted and in perfect alignment.

The exit to Erin’s Bay came into view, and he pulled off the highway. Suddenly, a black pickup truck swerved across two lanes and cut in front of him. Jessop hit the brakes, almost ramming into the back of the pickup. He slammed on the horn when he saw that the driver of the pickup didn’t seem to care about his reckless driving.

“You stupid son of a….”

A tattooed hand with black painted fingernails thrust out of the driver’s side window with the middle finger proudly raised, and the hand pumped the air several times, as if emphasizing the don’t-give-a-shit attitude of the driver. The pickup sped up, but not before Jessop glimpsed the sticker on the truck’s tailgate. If Jesus had a gun, he’d still be alive today.

Gripping the steering wheel tight, Jessop smiled and sped up too, making sure he kept below the speed limit while still keeping the pickup in sight.

“If you hadn’t cut me off, then flipped me the bird,” he whispered, “you’d still be alive tomorrow.”

16

DARK HISTORY

By late morning, Carolyn was climbing the walls of her beach house.

Someone abducted Bronte Perkins, whether Morelli chose to believe it or not. Someone hit Carolyn on the back of the head while she was searching the grounds of the Ballard Mansion last night, the same place where she believed Bronte Perkins could be.

Carolyn paced back and forth on the back porch. It was a clear and sunny day, with a warm breeze blowing off the ocean.

She thought about calling Morelli to ask about his interview with Bronte’s mom. Then she decided against it. He had enough on his plate, and she didn’t want to step on his toes or appear to be telling him what to do, even though she was still angry at him for being a little too dismissive about Bronte’s disappearance. With all missing persons, especially someone as vulnerable as a teenager or, God forbid, a child or minor, she had learned over the years that it was okay to overreact within the first twenty-four hours—to assume the worst. You could always quickly dial it back in the likelihood of a happy ending. But you couldn’t easily and quickly dial it up if the worst-case scenario was becoming a reality.

Better to bring a missing person home safely to their loved ones by overreacting from the get-go than to find a dead body because you were slow out of the blocks.

She thought about calling Abby to ask her more about the Ballard Mansion. But, like Morelli, it felt like a bad idea. While she liked Abby, she could only tolerate her in small doses. Plus, being seen too often around town in Abby’s conspicuous car would turn too many heads and put the rumor mill into overdrive.

Still, something niggled deep in Carolyn’s gut. The Ballard Mansion was involved. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t have the full facts. However, someone didn’t want her snooping around the place, and she was determined to find out who and why and more about the town’s history.

She slipped out her cell phone and pressed the speed dial. The call was picked up immediately.

“Erin’s Bay Police Department, Alice Munroe speaking. How can I help you?” Alice was the police department’s dispatcher and all-around office administrative expert. Unmarried and in her sixties, she was born and bred in Lacy, a small town on Echo Mountain, Colorado. After too many cold winters, she moved to the warmer climate of Erin’s Bay. She kept Morelli and the other two officers in line with her no-nonsense approach to running the back office.

“Alice, it’s Carolyn.”

“Carolyn! It’s so lovely to hear from you.” Alice’s voice dropped to a whisper, and Carolyn could visualize Alice drawing her headset microphone arm closer to her mouth. “I’ve tried, I swear to God, Carolyn, I’ve tried to get Clay around to your way of thinking. I know you’ve moved out, and it’s none of my business what happens between two grown adults. But please give him a second chance. He’s really a good guy.” Then she snorted. “But like most men, he doesn’t realize us women are much smarter.”

Carolyn smiled. “I’ll take it under advisement, Alice. That’s not why I called.”

“Oh, was there something I could help you with then?”

“That’s why I called you, not Clay. Alice, if I want to find out more about the history of the town, especially controversial subjects or bad things that happened in the past, where would I go or who would I ask?”

“Oh, why is that, Carolyn?”

“Nothing, really. I just thought it would be a good idea, now that I'm living here, to learn more about the place’s history—especially any dark history. Things that locals prefer not to talk about.”

“Oh, I’ve never really thought about it, to be honest.”

“It’s just some amateur research, Alice. That’s all. For example, the Ballard Mansion. I saw it the other day and thought to myself, I bet that place has an interesting past.”

“Damn spooky place if you ask me.”

“Exactly. So I thought I would start there. I don’t really want to talk to people who may have a subjective opinion either. I’m looking at historical facts, not the typical urban myths most towns have.” Carolyn was subtly suggesting to Alice that she wasn’t asking her for her opinion but rather for objective facts, not town gossip and rumors.

“Well, let me think for a moment, Carolyn. I know what you mean, and I’ve only been here a few years myself, so there’s no point in really asking me. How far back are we talking about?”

“I’m not sure. I’m aware of some of the more recent happenings at the Ballard place. Maybe ten or twenty years. Even more.”

“Well, then you’re in luck. We have one of the best historians on Erin’s Bay right here in the town itself. And she is still alive. Her name is Edith Plover, and she’s the head librarian at the Erin’s Bay Library. She works there most days. She’s a wealth of knowledge about the town’s history. I dare say she’ll know a lot about the Ballard Mansion, even before the current owners bought it.”

“Edith Plover,” Carolyn repeated.

“That’s right. The town’s history, and that of the surrounding area, is like a hobby for her. She’s a wealth of knowledge and has an extensive personal library of her own on it—an extensive collection of notes, old newspaper clippings, and books that go back to the turn of the century.”

“Should I call in advance? Let her know that I’m coming?”

“Carolyn,” Alice said in the tone of a patient teacher trying to explain algebra to a six-year-old. “It’s the Erin’s Bay Public Library, not the New York Public Library.”

“Got it.”

“And Edith would be delighted to talk about what she knows on the subject to you. She rarely gets the chance. She talked my ear off one day about some ghost that used to roam the grounds of the Ballard Mansion back in the eighteen hundreds.”

Maybe it was the ghost that hit me on the head, Carolyn thought.

“And you’ll make her day if you ask her,” Alica said. “And you’ll make my day if you tell her I sent you.”

“Will do. You’re a town treasure, Alice.”

If a beaming smile could be felt down a telephone line, Carolyn could feel it right now from Alice’s end.

17

REVENGE

“Dumb ass,” Tess Jorgensen murmured before turning into the gas station forecourt, then parking her pickup truck.

She had almost missed the exit off the highway. Then, that jerk in the SUV honked at her. What a prick. Who the hell did he think he was?

Inside the convenience store at the gas station, she took her time browsing the aisles, all the time keeping a watchful eye out the window to see if the guy she had cut off had followed her to the gas station. He wouldn’t want to have. Despite leaving her extendable baton under the seat in her pickup, she still carried a switchblade knife in the pocket of her jeans.

“Yeah, white boy,” she crooned as she gazed out the window. “Not so tough now, are ya?” She’d caught a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror. The poor sap looked like some college frat kid. Too blond and too white by the look of him. “Run home to rich mommy and daddy, did ya?”

Satisfied that the man in the SUV was long gone, she purchased a takeout cup of coffee, entered the gender-neutral restroom, found a stall, and sat down, sipping her coffee while she peed.

God, it felt good to empty her bladder. In one end, out the other.

Once done, she flushed and reached for the swivel lock and….

The hair on the back of her neck bristled, and a slither of unease wormed its way into her stomach.

The stall door flew inward, pushing Tess back, her calves banging against the toilet bowl. Even before she glimpsed his face, she knew it was him standing there, his bulk blocking her only escape.

She flung the takeout cup at his face and reached for the knife in her pocket as a dark mass spilled into the cubicle. The first punch—a short left hook—smashed into one side of her jaw, breaking it. The next—a straight right—drove deep into her solar plexus.

Tess collapsed in the space between the stall wall and the toilet bowl and couldn’t decide which pain was worse, the one in her face or the one in her chest. Both were exquisitely dreadful, like nothing she had experienced before. And with bare-knuckle bathroom skirmishes, be it against a guy or gal, she had punched out enough teeth and kicked in enough sets of balls to know she would not win this one.

The stall door quickly closed behind the man with an expert kick of his heel. Then he descended on her.

Tess opened her mouth and could feel her jaw dangling, unhinged from the rest of her skull. “Mow de fook ur,” was all she could manage, sounding like some blithering crackhead.

A large, firm hand clamped down over her gaping mouth, then fingers twisted her head up and sideways. A sharp sting pierced the side of her neck. Coldness began flowing up the side of her face, giving Tess the distinct sensation that the veins under her skin were slowly freezing. Looking up, she saw the harsh white fluorescents turn a yellowish hue, then dim.

A face swam into Tess’s watery vision, the features blurred and distorted, yet she could make out the blond hair.

A warm breath ruffled her drooping eyelashes, and a comforting voice floated down to her.

“So little to live for. So much to die for.”

18

TEETH MARKS

The woman who answered the door had the look in her eyes that Morelli had rarely seen before in Erin’s Bay—a look of utter hopelessness and desperation.

From her DMV record, he knew Elizabeth Perkins was forty-six, relatively young. Yet hard work and struggle etched her face. Her eyes had a hollow, vacant look and were ringed red from tears. A tinge of guilt ran through Morelli as he looked at her. Guilt because his follow-up phone call had planted the seed that perhaps something bad had happened to her daughter despite the text message she had received from her.

But there was a glimmer of hope deep in her brown eyes—hope that he was wrong or that there was a reasonable explanation as to why none of Bronte’s friends had seen or heard from her in two days.

“Mrs. Perkins?” It was a stupid question. Who else would it be, looking this way? “I’m Chief of Police Clayton Morelli. We spoke on the phone.”

Elizabeth Perkins sniffled. “Have you heard from her?”

“No, that’s why I’m here. Can I come in?”

She opened the door wider, and he followed her down a small hallway and into a living room. The family may not have much, but he could see that they made the best of what they did have. The room was pleasant, clean, and airy.

Elizabeth sat on the edge of a sofa covered with throw rugs, then looked up at Morelli. “Please call me Lizzy.”

Morelli sat down on a small chair and took out his notebook. “Is Mr. Perkins about?”

“My husband, Dan, died five years back. Emphysema. He worked most of his life as a stonemason, cutting stone. It killed him in the end. All that dust. Crystalline silica. It got into his lungs.” She waved her hand in the air. “No one knew about it back then—how lethal silica dust was.”

“I’m sorry, Lizzy. I’d like to ask you some questions about Bronte’s movements the night she didn’t come home.”

“She finished her shift at the diner at around eleven the other night. Matt and Kelly offered her a ride home, but Bronte refused, they told me. As you suggested, I called Kelly this morning when I was doing the ring around.”

“Matt and Kelly?” Morelli made a note.

“Kelly Richards works at the diner with Bronte. Matt—I don’t know his last name—is her boyfriend. He always picks up Kelly after her shift. It was only a short walk, and Bronte prefers her independence. She doesn’t like to impose on others.”

“On the phone, you mentioned Bronte doesn’t have a boyfriend at the moment.”

Lizzy shook her head, pulled a tissue from the sleeve of her dress, and blew her nose. “Her last boyfriend was maybe four months ago.”

“Do you recall his name?”

Lizzy let out a sigh, as though the entire world was crashing down on her. And it was. “Brad. Brad Hughes. A local kid. He cheated on her then dumped her. She found out later. That’s all she told me.”

“Nice guy. Did you try calling him too?”

“I don’t have his number, and to tell you the truth, I’ve never met or spoken to the kid.”

Morelli made another note. “And Bronte is nineteen?”

“Yes. But she’s mature for her age.”

“And with Brad, was it serious? Like….?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Lizzy interrupted. “Bronte doesn’t sleep around. She just has a lot of male friends. Good people.” Tears filled Lizzy’s eyes, and she dabbed them with her tissue. “Then there was that guy who came into the diner before Christmas. He really creeped her out. She told me all about it.”

“What did she say about him?”

“Mid-twenties. Blond hair. Really good-looking. Blue eyes, I think she said. He started asking her about this other girl. I can’t remember.” Lizzy leaned forward. “Do you think Bronte’s with him or he has anything to do with all this? She said he was just passing through town.”

“I don’t know.” Bronte had given Morelli roughly the same description when she had told him.

“She said he wasn’t from around here,” Lizzy added.

“And two nights ago, you said on the phone you were asleep when Bronte came home?”

“Yes. I work at the local hospital as a cleaner. The pay’s okay, and we get by.”

“And no sign of forced entry?”

“Not that I can tell. She has a key. She shouldn’t have walked home,” she said, almost in a half-moan. “I told her if it’s late and one of your friends offers you a ride home, then take it and damn your pride.” She looked away, her mouth trembling. “Now she’s… gone.”

“We don’t know that for certain.”

She glared back at Morelli. “So where is she then? She won’t answer her cell phone, and no one knows where she is. It’s been two days, and nothing. I thought this town was safe, that a young woman could walk the streets at night and nothing bad would happen to them.”

“Have you tried calling her again?”

She nodded. “Been calling her cell phone every half hour. But it doesn’t connect.”

That was a concern for Morelli. Older people he could understand, but young people these days were constantly tethered to their phones, always online, always in contact—unless, that is, they ignored your messages and calls.

“And has she done this before? Been out of contact for an extended period, like a few days?”

“Sometimes. Usually, when she’s angry with the world or just wants her space. But she goes to a friend’s place, you know. Then she turns up at home acting like everything is fine, wondering what all the fuss was about, and says that she’s an adult now, a grown woman, and doesn’t need to tell me where she is every hour of the day. But I’ve called all of them.”

“Did you have an argument with her? Was she angry when you last spoke to her?” Morelli was tossing up whether to tell her that Bronte had missed her shift at the diner yesterday. Lizzy was obviously distressed, and he didn’t want to make it worse until he knew more and had exhausted all the possibilities of where Bronte could be.

“No. We rarely fight.”

“What’s the longest Bronte has stayed away from home before?”

“A few days, but we text back and forth, and I know whose place she’s at. When I got that text last night, I thought everything was fine. But then, after I called all her friends this morning, as you suggested, and none of them had seen her, I became really worried. It’s unlike her. Out of character.”

“And her bed wasn’t slept in that first night?”

“No.” Lizzy forced a smile, and it was just that, forced, not genuine—a desperate mother clinging to hope that was fading fast. “Look, it’s probably nothing,” Lizzy continued, the tears, red-eyes, and trembling voice contradicting her words. “She’ll probably call soon and wonder what all the fuss was about.”

Morelli reread his notes. Why would a nineteen-year-old woman come home after working late, then go out again of her own accord? Had someone called her? Did she meet them? She has vanished for no good reason. It made no sense to Morelli. Mother and daughter seemed independent. And Bronte’s recent behavior, according to her mother, was out of character. But how well do mothers really know their daughters? The secrets they may keep hidden? The other life they may lead? The next question had to be asked.

“Can you think of anyone who may want to harm your daughter?”

“What? No… what?” Lizzy choked down her tears.

“Does she have any enemies? What about Brad Hughes, her ex?”

Lizzy’s face twisted. “Useless bum. He slept with one of Bronte’s friends while they were dating.”

Morelli glanced over at the photos of Bronte arranged on a sideboard. “So, what can you tell me about Bronte? What is she like?”

“Just a normal teenager. A hard worker. Has never been in trouble with the cops. Doesn’t do drugs. Has a drink now and then when she goes out with her friends.” Lizzy dabbed her eyes again. “But she’s not as tough as she makes out.”

“What do you mean?”

“She can fend for herself and is strong-willed, but she’s still vulnerable. Brittle. She lets her emotions get the better of her. I guess we all do. She can put up a strong front and fight back. But she’s not aggressive, not a tomboy, if you know what I mean.”

Morelli knew.

“But she’s not a girly-girl either,” Lizzy quickly added. “She’s just… normal.”

“And you’re positive she came home after her shift that first night?”

Lizzy nodded, more tears in her eyes. “On the kitchen counter, I left a note telling her there was lasagna in the refrigerator. When I woke up, the note was gone, and she’d eaten some of the lasagna. There’s about half left in the container.”

Morelli wrote again, then stopped. An odd feeling came over him—something Carolyn had said. Treat everything as the opposite. Think the worst. “Can you show me?” he asked.

Moments later, they were standing in the kitchen. It was the newest part of the house, with a beautiful white stone countertop speckled with shards of silver and gold.

Morelli looked around. “And when you woke up the next morning, all the windows in here and in the rest of the house were closed?”

“Yes. I make sure every night before I go to bed. Especially when I’m here by myself.”

Morelli made a note to have a forensics team come out here to check. “And the lasagna?”

Lizzy pulled a Rubbermaid container with half-eaten lasagna from the refrigerator and held it out to Morelli.

“Can you put it down on the counter, please?”

Lizzy frowned and placed the container down on the countertop.

Morelli took out a pair of gloves and snapped them on. He didn’t know why he was taking such measures, but something about the note and lasagna had triggered a bizarre thought—something in an old police cold case he had read.

“What’s wrong?” Lizzy asked, concern etched on her face.

Morelli didn’t answer. He carefully held the container up, then tilted it left and right. Inside sat a lump of lasagna.

He looked closer.

His stomach coiled into a fist.

Placing the container down, he peeled off the lid and looked inside. Someone had cut the edge of the lasagna, but not with a knife. Not even with a spoon. Someone had scalloped the edge, as if biting into it repeatedly.

Deliberately and not out of hunger.

19

TICK TOCK

“I didn’t know you worked here?” Carolyn said, seeing Susan Edison behind the counter.

Apart from her and Susan, the Erin’s Bay Public Library seemed deserted.

“I started about a month ago to get out of the house when Molly’s at kindergarten.” Susan was holding a book, and Carolyn tried to see the cover, but Susan’s hands were obscuring the title.

“Every day?” Carolyn asked.

“I volunteer one or two days a week or come in when a staff member can’t make it. A couple of years ago, I was told, there was a part-time librarian who worked here. Annie Hayward, I think, was her name. Then one day, she stopped turning up.”

“Seems like this town has a pattern of people just vanishing,” Carolyn said. Carolyn hadn’t seen, let alone spoken, to Susan Edison since that fateful day at her property just before Christmas. Now, the woman had a troubled look on her face.

Carolyn reached out and touched Susan’s hand. “Don’t worry. I didn’t come here with bad news. I’m just doing some research on the town’s history.”

Susan looked visibly relieved. “It’s just when I saw you, I thought….”

Carolyn waved her off. “Our secret is still a secret.”

“And Clayton Morelli? Well, you know? Does he suspect anything?”

“If he did, we would be sharing a prison cell right now. He suspects nothing.” That wasn’t entirely true. Morelli suspected both women had colluded to provide an alternate story of what really happened to Preston Hood. He just couldn’t prove it.

Carolyn admired Susan Edison for what she had done that day—taking it upon herself to protect the life of her daughter, even if it meant almost getting killed herself. She imagined any mother would do the same—would do anything to protect her family, especially her children. The husband? Well, that was a different matter entirely. A husband wasn’t your own flesh and blood, was he? That didn’t make him expendable, unless it came to making a choice, that is. Son and daughter, or husband?

In the aftermath, Carolyn had looked up Susan Edison’s background. Thirty-five-years-old. Harvard Law graduate. Molly, their only child, would be six this summer. Susan’s husband, Roy, was a pharmaceutical sales representative, which meant he was on the road a lot and, consequently, absent from home the day Santa’s Little Killers came knocking.

“So, what brings you in?” Susan asked.

“Ah… I was looking for Edith Plover.”

“Called in sick. Has some sort of stomach bug, which is why I’m here today.”

Carolyn felt both disappointed and intrigued upon discovering Susan’s presence here.

“I just wanted to thank you for what you did,” Susan said, a gleam in her eyes.

“You already thanked me that day. I really did nothing.”

“You’re far too humble,” Susan said with a smile.

Not according to Morelli, Carolyn felt like saying, but didn’t. The two of them were now bound forever by that day.

“Working in a library in Erin’s Bay is a far cry from Manhattan,” Carolyn said. Susan Edison had been a criminal defense attorney with a high-powered career in New York City as an assistant district attorney.

“So, you dug into my past?” Susan said good-naturedly.

“A little—as I’m sure you did into mine.”

“Didn’t need to. Everyone around here knows who you are and what you’ve done.”

Well, hopefully not everything I’ve done.

“I became pregnant, then had Molly,” Susan continued. “That was nearly six years ago. The pregnancy wasn’t planned, but I wouldn’t change a thing. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Carolyn cringed on the inside. Molly, of course! “Sorry, I should have asked. How is Molly, by the way?”

“She’s good. A few nightmares, but she’s strong.”

“Like her mother.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Are you still living in the same place?”

“We got all the damage patched up. You can’t really tell now.”

Carolyn thought the family would have moved out, sold the place, given what had happened. Living under the same roof would be a daily reminder of the horrors.

Susan began grinding her teeth. “It’s still my home,” she said defiantly, as if reading Carolyn’s mind. “If we moved out, then they win.”

Then they win.

Carolyn respected that, and she wished she could’ve met Susan Edison under different circumstances.

“So, we beefed up security,” Susan continued, “and installed security cameras and a proper ram-proof front gate in the driveway.”

Not to mention the barest outline of a gun in a hip holster under the shirt Susan was wearing, Carolyn had noticed the concealed carry straight away—old habits—and thought it was better not to ask. She could hardly blame the woman. But Carolyn imagined for Susan Edison, all the additional security measures and carrying a gun now wasn’t out of fear. The woman had no fear. She had proved it with Preston Hood. No, Susan Edison wanted to be well and truly prepared for the next time.

“You could still go back to law,” Carolyn said. “When Molly is older.”

Susan shrugged. “I became disillusioned with the law. I’d prosecute criminals, and they'd be back on the street in no time. I felt like I wasn’t making a difference. Then I became pregnant with Molly. It was unexpected and provided a good opportunity to reassess what I truly wanted in life. And I guess that’s one reason I’m not thinking about returning to that kind of work.”

Her eyes took on a blank look and drifted away from Carolyn. “I don’t like the world Molly is growing up in. It’s like everywhere you turn these days, you’ve gotta have your eyes peeled. Bad people are everywhere.”

“I hear you,” Carolyn said. She had tried telling Morelli the same thing, even in his precious Erin’s Bay.

Susan Edison was growing on Carolyn. She was courageous and determined, and she shared the same view of the world that Carolyn did—albeit a new perspective on the world, thanks to a brutal home invasion.

Suddenly, Susan’s face stiffened, and her eyes narrowed to an eerie glow. The words that came next drifted out of her mouth like she was talking to a dead person—a corpse lying at her feet. “I was wrong. All this time, I was wrong.”

Wrong about what? For Carolyn, libraries were always a sanctuary of peace and quiet, a place of hushed voices and the gentle whisper of turning pages. Now, watching Susan Edison, it felt like she was standing in a barren graveyard at midnight.

“I used to play by the rules,” Susan went on in a haunting voice. “As an ADA, I was a stickler for the rule of law.” An unhinged grin touched her lips. “Even as a child, I used to berate other kids in school if they stepped out of line.” She looked up at Carolyn. “Now, as a mother with a young daughter that I’m trying to bring up, trying to raise properly in this world, I feel like it’s now become a game of survival. Home invasions. School mass shootings. Looting. Carjackings. Being raped or murdered in your own home or stabbed or shot at the supermarket when you’re just going out for a gallon of milk.”

The hairs on the back of Carolyn’s neck bristled.

Susan inhaled deeply, then let the breath out slowly. “It’s like just to survive these days, you can’t play by the rules anymore because life doesn’t play by the rules.”

Then, Susan blinked hard and came back from the grim reality her mind had momentarily taken her to. She smiled. “Anyway, enough of me. How are you, Carolyn?” She placed the book she was holding on the counter.

Carolyn glanced at the cover. Paradise Lost. John Milton.

“You mentioned you wanted to do some research on the town,” Susan continued. “How can I help?”

Before she could answer, her cell phone beeped. She swiped the screen.

It was a grotesque image of a person sitting on the ground and chained to a stone wall behind them. What was grotesque was the mask—no, hood—they were wearing, hiding their identity. It was black, thick, and wrapped completely around their head. A thick strap with metal eyelets and a buckle cinched a separate panel across the eyes, rendering the person effectively blind. At the same time, a tiny slit allowed them to breathe through the nose and open their mouth. It reminded Carolyn of a cruel, medieval torture mask or a bondage-restraining hood.

She read the message beneath.

Tick tock, tick tock. Find Bronte before it’s too late.

20

FACELESS

The kitchen was neat, with all the appliances tucked away and their cables wrapped around their bases.

The food in the refrigerator was all within its use-by dates, indicating a person with a fairly healthy diet.

The one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Erin’s Bay was in a two-story complex. It came furnished with a mix of IKEA and Target items, and Todd Levine instantly recognized the same LACK side tables he had in his own place.

In the bedroom, the bed had been made, the curtains drawn back, and the pillows perfectly stacked. In the bathroom, various men’s toiletries were arranged on a glass shelf above the sink by height. The drawer beneath the sink contained the usual over-the-counter medications, mouthwash, floss, spare soap cakes, three brand-new toothbrushes, and four tubes of toothpaste still in their boxes. The shower cubicle was clean, and a bottle of Head & Shoulders sat in the corner. There were, however, no bath towels on the rail and none in the small built-in closet either.

Levine walked back into the open lounge, dining room, and kitchen area, looking around. A laptop sat on the dining room table, plugged into a wall socket. Opening the laptop, he saw a password window. He closed the lid and found a cell phone, wallet, and keys in a glass bowl on the kitchen counter.

He swiped the cell phone. The facial ID symbol spun for a few seconds before the keypad appeared, prompting the entry of a passcode.

The building super who had let Levine in said Gresner was a model tenant. Friendly and polite, he always said hello. No problems at all. Had no visitors and was not behind on the rent.

Levine looked in the glass bowl. Why would Gresner leave all this behind, especially his cell phone? Gresner’s car, a ten-year-old Honda Civic, was outside in the parking lot.

Perhaps he had hired a car or used an Uber and flown from MacArthur Airport to visit friends or relatives. Levine flipped open the wallet—Bank of America debit card, New York Driver’s License, twenty bucks plus change. No one leaves without their keys, cell phone, and wallet.

He went back to his police vehicle and returned with a plastic evidence bag. He then walked into the bathroom, where he bagged a hairbrush sitting on the sink. It might be overkill, but you never know.

Levine closed the apartment door behind him and made his way to the small office at the front.

“I noticed a security camera overlooking the parking lot,” he said to the building super, a short, squat man with straggly, sweaty hair combed across a balding head. With the thick-glassed spectacles he wore, the super reminded Levine of Danny DeVito playing Frank on It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. The super also had Frank’s always scheming, hungry grifter look, too.

“Yeah,” the super said, pointing to a computer that looked like it had been purchased from RadioShack twenty years ago. “All the video is backed up on there.”

“Can you call up the footage from two days ago?”

The super gave Levine a suspicious stare. “Got a warrant?”

“No. But I can get one and be back in an hour and take the whole computer, plus all your financial records, guest and employee records for the last five years.”

The air in the small room seemed to be searching for a quick exit as they faced off.

“Sure,” the super finally said. He took a seat on a squeaky typist's chair Levine imagined was once beige but was now a dark shade of brown from years of sweat, grime, and God knows what else.

The super shoved the half-eaten Ding Dong he was holding into his mouth and jiggled the ancient, corded mouse. “From when?” he said.

Levine moved closer. The super smelled of sweat and Ding Dongs, if that was even possible. “Evening, two nights ago.”

Footage of the parking lot appeared on the screen that was smudged with a million fingerprints. It was black and white with a grainy texture. The timestamp showed 9:00 p.m. The super ran the video through at five times speed.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to Levine. A few cars coming and going. A pizza delivery driver on an electric scooter. A few walk-ins and walkouts. Then, around midnight, a small, light-colored van pulled into the parking lot. The footage was grainy, making it impossible to read the license plates.

“Pause it there,” Levine said. “Expecting deliveries at that time of night?”

“No,” the super said, peering at the screen.

The van’s sliding door and driver’s side were on the opposite side, where the security camera couldn’t see. A person walked around the rear of the van. They wore loose overalls and a ball cap pulled low over their face. The person was wheeling something next to them and was heading directly toward the camera.

“What is that?” Levine said, leaning in. “A folded-up wheelchair?”

“No,” the super said. “It’s one of those collapsible linen carts. My housekeeping girls use them too. This person just has it folded up. It’s big when you unfold it. It has a tubular frame and four castor wheels. You can fill it with a lot of bedsheets, towels, and the like.”

The person wheeling the collapsible linen cart suddenly veered away from the security camera as though it was ringed by an invisible force field, and they’d just smacked into it.

The super grunted. “You see that? They spotted the camera.”

They sure did, Levine thought. He watched as the person walked away and then disappeared at the top of the screen.

Ten minutes later, they reappeared from the same direction, hunched over and pushing the cart with both hands. The cart was now expanded to a large cube that seemed to roll easily across the parking lot.

“He’s not from our laundry service,” the super said. “And even if he was, they don’t do midnight pickups.”

“So, you use an outside laundry service?” Levine asked.

The super rotated his sweaty head and stared at Levine. His eyes seemed to multiply tenfold behind the thick lenses, giving him the appearance of a spider. “Yeah, we use an outside service. But they pick up and drop off during the day, and their vans are different.”

Levine watched the person pushing the linen cart. Bath towels appeared to cover the top. They disappeared around the other side of the van to where the sliding door was. Moments later, the van’s taillights flared, the reverse lights came on, and the van backed out of the parking space and then exited the lot.

“I’d like a copy of that tape,” Levine said.

“Sure,” the super replied.

21

VISIT

“I told you not to go up there,” Abigail said. “Then you wouldn’t have gotten clocked on the head last night.”

The text message had put a rocket under Carolyn. After hastily telling Susan Edison she needed to leave the library, Carolyn rushed to her car and studied the image. It revealed nothing other than alluding to the fact that she was looking at Bronte Perkins, chained in some kind of dungeon and wearing a full head mask.

She thought about calling Morelli, almost did, then changed her mind. Someone sent the text message specifically to her, not to the police. It had to be him, the blond-haired man she had seen and who Bronte had told Morelli about. He had kidnapped Bronte and was now using her as bait. No other text messages had come since.

Not wanting to go up there alone again, and given what Abby knew about the place, Carolyn called her and said she wanted to take another look at the Ballard Mansion. But she didn’t tell Abby about Bronte Perkins being missing or the text message and image she had been sent.

Abby insisted they take her car.

With her brow furrowed in concentration, Abby navigated her Mustang through the tight twists and turns. The road narrowed in places to just one lane with no shoulder to pull over to allow another car coming in the opposite direction to pass. But they saw no other vehicles.

“You didn’t say not to go up there,” Carolyn said. “In fact, if I recall, you said it was a good place to hide or hide someone.” Her head still ached despite taking the two Tylenol this morning.

“I was just kidding when I said that,” Abby said. “I didn’t think you would go on some midnight sneaky mission to check the place out.”

“It still doesn’t explain who and why someone knocked me out.”

The sky was clear, a vast improvement from the previous night when Carolyn was here. The inland road continued its way through a series of turns as it snaked up the hillside through a forest of spindly trees and patches of low scrub.

“Most likely kids,” Abby replied. “They often come up here at night and fool around. It was probably one of them thinking you would call the cops on them. So, they panicked, clocked you on the head, and ran.”

Carolyn doubted if it was some kid. She hadn’t walked in on some frat beach party. It was one person, a sole intruder who was sneaking around in the dark like she was. But why?

“So why did you go up there in the first place?” Abby shot Carolyn a smirk. “Got a body you need to stash somewhere?”

Carolyn rolled her eyes. “I was just curious.”

“Curious people don’t go out at night searching an empty mansion unless they’re looking for something in particular. But hey, you called me, wanting to take a closer look, so here we are.”

The road flattened, and they crested a ridge. The trees gave way to a panoramic view of the ocean and where the terrain abruptly ended at the ragged edge of the cliff top. A footpath ran along the cliff edge up toward a lookout right at the tip of the point.

Ahead, the Ballard Mansion came into view. To Carolyn, it looked different during the day, less ominous. She could clearly see now the high wall that surrounded the property, with the rear wall ending just before the narrow footpath on the cliff’s edge.

The main road swept past huge wrought-iron front gates before continuing and disappearing through a line of trees. They had driven up from the other side of the property compared to where Carolyn had emerged from the trail through the trees on the opposite side.

Abigail pulled into a rest area and parked. “So?” she asked. “There’s really nothing to see. Like I said, the place is empty.”

“We’ll just have a quick look around,” Carolyn said.

The imposing driveway gates were locked, and the front windows appeared dark with their drapes drawn. There were no security cameras, just a keypad on a post.

They worked their way along the east side of the perimeter wall until they reached the rear of the property. There were no other sounds, no sign of activity, no sign of anyone. The place was eerily quiet, just as it had been last night.

“So, where’s the gate you went through?”

“It’s on the other side. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Minutes later, they were both standing in front of the wrought-iron side gate that Carolyn had used to gain entry into the courtyard beyond. But something was wrong.

“What the hell?” Carolyn said in disbelief. A heavy padlock prevented it from being opened.

“This wasn’t here last night.” The padlock had been attached from the outside.

“This looks like the only side gate,” Abigail said. They had seen no other gates so far. “Are you certain this is the gate you saw the person go through?”

“Of course, I’m certain. This wasn’t here. Otherwise, I couldn’t have got into the courtyard at the rear.” She looked down the length of the wall. She was sure this was the spot. “There’s a trail just through those trees.” She pointed. “I went to the edge of the cliffs to look, then I came right here.”

Abigail followed her gaze.

“I came up that way. The trail leads all the way up from the picnic area down on the road where I parked last night.”

Carolyn glanced back at the gate, retracing her steps in her mind. No, she was correct. She had followed a straight line from the edge of the cliffs to this exact spot. “There is no other gate,” she said, a little annoyed.

“They put this here after I left,” Carolyn said.

“And you definitely didn’t see their face?” Abby asked.

“No. Obviously, they pressed themselves against the wall, waiting to ambush me. I didn’t have time to turn around.”

“But you said you had a flashlight….”

Carolyn cut her off. “I didn’t use it. It was a clear night.”

“Maybe the realtor put the lock here?” Abby offered. “To keep nosy people and partying kids out.”

“What? The very next day after I was up here?” No. The person who had whacked her on the head had put the padlock on. No realtor or kid partying up here had hit her. It was someone else. Someone who didn’t want her—or anyone else—snooping about the place.

“Come on,” Abby nudged her arm. “We may as well walk to the lookout. It’s the best view in the whole of Erin’s Bay, and I don’t intend to come back here for a while.”

Carolyn stared through the gate at the house beyond. Was Bronte being held inside? Did someone actually kidnap her, or was Carolyn overreacting? The place just gave off a malicious vibe, even now in daylight. She shook off the feeling and followed Abby.

They navigated the way along a separate path toward a different and higher section of the cliff edge than the place Carolyn had stood last night while looking out at the ocean.

A post-and-wire fence snaked its way along the edge, stopping anyone from accidentally tumbling over, but it seemed weak, and it sagged in places. They reached a raised wooden platform with a wraparound rail perched right over the edge of the cliff, similar to viewing platforms found in most national parks.

Carolyn was impressed. The scenery was breathtaking. While the view from the cliff-top house where she had lived the previous summer was spectacular, this spot was even higher. Moors Island, with its lighthouse, seemed so small when viewed from up here, and the vast ocean dominated everything else beyond it. There were no other landmarks, rocky outcrops, or islands except for Moors Island and….

“What’s that out there?” She pointed to a spot in the water, halfway between the boat harbor and Moors Island. “I’ve never noticed it before. It looks like a small outcrop in the middle of the passage.”

Abby raised her hand to shade her eyes from the glare. “Oh, that’s Hidden Island.”

Carolyn turned back to her. “Hidden Island? You’re kidding me, right? Is there buried treasure on there or something?”

Abby shrugged. “Aptly named if there was, don’t you think? It’s small, but looks can be deceiving. You can’t really see it from the water’s edge down there. It blends in with the background. Hence the name Hidden Island.”

Carolyn turned and stared out at the small island. She hadn’t noticed it before. Mind you, she hadn’t been up this high before. “Uninhabited, no doubt.”

Abby stepped up next to her. “Well, yes and no.”

“What do you mean? Does someone live on it?”

“Technically, no. It belongs to a billionaire who lives in Phoenix, Arizona. His family used it as a vacation home. There’s a small cottage on the ocean side.”

“Vacation home? The place looks more like a miniature Alcatraz.” She turned back to Abby. “You said ‘used it’ as in the past tense?”

“Back when their kids were younger. Victor King has three daughters, all born two years apart. Temperance, or Temp, is the eldest, while Brianna, or Bree, is the middle child, and Audrey….” Abby shook her head.

“What?”

“I’ve met all three briefly a long time ago as kids. I liked Temp and Bree, but Audrey, the youngest, she’s… well… she was just weird.”

Carolyn raised an eyebrow. “Some people around here say you’re weird.”

“Do you have their names and addresses?” Abby took out an invisible notebook and pencil from her pocket, then held them poised.

Carolyn smiled. “But I still like you.”

“You do?”

Carolyn nodded.

Abby gave a radiant smile, then tossed the notebook and pencil over her shoulder. “I like you too.” She paused. “I’d like you more if you told me the truth.”

Carolyn regarded her for a moment. Abigail Brenner, despite appearing to be a bleach-blonde bimbo, was a very observant, shrewd, and intelligent young woman. Maybe that was all for show— her outward appearance, just camouflage to lull you into a false sense that she wasn’t a threat and could be easily manipulated or led astray. The more time Carolyn spent with her, the more she could see it was far from the truth. One thing was certain: Carolyn needed a friend, one who knew the town, its history, and its residents inside and out, if they were going to find Bronte.

Carolyn checked her watch. Tick tock, tick tock. Find Bronte before it’s too late. But where? Carolyn was at a loss. “Let’s grab a beer,” she said to Abby. Maybe alcohol would ease her throbbing head. “I need to tell you something.”

Abby did the best resting bitch face Carolyn had ever seen. “I don’t do beer,” Abby said. Then her face lit up. “But I know a place that does a killer margarita.”

22

CHAINED UP

He had bound her feet and snapped steel cuffs around her wrists, which were attached to a heavy chain that clinked every time she moved.

She wore a thick hood that smelled of rubber with holes just for her nose and mouth. A heavy leather strap and padlocked buckle secured it in place at the base of her skull. She had used her fingers as best she could to claw at the hood, trying to pry under it or at the strap that was wrapped around her throat.

But it held firm. She was blind; however, her fingers had become her eyes to grope, feel, and touch her way along the floor of her prison. As she explored and listened for the slightest sound, noted the particular smells, and judged direction and distance, a mental construct of her surroundings formed inside her pitch-black mind.

The floor was bone cold, dusty cement, and the smell of diesel mixed with saltwater hung in the still air. She tried to jump, to see if she could reach something above her head. Empty air was all she grasped, the chain keeping her tethered like a tied balloon. The chain was short, only allowing her to search a few feet in front of her. Apart from the solid wall at her back, Bronte hadn’t been able to reach the other three walls or any other objects in the room.

She beat the chain on the ground and listened as the heavy echo vibrated in the small space. There was a door, steel and heavy, somewhere above her, to her right. While sitting directly under the wall ring where the chain was attached, she visualized in her mind where the door was. She heard the scrape of metal, the rattle of a lock, and dry hinges creaking whenever he entered. There were stairs, too, which echoed with the sound of heavy feet on metal when he descended toward her.

That the mask she wore had no gag was cold comfort for Bronte. It meant she was some place isolated, well away from curious ears and prying eyes. No matter how loud she was, her screams for help would go unnoticed.

And when he came three times in all now, he said nothing. He just nudged her with the toe of his boot, then pressed the water bottle into her hand. She had drunk the water greedily and then asked a barrage of questions that went unanswered. He would crouch down in front of her every time. She could feel him there, sense his eyes on her, over her body. He was inert, though. No scent whatsoever. No bad breath, stink of sweat, or reek of aftershave. Nothing.

It was torturous—the silence from him. Psychological warfare, she guessed.

Soon after she sent the text message to her mom, he removed the SIM card from her phone and snapped it in two.

After that, he moved behind her, and Bronte felt a sharp sting on the side of her neck, then a river of iciness flowed up one side of her face. It was as if she had fallen through the surface of a frozen lake, as liquid coldness flooded her body. She sank deeper into the dark depths and gave in to its mind-numbing sleepiness.

How long she was under, she didn’t know. But when she woke, she found herself chained, masked, and in a different location than before, her head thankfully still attached.

It was cold comfort though, knowing that it was just a threat, cutting off her head. During one visit, he stood in front of her, and she heard the shutter of a cell phone camera. No, he needed her, but for what purpose? Her mom had no money to pay for her release.

And that video he had tried showing her when she had closed her eyes? She couldn’t close her ears, though, and those screams seemed real and still raw inside her head.

After the bottled water, he would place a plastic bowl filled with some sloppy muck from a tin on her lap, along with a plastic spoon to let her feed herself. She only ate because she needed to keep her strength up, not wane into a weak, groveling mess. That would play right into his plans, she imagined.

He’d been away for some time now. Maybe a day and night by her calculations. But there was no day or night in her world—just perpetual darkness.

She was going to wait, choose the right moment. The only escape was the one she had been imagining inside her head. Such thoughts were the only thing keeping her from going insane as she lay on the floor during the lonely stretches when he was gone.

In high school, she had read The Collector by John Fowles. At least Frederick was more considerate of Miranda’s basic needs, even if he was an obsessive psychopath. And what had Bronte’s kidnapper given her by way of toilet facilities? A metal bucket and a roll of rough toilet paper. Try wiping your ass when both your hands are chained up and see how well you go.

Despite the food, water, and metal bucket, she knew with all her heart that something terrible was going to happen to her—soon.

23

ALL DEAD

Returning to the police station, Morelli placed the container of lasagna, which he had put in an evidence bag, into the freezer for safekeeping and to preserve the teeth impressions.

He was then greeted by an excited Todd Levine, who provided him with a rundown of what he had found at Gresner’s apartment and the video footage obtained from the building’s super.

“So, what do you think, Boss?” Levine asked as they stood in the break room while Morelli winced at the Keurig coffee he had just taken a sip of. He looked at the evidence bag containing the hairbrush from Gresner’s bathroom.

“It looks suspicious, and you said you couldn’t pull the license plates of the van from the security video?”

“The technology in that apartment block is ancient. The resolution is like something from the 1980s. That’s probably when they installed the camera. I don’t know why they bother having a security camera there. Maybe it’s for show, you know, as a deterrent.”

“I hope not,” Morelli said.

Levine held up an object the size of a mass-market paperback for Morelli. “Do you know what this is technically called?”

Morelli looked at the object in Levine’s hand. “It’s called a VHS videocassette tape.”

Levine looked at the object with a newfound wonder. “Wow, tape. Actual tape.”

“There’s probably an old VHS player out back in the storage room, Levine. See if you can find it, then rig it up so we can watch the video. We might spot something new on it.”

Levine shook the cassette tape in his hand. “After we watch it, if we still can’t pull the plates from the van, I’ll send it over to the tech guys. They should be able to digitize it and clean it up.”

Levine was thinking ahead, and Morelli was both surprised and pleased.

“What about Gresner’s apartment?” Levine added. “Should I send a forensics team over to search the place?”

“Let’s not get too far ahead on this,” Morelli said, tossing the coffee in the sink and washing out his cup. “After all, there’s no body, and you said there were no signs of forced entry, violence, or even a struggle. If you had found a quantity of blood or a weapon, then yeah. You would send in a forensics team to pull the place apart.”

“Okay, Boss.”

Morelli gave Levine a light punch on his shoulder. “This is your case from now on, okay?”

Levine’s eyes lit up. “I’ve never had my own case before.”

“Well now, you do. It might lead nowhere. It might lead somewhere. Just work on the security footage and see what you can find first.”

Alice Munroe stuck her head in before Morelli could sit down on the chair in his office. “How did you do with Bronte’s mother?” she asked.

“It doesn’t look good. No one knows where Bronte is, and she’s my top priority at the moment. No one has heard from her in two days, and she missed her shift at the diner yesterday.”

Alice shook her head. “Her poor mother, she must be worried sick.”

“She is.” Morelli flipped open his notebook. “I need you to find a Brad Hughes for me. He’s Bronte’s ex-boyfriend, and her mother doesn’t have his contact details.”

“Will do.”

“And call forensics and get them over to the Perkins place. I want them to do a thorough sweep, inside and out, especially the kitchen.”

“The kitchen?”

“Long story. Where’s Tanner?”

“Still at the gas station questioning everyone he can about Jennifer Walsh. Then he’s going to call in on her husband, Mark, and question him too. I can’t believe we have two missing persons in the space of a few days—both residents of Erin’s Bay.”

“Well, we may have a third,” Morelli said.

Alice’s eyes shot open. “A third? What do you mean?” She sat down across from him.

“You know that schoolteacher, Michael Gresner, who went missing a couple of days ago?”

“Yeah, Todd just came back from there just before you arrived. But he was pretty tight-lipped about it. Wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

Good, Morelli thought. Despite being part of the team, Alice was a terrible town gossip. Sharing too many pertinent details about current police matters with her wasn’t wise without running it by Morelli first. Levine had been guilty of ignoring the chain of command with the flow of such information within the department.

But now that he knew about Gresner’s place from Levine, Morelli was happy to share some details with her. And not all of what she knew about the town and its residents was gossip. She was also a valuable source of factual goings-on, including some of the townsfolk's dirty little secrets.

“Well, it looks like Gresner just up and vanished,” Morelli said. “His wallet, keys, and cell phone were all found inside his apartment.”

“Well, that’s cause for concern,” Alice said. “As Karl Malden said in those American Express TV ads from the seventies. Don’t leave home without them. What about his car?”

“In the parking lot outside. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions until we can turn up some solid evidence that foul play is involved.”

Alice left Morelli to his own thoughts and to lament about his unresolved caffeine craving. Three missing persons within a week. What was going on?

After reviewing his notes and photos of the teeth marks he had taken with his cell phone, the caffeine craving got too much, and Morelli walked outside, telling Alice that he was heading to Driftwood Bakery to grab a coffee.

As he walked, Morelli sorted through his thoughts from the morning. In order of priority, he placed Bronte Perkins at the top of his list. At just nineteen, she was the youngest and perhaps the most vulnerable. He had assumed personal responsibility for that case.

After grabbing a coffee, he would visit each of Bronte’s friends and interview them. Then he would contact tech support to access all her phone records, bank transactions, and social media accounts and try to paint a picture of her movements over the last forty-eight hours. Tanner had already requested that from tech support for the missing woman, Jenny Walsh.

At the intersection, Morelli waited to cross. Wilfred Bromley, a local handyman, rumbled past in his old Chevrolet Silverado pickup truck. Morelli waved, and Bromley waved back with a honk. That’s the thing he liked the most about Erin’s Bay—good old-fashioned friendliness. But was it still a safe place after what Lizzy Perkins had said? Could a woman still walk the streets alone at night without fear for her safety?

Morelli crossed the street and continued. He was glad he had given Levine the Gresner Case. It wasn’t really a case yet, but it seemed to bolster the young man’s spirits. Until a couple of months ago, he questioned Levine’s commitment to law enforcement. Levine had told Alice that he really wanted to progress to the rank of detective, but he hadn’t yet displayed the acumen Morelli believed was required for such a career path. But the attention to detail, being able to recall without so much as consulting his notebook about the inside of Gresner’s apartment, the discussions he’d had with the building’s super, and the contents of the security camera footage, had left Morelli impressed. Maybe he had misjudged the man. Maybe Levine just needed some responsibility, something to sink his teeth into instead of spending his day writing up traffic violations and common misdemeanors.

Reaching Driftwood Bakery, he went inside.

“Hey, Clay,” Cass Walker said from behind the counter. Her parents owned the bakery, and she worked there between studying for her BA in psychology at LIU.

“Hey, yourself,” he replied.

“Just the usual?”

“Make it a large.”

“That kinda day?”

“Yep.”

“Coming right up. Just made a fresh batch of pepperoni subs, too.” Without her eyes leaving him, she began rubbing the espresso machine's steam wand back and forth with a rag, a devilish little smile playing on her lips. “They’re all soft and warm, just how you like it.” Despite the age difference, Cassie Walker made no secret of her crush on the police chief.

“Okay. Bag one up. I’ll take both to go.”

She gave him a wink. “You bet.”

While he waited for his coffee and sub, he thought about the bare, pristine dry-erase board on his office wall. Its blank surface served as a barometer of the level of serious crime in Erin’s Bay. Now, he was going to have to put up three people’s faces on that same board.

He thought about Carolyn pressing him this morning to call Bronte’s mother back and drill deeper into her daughter’s whereabouts, asking for the third and fourth levels of investigative questioning to get to the truth —that she really was missing.

He used to do that. Had he really gotten lax over the last few years? Had everything become so comfortable, so ho-hum in the town that he’d unknowingly slipped into the role of mayor instead of keeping the role of an observant, consistently pessimistic chief of police? Had what happened in his town recently not taught him anything?

Carolyn’s scolding words after the Santa’s Little Killers episode came haunting back to him. This town’s got history, a dark history, every town has. Erin’s Bay isn’t immune. Monsters are everywhere. You just can’t see them.

There was nothing wrong with wanting peace and quiet in the town where you lived and that you loved. But maybe it blinded you, made you turn your head and look away from seeing the real horrors that crawled beneath the town’s skin.

He let out a breath. Perhaps he had grown complacent. He was a good cop, a good detective, a good police chief, but sometimes, when not much happens in your hometown, you become more relaxed for the sake of not being overly paranoid and scaring everyone.

Treat everything as the opposite. Think the worst.

However, there was nothing overly paranoid about the three fresh cases he now had. He needed to treat them, as Carolyn had said, as the opposite of what they appeared to be on the surface.

Michael Gresner didn’t just walk out of his apartment without his possessions; he also decided not to return. Someone kidnapped him, threw him into that linen cart, and drove him away.

Bronte Perkins hadn’t gone off-grid for a few days like a wayward teenager. She wasn’t a runaway either. Someone had entered her mom’s home without force, waited for Bronte to return after her shift, then grabbed her. As a sick joke or evil taunt, that same someone left their teeth marks on the lasagna in the refrigerator.

Jenny Walsh didn’t suddenly decide to throw away years of marriage and leave her husband for another lover. Someone was hiding in her SUV when she returned from the gas station last night.

Think the worst.

If that were true, then all three of them, if not already, were going to be dead in the next forty-eight hours.

24

GUEST

After securing the outboard boat to the small wooden jetty, Jessop climbed up the winding path to the cliff top where the cottage overlooked the ocean.

Low shrubs lined the sandy path as it cut its way through the wooded slopes studded with sugar maple and gray birch trees. It felt good to breathe the fresh air. A cool breeze ruffled his hair as he reached the summit of the hill, and the cottage came into view at the very edge of the cliff. About half a mile away, he could see the tall shape of the lighthouse on the black outcrop that was Moors Island, a desolate rock that rose from the ocean.

When he first arrived in Erin’s Bay, he’d thought about venturing out to the lighthouse on Moors Island. It seemed like the perfect place to set up operations. However, a local realtor had been very forthcoming about this other place instead, even though it wasn’t available to rent. The realtor told Jessop about the owner and, more importantly, about the caretaker, a man in his seventies named Wilfred Bromley, who lived in town and maintained the property. Finding where the caretaker lived was then just a matter of discreet inquiry.

Bromley, who lived alone, had been most gracious. Most people were with a knife held to their throat. Tess Jorgensen hadn’t been at first. But after Jessop had hacked off her lower jaw, she had been more accommodating.

Within ten minutes of entering Bromley’s ranch-style home, Jessop took possession of the keys to the cottage, Bromley, and the small outboard boat Bromley kept moored at the harbor he used to ferry himself, tools, and supplies across the water. He also took the keys to Bromley’s 1980 Chevrolet Silverado pickup truck.

Bromley was slightly smaller than Jessop but dressed in the old man’s clothes and sporting his wide-brim bucket hat that Bromley always wore pulled down tight, and with Jessop’s blond hair tucked up beneath, Jessop had fooled the townsfolk on his trips around town and down to the harbor. Some had even waved at Jessop, thinking they were waving at Bromley. So, he waved back.

A mile to the east, in the gathering dusk, the lights of Erin’s Bay winked in the hazy, windswept distance where the township sat nestled along the horseshoe-shaped inlet.

The cottage was a simple construction of wood and stone, with a wraparound porch, gable windows, and a shingle roof. It had three bedrooms, a country-style kitchen, living room, and dining area. It was small but cozy, with a fireplace and a small storage shed off to one side farther along the cliff.

Jessop went through the cottage, closing the drapes and windows he had left open this morning before turning on a few lamps. Being on the ocean side of the island and screened by the surrounding woods on the western slope, the cottage was invisible from the mainland. He didn’t have to worry about the townsfolk from Erin’s Bay seeing any lights at night. But he closed the drapes all the same as a precaution to any boats out on the ocean side at night and curious eyes that might wonder about lights up on the cliff.

The refrigerator contained some basic provisions he had initially taken from Bromley’s fridge, topped up with his own supplies he had bought out of town.

Opening the French doors at the rear, he walked out onto a porch that ran the length of the cottage. The ocean spread out before him, a dark, brooding expanse of dull pewter.

Jessop smiled, thinking about Tess Jorgensen. That was her name, according to her driver’s license. Getting her out of the restroom was relatively easy, thanks to a large sliding window above the stall. After grabbing a closed for cleaning sign from a janitorial cart, he returned and simply hefted her unconscious body up and out the window. Then, he hustled back to the parking lot, drove Bromley’s pickup around to the rear of the gas station, deposited Jorgensen into the back, and then drove off.

He could have left her in the stall for someone to find, but someone would have notified the authorities. Not to mention that he was still seething from her outrageous road rage behavior toward him. No, a broken jaw was hardly penance for her rudeness. She needed to atone for her sins—and she had, in that dark, damp cavern.

Did she repent? Only after he had removed her mandible and hit her over the head with it several times. Unable to form coherent words, she nodded vigorously, accepting full blame for her predicament.

Did it make any difference? No.

Stepping off the porch, he went to the cliff’s edge, darkness seeping in around him. The beam from the lighthouse on Moors Island rotated lazily, casting its powerful light over the headland before sweeping out across the ocean and back again. A soupy mist drifted up from the ocean and was slowly engulfing the base of the lighthouse.

He took a deep breath, relishing the cold, salty air, and looked forward to the peace and solitude this place would offer him, as well as the important work he still needed to accomplish here.

That reminded him. He had been so distracted, bathing in the afterglow of what he had done to Jorgensen, that it had completely escaped his mind. He needed to put the finishing touches to his escape plan.

25

NIGHT SEARCH

Abby was right. The cocktail bar she knew served a killer margarita, and it was like no bar Carolyn had ever been to.

With no other ideas on how to find Bronte, Carolyn had come clean and enlisted Abby’s help. They rationed themselves to just one margarita while Carolyn explained to Abby about how Bronte was missing and the text message and photo she had received while at the library.

The cocktail soothed Carolyn’s throbbing head, as she knew it would, and the bar provided the casual backdrop she needed to tell Abby the news about Bronte and then ask for her help without the young woman going ballistic. Carolyn had also told Abby she was sure it was the same person who had struck her on the head and why it was doubly important that she—with Abby’s help—get inside the Ballard Mansion and search the place properly.

Abby had told Carolyn to call the police, show them the text and photo, and have them search the place instead. Carolyn disagreed. She was going to take matters into her own hands. There were simply too many unanswered questions about the Ballard Mansion. Also, involving the police could jeopardize finding Bronte alive. Someone was playing cat and mouse with Carolyn, and she had no choice but to play along. She didn’t want to alarm Bronte’s mother, either—not until she knew who she was dealing with.

It took some convincing, but eventually, Abby agreed, saying, “If you’re going to break into a place, then better to do so under the cover of darkness.”

So, they had driven back to Carolyn’s place to get ready.

Now it was dark, and they parked at the picnic area at the base of the cliffs.

Carolyn led Abby on foot along the same trail she had previously taken through the forest and up to the cliff top. They emerged at the edge of the tree line with the Ballard Mansion ahead. It was in total darkness. The moonlight painted shadows across the grounds, and the outer wall sat imposingly. They checked the wrought-iron gate, and the padlock was still firmly in place.

“Which way do you want to go?” Abby asked as they huddled in the darkness next to the wall. Carolyn thought for a moment, visualizing the property's layout from the previous day. If Bronte was here, then she was going to find her and wreak havoc on the person who had knocked her unconscious.

“At the rear,” she whispered. “There’s an empty swimming pool. Maybe there’s a patio door that we can force open.”

“What about alarms?” Abby asked.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

They set off toward the rear of the property. Carolyn scaled the wall first, then pulled Abby up, thinking how light she was. She lowered her on the other side before climbing down herself.

“That wasn’t too hard,” Abby said as they crouched behind a line of shrubs on the other side. The rectangular shape of the swimming pool yawned like an open pit.

Pool furniture, sun lounges, and large pots with dead palms lay scattered around the pool.

Carolyn spotted a large sliding door at the rear of the house next to a large octagonal conservatory made of glass and wood. She was about to head toward the sliding door when Abby grabbed her arm. “What about the person you saw?” Abby held her back with her hand. “He could be inside.”

Carolyn turned and faced her. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

26

THE PRISONER

Fog rolled in, thick and luminescent in bony tendrils that dragged over the cold water beneath.

Waves crashed somewhere in the darkness where the surf met the pebbled beach with a foamy rasp.

It was a narrow inlet away from the crashing surf and deadly undertow that existed on the ocean side of the island, where iron-hard rocks hid beneath the dark and brooding surface, waiting to claim the next keel of an unsuspecting boat whose owner was inexperienced as to the perils of the coastline despite the clear warning, bright as day, sent out by the lighthouse.

The 29-foot Century 2900 center console saltwater boat made light work of the journey from the mainland. The occupant had navigated the waters many times before, their seamanship and confidence growing with each nighttime trip.

The mist parted, and a jagged outline appeared on the right. The person steered toward a spot between two rocky pinnacles. Their skills were vastly improved compared to the first time when they had nearly driven the bow into the rocks.

Moments later, the keel of the boat grated onto the beach with a gentle crunch. The motor was switched off, and a beach anchor hurled overboard. Feet met the cold foaming wash of seawater, and the person dragged the anchor farther up onto the beach before driving it into the sand.

It was almost impossible to see this section of hidden beach from the water. A wall of dark, volcanic rock surrounded it, and the entrance to the tiny inlet was invisible against the background unless you knew what to look for or stumbled upon it with luck.

The moonlight was sufficient; a flashlight wasn’t necessary. After securing the boat, the person made their way up the beach, then along a narrow channel between the rocks. Tight stone corridors, like those hiding the inlet’s entrance and the hidden beach, concealed the path to the island’s interior.

Seawater sloshed about their feet as they trudged through the maze of rock before climbing up a small funnel that brought them to a rocky ledge and a wall of vegetation. The person pushed their way into the wall of vegetation and vanished. They emerged on the other side in a small clearing covered with pebbles, gravel, and ripped scrub. Ghostly gray moonlight painted everything in a watery haze.

Their eyes scanned the ground and found the small pile of rocks. Kneeling, they scraped away the thin layer of dirt and forest debris they had laid before to reveal a metal hatch with a steel turning wheel recessed into the top.

They swung open the hatch, climbed in, then closed the hatch above them and descended a steel ladder that was bolted to the wall of a narrow vertical shaft. After all these years, sections of the underground domain still had power.

Workers built the installation during the 1950s, and a cable ran along the seabed from the mainland to the island across the channel. It was the same cable that fed electricity to the lighthouse. Little did people know that this place existed under the island itself. Military archives had the installation recorded as a “research facility.” In fact, the US Department of Defense chose it as a forward storage base for men and supplies to defend against a potential threat coming from the Atlantic Ocean and toward New York.

But after the Cold War thawed, policymakers made budget cuts and redirected resources to fight the growing threat of terrorism in the Middle East and the rise of drug cartels in Latin America. So, they finally abandoned the installation, burying its existence in the dusty archives of a military warehouse in Washington.

The shaft descended fifty feet below the surface to the first landing, where the person stopped. Tunnels and sub-tunnels branched off into the darkness. A series of light bulbs housed in small metal cages that ran the length of the ceiling illuminated only one tunnel.

The tunnel ended at a heavy steel door with another turning wheel. The person spun the wheel and pulled back the heavy door.

Inside was a row of prison cells with the intended purpose of holding Russian invaders and their Eastern European allies. A bare light bulb hanging from the concrete ceiling lit the far cell, and a man, his ankles bound and wrists manacled, was chained to the wall. The cell stank of urine and feces, his pants soiled with dark patches.

The man stared up at the person, his jailer, when they entered the cell. “Please,” he begged. “Please, let me go. I… I’ll be good. I promise. I won’t do it again.” The chains clinked above his head, which were fixed through a metal ring driven deep into the rock wall.

The jailer stepped forward, pulled back their hood, and smiled. “You say that now.”

The man squirmed in his own filth. “But… I promise. Please don’t kill me. I have… a wife.” His eyes suddenly brightened, as though having a wife granted him automatic penance for his past sins. “Y… Yes! A wife. And kids. I have a family. I’m a family man. They need me.”

The jailer crouched down in front of the man. They didn’t mind the reeking stench that swirled around their prisoner. He was filth and deserved to wallow in his own filth. But what they did mind was the utter excrement that was now pouring from the man’s mouth.

The jailer gave a mirthless grin. “Family man?” they scoffed. “No, you don’t. You’re a scumbag liar.”

The man’s eyes went wide when the knife appeared in the jailer’s hand.

The jailer crabbed forward on their haunches, wielding the knife in one hand.

The man moaned, and tears ran down his cheeks. “Please… Plea….”

The knife plunged into the side of his neck, cutting off his pleas. His eyes bulged, and blood sprouted, hot and velvety. The jailer twisted the knife, grasped the back of the man’s head with their other hand, pulled him closer, and stared into his dying eyes. “This is the only thing you deserve.”

27

UNINVITED

The sliding door was easy to force open; the latch was flimsy.

There were no telltale signs of alarms or security cameras. If there were, Carolyn certainly didn’t see any. Perhaps they were all disabled.

She took a small flashlight and panned it around.

They were in a large tiled room with leather sofas, rugs, and a wet bar against the far wall. A corridor lay off to one side.

Along the corridor, they found a formal living room and a large dining room styled with antique furniture, period pieces, dark wood, and glass—an acquired taste that reflected old money and refinement.

The corridor led through to a huge modern kitchen, starkly contrasting the old-fashioned living spaces they had just passed. There were rows of cabinetry, acres of polished wood, slabs of granite, and stainless-steel industrial appliances with tiny digital displays that glowed green.

Carolyn opened the refrigerator, and a wedge of bluish light cut into the darkness. Labels and “use by” dates confirmed what, until now, was just a theory she had kept to herself. She stepped back so Abby could see inside as well. The milk was a recent purchase—only a few days old. Cheese and cold cuts were sealed in plastic, bearing recent date stamps. “Someone is living here,” Abby whispered.

Carolyn closed the refrigerator door and found a large, flip-lid trash can next to the massive island counter. Inside, she found a few food wrappers, soda cans, and empty plastic water bottles. More evidence that someone, an uninvited guest, was using the place.

Then something caught her eye in the trash can. She reached down and rummaged around for a moment before pulling out a pair of latex gloves. She held them up to the beam of the flashlight. “Whoever it is, they are not supposed to be here,” she said, examining the gloves. “Just like us.”

“What do you mean?” Abby asked.

“Whoever is here now, occupying this, is an uninvited guest. They’re taking precautions, not leaving any trace. No fingerprints.”

“What about the trash?”

“They’ll dispose of it before they leave. Thoroughly clean the house, too, I expect. Leave no clues that they were here once they’re finished.”

“Finished with what?” Abby asked.

“That’s what I intend to find out.” She buried the gloves back under the layers of trash and closed the lid.

“But you touched the fridge door,” Abby said, “the glass sliding door near the pool. Your prints, and probably mine, are on everything.”

She turned to Abby, keeping the flashlight’s glare pooled at her feet. “That’s why we need to catch this person before they vanish. They are here only temporarily, holding Bronte Perkins as their prisoner. You said it yourself, that it was the perfect place to hide someone.”

“I didn’t actually mean it,” Abby said, her voice rising a notch. “I was only joking.”

“Well, it isn’t funny now. You saw the photo I received. The realtor probably doesn’t have a clue that someone is using the listing. “

“What kind of person does that?” Abby asked.

“Someone cunning, resourceful, and very confident that they won’t get caught.” She panned the flashlight around some more.

“The blond-haired man you saw? Is it him?” Abby asked. “Is he holding Bronte here?”

“Looks that way,” Carolyn replied. “It wouldn’t be hard to find out that the place is empty. He knew in advance and got everything ready before he kidnapped her and brought her here.”

“But why would someone want to kidnap her?”

It was becoming more obvious to Carolyn that ransom, revenge, or unrequited love wasn’t the motive for why Bronte Perkins had been taken. The photo accompanied by the cheese-in-the-mousetrap text message was evidence of that. And that’s how Carolyn felt right now—like she was standing within a giant mousetrap, with it ready to snap closed and cut her in half.

“I don’t know,” Carolyn replied.

“I’m sorry,” Abby said. “For doubting you.”

“No biggie.”

“So where is he?” Abby asked. “From that photo, it looks like she’s in a basement or something. This place looks like a rabbit warren, and how did he get inside?”

That was the part that puzzled Carolyn the most. It didn’t seem like anyone had forced entry. And whoever they were, they had stuck a padlock on the gate outside like they owned the place. “Someone obviously gave him the key.”

“My God, he could be here right now. In the house!” Abby said, not sounding distressed or panicked but more excited.

Carolyn didn’t believe the man was actually living there. That would be too much of a risk. He most likely had his own place somewhere else. But the Ballard Mansion held some strategic importance for him. Or it allowed him to do things he couldn’t do elsewhere. Things that required privacy and secrecy, away from the prying eyes of others. Just what those things were, Carolyn didn’t know, but she intended to find out.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Carolyn replied. “Let’s keep looking.”

28

FOOTPRINTS

There was a light switch on the wall at the top of the stairs. Carolyn decided against turning it on and instead used her flashlight.

They had found the door at the end of a side passageway next to the kitchen. On the other side of the door, a set of concrete stairs led down.

As they descended into the oily blackness, the air grew colder with each step, dank and stale, trapped within the old walls, Carolyn guessed.

At the bottom, the ceiling was high, the space expansive, not crammed. It was a wine cellar. Empty steel racks lined the walls, while more racks formed separate rows.

Carolyn and Abby walked between the rows. Empty wooden wine cases were piled high against one wall. “The Ballards must be wine collectors,” Abby said as she took everything in.

“It’s the perfect spot,” Carolyn said. “Cold, dark, hidden.” 

Carolyn searched the walls, the floor, and the ceiling as she panned the light around. Her gaze settled on the far wall at the end of a row. There was no wine shelving against that wall, just two wooden crates. She knelt at the base of the wall. In the flashlight’s beam, tracks ran through the dust. The wall was cold and solid to the touch.

Abby crouched next to her. Particles of dust swirled in the beam of light. “What’s the matter?”

Carolyn examined the wall again and the tracks on the dusty floor. “I don’t know. Someone moved those crates aside. You can see the marks. Recently, too.” She squinted in the light and saw the slightest outline of a shape. “Footprints,” she said.

“Maybe the realtor moved the wine crates around,” Abby said.

“Why, though? The shelves are empty. Someone cleared everything out.”

Standing, she took a step back and examined the wall in more detail. She passed the flashlight to Abby, then got down on her hands and knees, her fingers feeling along the base of the wall where it met the floor.

“There’s a breeze coming from here at the base.” Carolyn stood up again. “There’s something behind the wall—another room.”

29

HIDDEN ROOM

The wall’s opening mechanism was well hidden, and Carolyn spent a few minutes finding it.

There was a pressure-release panel designed to look like part of the fascia. When pushed, it released the lock, and a section of the wall pivoted inward like a door. Three heavy-duty invisible hinges were recessed flush into the wall, completely hiding any edges or seams. There was a large room behind the wall.

“What is this place?” Abby whispered as she looked around. More metal shelves hugged the walls, forming rows at right angles. Unlike before, they weren’t all empty. One shelf contained a few food provisions. Prepackaged meals, bottled water, freeze-dried rations in vacuum-sealed plastic, energy bars, and trail mix in small sachets. Hardly a stash for a family or doomsday prepper. But perhaps enough for one or two people.

“Someone has been squirreling away food,” Abby said, touching a tin of canned tuna. “To feed themself.”

“Or their prisoner,” Carolyn added as she examined the food. Nothing was perishable; all were packaged for long-term usage.

“She’s alive,” Carolyn said. “The food is just for her—and maybe others.”

“Others?”

“Why go to all the trouble just for one person?” Carolyn turned back to Abby.

“That’s because he doesn’t intend just to kidnap one person.” Carolyn looked around. “No.

He intends to return, to come back with others and keep them hidden here. Bronte is just the first.”

“Or just the first one we know about,” Abby said.

A knife cut into Carolyn’s thoughts. Christ! She hadn’t thought about that.

Abby edged closer. “Maybe there have been more people he’s already kept down here. People who have vanished that we don’t know about.”

Carolyn’s heart suddenly felt cold, like ice. What else were they going to find? Bodies? People chained up, their faces masked like in the photo she had seen?

“We need to find her,” Abby said. “If she’s here, there could be others. Whoever this guy is, he’s got some sick fetish for collecting people. God knows what he does to them.”

Carolyn turned back to the room, more determined now than ever to find Bronte. She was here. She just knew it.

Behind the last row of shelves was a door. What lay beyond, she didn’t know, but she wanted to find out. The door was unlocked, so she opened it gently.

She nodded at Abby.

Abby nodded back, and together, they walked into the darkness beyond.

30

UNDER THE SEA

Through the door, a spiral stairwell greeted Carolyn and Abby. It was cut into the rock, with black metal treads and a curved handrail.

Caged lights spaced at equal intervals corkscrewed downward, and to Carolyn, it felt like they were spinning down the interior of a wide rock, passing through rock and stone, leaving the Ballard Mansion behind somewhere high above them.

Onward they went, Carolyn taking the lead, until finally the stairs ended. A narrow tunnel stretched away in front of them, bored straight through solid rock, with a row of lights affixed to the ceiling guiding the way, petering out into a circle of darkness in the distance. The ground sloped gently downward. It was just one long, straight hollow that seemed to core its way through the earth.

Carolyn looked back up the spiral stairs, contemplating if they should turn back. Then the image of Bronte, chained to that wall with that hideous hood strapped to her head, came flooding back to her.

They pressed on, following the tunnel. Twenty minutes later, the ground bottomed out. After another few hundred feet, it continued relatively flat before the gradient pitched upward.

The going was harder, the cold air making her skin prickle. In some places, water leached from the walls, and puddles formed on the ground.

The floor leveled off. They were standing in a large chamber.

“We’re not on the mainland,” Abby said.

“What do you mean?”

“That tunnel we just walked through. It’s taken us out past the shore and under the water.” She shrugged. “Well, that’s what it felt like, anyway.”

“Did you know about all this?”

“What? About hidden rooms, secret passageways, and tunnels?” Abby shook her head. “I may know a lot about the town and its past, but the Ballard Mansion is a mystery to me. I’m as surprised as you.”

Carolyn was more than surprised. She expected a few hidden rooms inside the property, but not an entire tunnel system. And yes, it also felt to her they had left the mainland behind.

“So where do you think we’ll end up?” she asked. She had an idea, and it filled her with some dread—a place she had been to before and didn’t want to return.

“Moors Island,” Abby replied. “It’s the only other landform off the coast.”

“What about that other place we saw? Hidden Island?”

“Wrong direction.”

Wrong direction? They had just descended what seemed like an endless spiral staircase. How could either of them know what direction they were facing after reaching the bottom? Carolyn decided not to press the point.

“So, make a choice,” Carolyn said.

A lit tunnel ran off on one side of the chamber. On the opposite side, a metal ladder bolted to the wall disappeared up through a hole in the ceiling.

“I don’t feel like climbing,” Abby replied.

31

PRISONER

The putrid yellow paint on the walls reminded Carolyn of government and military facilities that hadn’t been updated since the 1960s.

The tunnel ended at a heavy steel door with a steel turning wheel.

“This place seems to go on forever,” Abby said, looking more than a little frustrated. “Where the hell is he hiding her?”

An open storeroom was situated off to one side. Inside, they found steel shelving units similar to those in the other storeroom. The shelves contained more bottled water, a few cans of tuna, and a box of energy bars. Again, not a huge cache. Maybe supplies for two or three days at the most—the essentials to keep someone fed and watered. An animal waiting to be slaughtered for Thanksgiving.

“We’re getting close,” Carolyn said. Outside the storeroom, Carolyn slid her gun out of its holster and checked the round in the chamber.

“Wow!” Abby said, staring at the gun in Carolyn’s hand. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“Just in case,” Carolyn replied, re-holstering her weapon.

She slowly turned the wheel on the heavy steel door. A blast of cold, stale air greeted them from the dimness beyond.

Inside was a row of cubicles that looked like prison cells.

All were in darkness except one. A flimsy cable with a naked light bulb hung from the ceiling of the end cubicle. Carolyn drew her gun again and aimed it at the opening of the lit cell. She edged forward, gun ready, Abby close behind her.

Then the smell hit Carolyn. Blood, and a lot of it too, by the stench. She nodded at Abby, who nodded back.

Carolyn gritted her teeth and then pivoted into the room, her gun up, her eyes wide.

With its low ceiling, rough walls, and bare cement floor, the space looked like an underground chamber, a dungeon. A chair lay toppled in the middle. A slumped figure lay in a large pool of blood, their hands tied behind their back, their face obscured. Blood. A lake of blood on the ground. A body, face down.

Dead or alive? She couldn’t tell.

Looking past the person on the ground, she saw a soft wedge of light glowing in the far corner of the chamber. A battery-powered camping lantern sat on the floor. Someone was crouching at the base of the lantern, their back turned to Carolyn and Abby.

The person’s head then rose a few inches, as if sensing someone was behind them.

Carolyn brought her gun up and took aim right in the middle of the person’s head.

The person slowly rose to their feet and began turning.

Carolyn began squeezing the trigger, adjusting her aim as the person slowly rotated around to face her and Abby until the front sight of Carolyn’s gun settled between the person’s eyes.

“Don’t move or….” Carolyn’s warning hitched in her throat. Her mind seemed to freeze inside her head, like it had seized up. Then it shuddered to life and tried to make sense of what her eyes were seeing.

No, this is not… right. This is all wrong.

The woman facing Carolyn and Abby seemed just as confused, her brow knotted, her eyes narrow. Then her face relaxed, and she spoke.

“Sorry for hitting you on the head, Carolyn. I hope you can forgive me.” She looked down at the body, then back up at Carolyn. “I guess I owe you both an explanation.”

32

FIGHT

She heard the lock turn, the hinges grind.

Bronte remained calm, motionless. She sat with her back against the wall, shoulders slouched, head tilted to one side, chin down, her chest rising and falling in slow, peaceful breaths.

She could sense him above her, pausing, looking down on her, doubt in his mind.

Finally, she heard the whispering sound of feet as they shuffled toward her. She counted.

One, two, three.

He always took, on average, ten steps to reach her. That way, she knew the approximate distance to the steel door. There was little else to do to pass the time in this blacked-out hell she was in—just measure and imagine.

Four. Five.

Slower steps now.

Six, seven, eight more steps.

Perhaps he was wearing soft-soled shoes?

She remained calm in her sleeping stupor. On cue, she snored. Nothing earth shattering—just a low, nasal inhalation dragging the air across the roof of her mouth, followed by a soft but audible exhale.

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve? Still coming. Something was different. Not wrong. Everything was wrong. But now, he seemed different.

The air shifted in front of her. He had finally arrived. She sensed him standing in front of her now, over her, looking down at her like he always did.

Through the nasal holes in the mask, she caught the smell of something. She resisted the urge to move, her mind struggling to identify it. It was subtle, not overpowering. Not a fragrance. A living smell. Musty. Wet dog. Boiled cabbage and briny sweat. Grassy and greasy.

She sat perfectly still, mimicking sleep, her hands resting in her lap, the chain lying across one open palm.

The strange smell intensified as he crouched down and reached out toward her.

She didn’t move, even when she could smell his breath that reached out to her in raspy, tiny gusts—a sour, stale stink.

She didn’t move, even when she could feel the front of her shirt pry apart slightly from where she had deliberately undone an extra two buttons, revealing more of her cleavage, the firm curve of a young breast, enticing a curious mind that was filled with evil intentions.

Closer. Just a little closer. You want to take a look, don’t you? You can’t resist.

She pictured his head just inches in front of her—pictured in the darkness of her mind where his neck would be.

Closer. That’s it.

Her fingers closed around the chain and squeezed. The fingers of her other hand found and then slithered over another part of the chain, gripping it as well.

Now!

She exploded forward with all the fury and rage she could muster—a blind person attacking their all-seeing jailer.

The chain came up in one horizontal line, her tight fists on each side, then wound over the top of his head. Bronte pivoted and drove her chest forward, her knees and feet scrambling under her hips so she could leverage her torso over his crouching form.

He cried out in shock, his arms coming up to fend her off. Then, a determined growl.

She kept powering forward, on her knees now, desperately trying to wrap the chain around his throat. One of her hands bounced off his shoulder and slid down onto a bony clavicle. He fell backward, and she fell on top of him.

The side of her head bloomed in pain as a knuckled fist smashed into her temple. Her black universe erupted with white stars. Ignoring the pain, she pressed forward. Now, she was on top of him. With the chain in both hands, she began punching downward, raining blows on where she imagined his face was. Her right fist glanced off his cheek, and her brain took a millisecond to adjust before she threw her next punch. Her left fist, wrapped in the links of the chain, hit home. There was a wet, smacking sound, and it felt like she had driven her fist into an overripe watermelon, all mushy and slushy.

He tried to wriggle out from under her, desperate to get away, but her fury intensified, and she shuffled farther up, her thighs pinning him in place. Then she began raining bombs down on his head. Ground and pound. Fists of steel chain.

He hit her again.

She hit him harder, faster, deeper, leaning in with each blow, blood and gore coating each hand. The heat under the rubber mask was intolerable, as if she were drowning in a fishbowl of her own sweat. Her hands then found his throat, and she lifted his neck, then pivoted off him and looped the chain around, then crossed her fists, and pulled the chain tight.

Arching her back, she dragged him backward. Both her feet hooked around each of his bony legs, and she wrenched the chain with all her strength.

He thrashed about—a fish out of water, convulsing for air.

She held on, despite catching an elbow in the face. The blow was feeble.

He made soggy, choking sounds. The heels of his feet were pedaling and scraping the ground but not going anywhere.

She pulled even harder, gritting her teeth behind the tight rubber mask.

Then came popping sounds of cartilage crushing as the chain cut deeper into his throat.

She could feel his body relax, his life draining, his heart slowing, the evil dying.

His thrashing body faded to a jittery twitching, then a deathly stillness.

She held on, not relinquishing her grip. She counted to a hundred, then finally let go and kicked his body away from her.

She lay on her back until her breathing returned to normal, then rolled over and reached out with one hand. She started at the ankles, her two hands working in unison, fingers rummaging up each leg. He wore trousers. Past the knees, she located the front pockets and found a slight bulge in one. Both hands were now working on the pocket, one tearing open the top, the other pushing inside. She pulled out a small bunch of keys—three in total.

Painstakingly, she knelt, reaching behind her head, and tried each key in the padlock that held the mask in place.

The last key slid home. She twisted the key, and the padlock came undone, tumbling to the floor.

With the padlock off, she feverishly clawed at the buckle and undid the strap, then peeled, pulled, and finally wrenched the rubber mask off.

Bright light hit her, and her world of darkness burned as bright as the sun. Shielding her face, she waited until her eyes adjusted before looking down at the body in front of her.

Small. Wispy gray hair. Bony arms and legs. Coarse speckled skin. The body was lying with its back toward her. She grabbed a bony shoulder and turned it over.

A face—eyes bulging from sunken sockets, blotchy and weathered, translucent with age, yellowed, brittle teeth with a purple tongue coiled to one side—stared back at her.

She leaned closer, looked harder.

“Who the hell are you?”

33

RETRIBUTION

“So, what can you tell me about Michael Gresner?” Carolyn asked. “Apart from the fact that he’s been missing.”

Carolyn had holstered her gun but was ready to bring it out again if needed. Her head still swirled at what she and Abby had stumbled into. Initially, the law enforcement side of her wanted to arrest Susan Edison or at least restrain her in some manner. But the woman seemed so calm and unthreatening that she quashed her initial urge and was now willing to hear her explanation as to what the hell she was doing and why she had brutally killed someone.

“Like I said before, he was a local schoolteacher,” Susan said.

“I need more, Susan,” Carolyn said, looking at the body. “You’ve murdered someone. And you’d better have a damn good reason, like self-defense or something.” Looking around the room, it was blatantly obvious no self-defense was involved. The stash of food they had found, the room, the body, all led to just one conclusion. Susan Edison had taken the man prisoner, had kept him alive, then, for whatever reason, had killed him in cold blood.

“His real name is Joe Durant,” Susan said.

Abby watched on, her eyes switching back and forth between Carolyn and Susan Edison and the body.

“In another life,” Susan said, “he was also a middle school science teacher in New York. I prosecuted him when I was an assistant district attorney in Brooklyn, but he got off on a technicality. The judge said the police conducted an illegal search and seizure of his apartment. There was no warrant, and the police’s argument of probable cause didn’t hold up.”

“Durant’s computer was taken into evidence, and they found over two thousand homemade child pornographic videos on the hard drive. Videos of him drugging, then raping boys and girls.”

Carolyn’s jaw tightened as she looked down at Durant lying in a pool of his own blood. “So, you kidnapped him and killed him?”

“He abused all those children,” Susan replied, her voice almost pleading, like she had done nothing wrong.

“It’s still murder!” Carolyn snapped. “You can’t go around like some kind of vigilante.”

Susan gave a disappointed smile. “I thought you, of all people, would understand what I’ve done.”

Carolyn shook her head. “I get it. The world is shit and justice doesn’t exist. But this….” She gestured at the body. “Is like execution.” The woman was obviously crazy. She had grown into a killer. Something must have triggered inside her head when she and her daughter had been kidnapped and held by those men just before Christmas. She had gotten a taste for retribution when she killed Preston Hood. Now, she had become some kind of avenging angel.

Carolyn let out a sigh. She was torn between what was right and doing what you had to do when just doing what was right wasn’t enough.

Abby stepped forward. “How did you track Durant down to Erin’s Bay?”

Susan shook her head. “I didn’t track him down. Believe me when I tell you, I’m no vigilante.”

“Then what do you call this?” Carolyn could feel a tinge of anger.

“Fate,” Susan replied calmly.

Carolyn rolled her eyes. “Give me a break.”

“Just hear me out,” Susan said. “I saw him one day in the local supermarket. He had changed his appearance and lost a few pounds, but I knew it was him. Then I got his DNA tested and confirmed it was him.”

“Whoa,” Carolyn said. “Back up a bit.” Her eyes narrowed. She knew it was easy to get DNA tested outside of law enforcement. There were numerous private labs and online websites available for access. However, people mainly used them to trace personal genealogy, family trees, and ancestor history. She was more curious about how Susan Edison obtained a sample of Durant’s DNA in the first place—and what she had compared it to to get a match.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Susan said, her eyes darting between Abby and Carolyn. “Nothing you have seen, or that we discuss here today, ever leaves this room. Agreed?”

“Hell no!” Abby blurted, a hot little gleam in her eyes. “I mean—yes to agreeing, and no. Nothing will definitely leave this room. From what you’ve said, he’s a monster. And let me tell you, there’s only one way to deal with them. I should know.”

“Carolyn, do you agree?” Susan asked.

Carolyn thought for a moment. If she agreed, it would be the second time she would clean up after Susan Edison.

“Agreed?” Susan said more forcefully.

Carolyn shook her head. “No. I do not agree. You need to explain more to me before I decide.”

Susan’s eyes narrowed. “Okay. I’ll tell you everything. Then you can decide. But just know, I didn’t do it for me. I did it to save others. To save future victims. Other children. It wasn’t that hard to get a sample of DNA once I figured out where he lived. I followed him home from the supermarket. He never saw me. Then one night, I went through his trash.”

“You went through his trash?” Abby asked, a look of awe and respect in her eyes.

“I had to,” Susan shrugged. “I couldn’t risk trying to snatch a sample from a coffee cup or his cutlery at a diner he may have gone to. He would see me. And he wasn’t going to walk for a second time. I was going to do it by the book this time.”

“You still took a risk, didn’t you?” Carolyn asked.

“Again,” Susan said, “I know what you’re thinking. I waited until he’d put his trash can out on the sidewalk before he retired for the night. That way, I wasn’t trespassing on his property, and at that point, the contents of his can were no longer his private property.”

“Wow!” Abby exclaimed. “So, you did a dumpster dive.”

Susan smiled. “Of sorts. I bagged several samples and had them tested in secret by a friend of mine….”

“Who is a forensic pathologist?” Carolyn cut in, unsure if she should be impressed or horrified by Susan’s cold, calculating mind.

“Keep going,” Susan said, raising an eyebrow, now looking impressed herself.

“It just makes sense,” Carolyn continued. “You had to match your new DNA sample to an existing sample. A sample had already been tested and was kept on file as part of the original case against Durant. Given you were an ADA in Brooklyn, he—your secret friend—works as a pathologist at the OCME in the city. Correct?”

“Correct. Except he is a she. She works at the NYU Langone Medical Center Campus, one of three Forensic Pathology Centers that support the OCME in the city in conducting autopsies.”

Carolyn offered a thin smile. “A good friend to have.”

“She worked on the original case with me and was just as pissed that Durant walked. We had tons of physical evidence, and as I said to you before, the courts are not fair.”

Don’t play by the rules because life doesn’t play by the rules. Susan’s words to Carolyn in the library floated back to her.

Susan waved her hand. “Anyway, he obviously got a new identity and a new name and created a whole new persona for himself.” She looked down at the body. “Joseph Edward Durant had become Michael Gresner, and he moved here to Erin’s Bay and resumed his occupation as a science teacher at a local school.”

“Did he…?” Abby shifted uncomfortably.

“Continue to abuse children here?” Susan asked. “I don’t know. I found out that he only moved here a month ago. But I hope to God not. I think—” she looked at the body. “—I stopped him just in time. As I said, I did what I did to save future victims.”

“It takes a while to groom someone,” Carolyn said. She was going to check with Morelli anyway about the school where Gresner was a teacher—just to be certain. Even though, on the surface, Gresner had vanished, below the surface, he was dead. Very dead. She just had to figure out a way to ask Morelli without him getting suspicious.

Susan walked to the body and stared down at it, her hands bunched into tight fists. “He won’t be hurting any children ever again.”

“Amen,” Abby replied, licking her lips, a hungry look in her eyes. To Carolyn, it looked as if the entire episode had unlocked something ravenous deep inside the young woman.

Susan turned back to both of them. “Please, don’t judge me. I did what I had to. Some people in this world deserve to be killed. There are so many of them.”

Inside Carolyn’s head, the volume of Susan’s words dialed down to a dull background drone as her eyes saw a series of red, angry welts on one of Gresner’s forearms she hadn’t noticed before. It looked like something had burned the skin. Looking around, she spotted a small butane blowtorch on the floor.

“Carolyn?” A voice was trying to break into her thoughts.

Carolyn tilted her head, her eyes—and mind—still focused on the blowtorch. It was the kind you see television chefs using to caramelize the sugar on top of crème brûlée.

“Carolyn!”

Carolyn jerked her head away and looked at Abby, who was staring back at her. “What?”

Abby gave her a quizzical look. “I was just saying to Susan that I agree. Gresner deserved to die.”

Both women were now looking at her.

Over two thousand videos of Durant sexually abusing middle school kids after he had drugged them? Had justice been served? Was Durant just a one-off for Susan? A bit of unfinished business? Did he deserve to die? Maybe. Carolyn was still uncertain. However, what she was certain about was the urgency of finding Bronte Perkins now. And for that, she could use Susan’s help.

“Yeah, he got what he deserved,” Carolyn said, hoping she wouldn’t come to regret her words.

“So now what?” Abby asked, her eyes still on Carolyn as though she knew what to do next.

“Well, it’s obvious,” Carolyn said. “We need to get rid of the body.”

Abby and Susan exchanged glances, and at that moment, Carolyn knew they were all on the same page.

“How?” Susan asked.

“Didn’t you think of that first?” Carolyn asked in disbelief. The woman seemed so meticulous, like she had planned everything.

“I really have no experience in getting rid of a body,” Susan confessed.

“I’m surprised you don’t,” Carolyn replied drily. “You seem very well prepared.”

“Me neither,” Abby hastily added.

Carolyn faced both women. Now, she had made up her mind and was fully committed. There was no other way. Susan held all the cards and could just as easily tell the police that she and Abby were accessories to murder. “Guilt of any form does not exist in this room,” Carolyn said. “We all agree?”

Abby and Susan nodded.

Carolyn squatted down next to the body, careful that she didn’t step into the pool of blood. It seemed like the body was floating on the surface.

Then it came to her. “We’ll dispose of the body where it will never be found,” she said, thinking about one of her favorite TV shows.

Dexter.

34

CLUE

“Bronte,” Carolyn said, “we thought she was here, on Moors Island. This is Moors Island, isn’t it? We’re beneath it?” She had just given Susan a brief explanation of why she and Abby were there.

“Yes,” Susan said. “It’s an underground facility from the war.” She looked at Abigail Brenner. “Abigail, you know this place, and I’m so sorry for that fact.”

The coldness cut across Abby’s face. “I was kidnapped and brought here, but not to this part.”

Carolyn only knew snippets of Abby’s backstory and about her father, Edward Brenner. But they didn’t have time to discuss that now. She had to find Bronte Perkins.

“I don’t know who this woman is you’re looking for,” Susan said, addressing Carolyn this time. “From what you’ve just told me, I will do everything to help you find her.”

Carolyn had so many questions for Susan Edison that would have to wait. Right now, she needed this woman’s help because, as unlikely as it seemed, Susan Edison and the person who had kidnapped Bronte Perkins shared the same devious thought pattern.

“You found this place,” Carolyn said. “And I don’t know how, but I need your advice.” She thought back fondly to the same question she had asked Frances Pridmore at that diner. It seemed like an eternity ago.

“Ask away,” Susan said.

“Where would you hide a young woman that you have just kidnapped?”

“Apart from this place?” Susan asked without hesitation.

“He could still hold Bronte here,” Abby jumped in. “This place is enormous and….”

“I would know if she was here, believe me,” Susan said. “I’ve explored this facility and the island above. There is no one else here.”

“Okay,” Carolyn continued. “Apart from this place, where would you hide someone?” It was an odd sensation—asking the person who had obviously kidnapped, held as her prisoner, then finally killed a man who was a monster. The woman clearly had a dark side, and it was that dark side that Carolyn was appealing to now.

“That’s easy,” Susan said with a smile, almost as if she suddenly knew the jackpot’s answer on The Price is Right. She waved around the room. “This was my first choice. However, I had a backup location.”

Her answer—with a hint of proudness—was as unsettling as it was intriguing. “A second location, just in case?” Carolyn asked.

“That’s right,” Susan told them her backup location.

“It’s possible,” Carolyn thought. Then her phone chimed. It was a text message.

Tick tock, tick tock. Hurry, Carolyn. Bronte’s going to die soon. I thought you’d be here by now. What’s keeping you? Here’s a clue: She’s well hidden.

You’re a clever woman, so figure it out.

Tell the police, and she dies. Hurry!

Carolyn showed Abby and Susan.

“Well, that’s settled then,” Susan said. “I’ve got a boat top side on the island. And the entrance I use to get down here will be quicker. We can be there in twenty minutes, tops.”

The time for more words was over. Now it was time for action. With Susan leading the way, they made for the exit of the room.

“What about… him?” Abby said, gesturing to the body on the ground. The blood was already congealing into a dark, syrupy molasses.

“Oh,” Susan said, glancing over her shoulder. “I don’t think he’ll want to come. But you can ask him if you like.”

35

RUN

Using the same key as the padlock on the mask, Bronte undid the manacles around her wrists and threw them at the wall in anger.

She had been chained up like a dog and had some horrid rubber mask locked over her head. She didn’t want to think what the creepy old man had intended to do to her. But who was he? He was old, like, really old. And where was the young blond guy? Was the man she had just killed his grandfather? No, that made little sense.

But the old man was dead, and she was alive. That was all that mattered now—and getting out of this hellhole.

She searched the body one more time but couldn’t find anything. No wallet. Nothing. Just the bunch of keys he had in his pocket. She looked at the body again. It seemed to have shrunk a little in the brief time, shriveling almost in a time lapse, no longer a living, breathing person. Now just a husk, a vessel of evil.

She rubbed her wrists, the skin almost red raw. Her face and scalp itched from the rubber mask. It lay on the ground, an ugly black thing, saggy and deflated. She felt her face, puffy, tender, and swollen in places where the old man had hit her.

The room wasn’t a room at all, more like a small chamber with smooth walls. No windows, just a steel door that had been left ajar.

The chamber was empty except for a few drums of diesel. She didn’t want to spend a single second in this place any longer. With the keys held tightly in one hand, she ran up a small flight of stairs out the door.

Through the door, she found herself in a narrow corridor. Wooden flooring, white walls, with decorative molding. She was inside a house. Someone’s home. She paused, held her breath, and listened carefully. She could hear the wind outside and the distant crash of waves. The house creaked and settled around her.

She followed the corridor past three empty bedrooms until it opened into a country-style kitchen, small dining area, and living room with an unlit fireplace and a set of French doors off to one side. In the kitchen, the countertops were bare, and the sink was empty. She slid out each drawer, looking for a weapon, a knife—anything she could use to defend herself. The kitchen was completely bare except for a few supplies in a small pantry. Not a sharp instrument in sight.

A tinge of fear burned inside her. Someone had been meticulous in their planning. If their prisoner escaped, there was nothing inside the house they could use as a weapon. She didn’t bother searching the rest of the place. There was no point. She just needed to get out—fast. She’d already killed one of her kidnappers, and the blond one was likely to return soon.

Through the French doors at the rear, she could see the distant ocean and the ugly lighthouse on Moors Island, its creepy light turning slowly. She wasn’t on the mainland anymore, but where was she? Not too far from the mainland, judging from the proximity of the lighthouse. Bronte had never paid much attention to the surrounding coastline and landmarks. She was a land dweller by nature but an excellent swimmer. She knew from talking to the local fisherman who came into the diner that the current was fairly weak in the passage between Erin’s Bay and the lighthouse. So, she must be on some small island in between. Maybe she could swim back? The thought of doing that at night made the fear inside her grow. During the day—yes. But at night? Still, it was better than staying here waiting to be killed.

She tried the French doors. Locked. She looked around for something large to smash the glass but could find nothing.

Exiting the kitchen, she went back down a corridor, looking for the front door and praying that it was unlocked, or imagining seeing a little peg rack by the front door with keys hanging in a neat little row.

Her hopes quickly vanished. No peg rack on the wall, and a solid-looking front door with a single-cylinder deadbolt. She was locked in—an escapee for which there was no escape.

Then a sound came from the other side of the front door. Heavy footfalls coming up the front steps. It was him, the blond guy with that satanic-looking mask. He was coming back to get her. She had killed his grandfather, and he would definitely kill her now.

Bronte backed away from the front door, her eyes casting around wildly, unsure which way to turn. Panic drove up her throat like a Texas gusher. Her mind disintegrated under a barrage of fear, panic, and images of her headless body stumbling around blindly.

Where?

Anywhere! Her mind screamed back.

Footsteps thumped along the front porch toward the door—heavy, determined feet.

She backed up some more, looking around desperately for a place to hide. Memories of the horrors in the chamber came flooding back to her. She wasn’t going back to that ghastly rubber mask and being chained up like an animal. If she did, then this time, she knew she was going to die down there in some utterly cruel and sadistic way.

She fled back down the corridor, then stopped. There was a small, doorless room she hadn’t seen before—a utility room with what looked like a side door that led outside. A wedge of moonlight cut through the window in the door. She ducked into the room and lurched for the door handle.

Locked! She felt like crying—sinking to the floor and crying.

She heard the lock turning in the front door, then the door slamming back with an almighty crash. He knew. He knew she had escaped.

Heavy footsteps rolled down the corridor toward her.

Then, she saw a glint on the wall above the washing machine. A single key, attached to a piece of cord, hung from the cup hook on the wall.

Yes! God had finally thrown her some crumbs from his table of good fortune because the Devil was hot on her heels.

Unlocking the side door, Bronte flung it open and fled into the night.

36

SPOOKY CABIN

Bronte sprinted across the small clearing at the back of the house and plunged into the woods.

She did not know where she was, but it was an island somewhere just off Erin’s Bay. That much she knew—and that the guy was now chasing her.

She cut down the slope, branches clawing at her as she ran. She tripped and fell heavily and muffled a tearful cry. Getting to her feet, she stumbled on down, panic swelling up inside her. It wasn’t a straight line she was running. When she fell, she became disoriented. She didn’t care. Getting away from that horrible place was all that mattered.

The ground leveled out, and she stumbled out of the woods and found herself on a path. The path split left and right.

Which way? Christ, which way?

Over her shoulder, farther up the slope, she heard someone crashing through the foliage. It was him. He was coming down the slope after her.

Bronte chose right and sprinted off again.

Five minutes later, she came to a small, wooded area that ran along a line of low cliffs. She skirted along a ragged edge, searching for a path down. Maybe she could hide, wait it out before trying to swim to the mainland. The lights of Erin’s Bay twinkled agonizingly close. But it was no good. There was no easy access to the beach below.

She ran on.

An enormous tree, gnarly and twisted, appeared on her right, and she ground to a halt, her chest heaving, her face covered in sweat. Her heart was racing a million miles an hour from the exertion and the fear. She glanced up at the tree, its arthritic branches twisted against the moonlit sky. She could climb it, like one of those people you see being chased by a lion or tiger. And she was good at climbing.

But he would know. He wouldn’t be fooled so easily. And the branches were bare, their spring leaves yet to grow. All he had to do was look up, and her ruse would be over.

Passing the gnarly oak tree, she kept going. Following the curve of the path and on through the low scrub, she soon reached what looked like an old cabin.

She stopped and caught her breath. Her chest ached, her feet were sore, and cold sweat covered her. Blood trickled down one side of her face where a branch must have caught her as she tore down the slope.

She peered over her shoulder, back through the darkness to where she had just come from. Surely he wasn’t still chasing her? Perhaps he thought she had taken the other path, the left one.

No. She had had rotten luck when it came to men, and a knife-wielding psychopath who liked to wear creepy bird masks wasn’t the exception.

She turned her attention back to the old cabin, and the hair prickled on the back of her neck. Had he taken a shortcut and beaten her to this place and was now hiding in the darkness inside the ghostly old building, ready to cut her head off like he promised?

Bronte edged forward, wishing she had a flashlight or a weapon of some kind.

A cold, prickly shiver crept up her spine as she stared at the old, spooky cabin. Was he hiding in there, shrouded in the darkness that pooled beyond the gaping windows?

Maybe not. Perhaps there was something inside the old cabin—a piece of wood or a metal pipe she could use as a weapon.

She crept forward one foot at a time, careful not to step on a twig or branch.

The front of the cabin was now only a few feet away, and Bronte tried to see through the gaping windows that looked like huge, pitted eye sockets. She couldn’t see anything in the murky darkness beyond the misshapen window frames but could feel the gloom descending around her, smothering her with coldness. She was at a distinct disadvantage if someone was hiding inside.

The open doorway beckoned her inside, a yawning mouth of blackness.

One foot crossed the rotting wood of the door’s threshold. The air smelled of decay and dead things. Her skin felt icy, as though she were standing in front of an open refrigerator, deathly like a morgue.

Undecided, she stood still, one foot inside, one foot outside.

Then the atmosphere changed—not the air inside the cabin, but the air outside.

Behind her.

She sensed it more than felt it, an abrupt shift in the air behind her as something large and silent rushed toward her.

She turned just before bone-crunching pain streaked across the back of her head.

37

ARRIVAL

Under a cloudless night sky and a ghostly moon, they approached the shoreline.

Carolyn saw a wooden jetty with a small outboard boat moored to it. There were no lights on the jetty, and the entire island seemed in darkness.

“Looks like someone is already here,” Susan said. Sweeping the tiller of the boat they were in, she angled the craft around and away from the jetty. “We need to find a more secluded landing spot where we can come ashore unnoticed.”

“Any ideas since you’ve been here before?” Carolyn asked.

During the trip to Hidden Island, Susan had given Carolyn and Abby a brief description of the place's layout. A cottage sat out of sight at the top of a hill on the ocean side of the island, while the jetty they had just seen was on the western side—a dirt path led from the jetty, through the woods, and up to the cottage.

Fifteen minutes later, through the pale darkness, Carolyn saw the white effervescent glow of waves breaking on a flat curve of shoreline, a dark outline of low cliffs in the background.

“Perfect,” Susan said.

Pivoting the outboard engine, she aimed the boat's bow toward what looked like a small beach. Moments later, the keel gently grated on the sandy bottom before the boat came to a gradual stop in the shallows.

Susan leaped over the side first, followed by Carolyn and Abby. With their ankles sloshing in seawater, they hauled the boat up and onto the beach together. Small waves hissed and rasped over the sand and pebbles.

They hunkered in a tight knot on the beach. Carolyn had her flashlight, while Susan had given a spare to Abby.

“Which way?” Carolyn asked.

Against the star-studded backdrop of the night sky, she could see a small wall of cliffs that ran along the small beach. Nothing that would prove too difficult to climb.

“Someone is obviously here, and we have to assume they are up at the cottage,” Susan said. “So the direct path up from the jetty is out of the question. They’ll see us coming.”

That made sense to Carolyn.

“So we head along the western side of the island,” Susan continued, “around the northern tip, then approach the cottage from the eastern side.”

“Can we get up to it from that side?” Abby asked.

Susan nodded. “While casing out the place, I found a small path through the woods at the base of the hill. It leads all the way up to the cottage. The trees will hide our approach.”

“How long will it take us?” Carolyn asked, keen to save as much time as they could.

“Fifteen minutes at the most,” Susan replied. “It’s a small island.”

“Then let’s get going,” Abby chimed in.

They trekked up the beach toward the base of the cliffs, Susan leading, then Abby, while Carolyn brought up the rear.

38

CAUGHT

He pulled her by the hair, her feet dragging behind, back along the corridor, past the kitchen, past the corner, back through the steel door, threw her down the stairs into the chamber, slammed the door shut, and followed her tumbling body down.

At the bottom of the stairs, he looked at Bronte’s sprawled body, drew back his foot, aimed at her head—then stopped.

There was a body on the floor a few feet away. Why hadn’t he seen that before? The chamber was dark; that’s why. And whenever he opened the steel door to check on her, his eyes always went straight to the two chains attached to the opposite wall. When he had seen the empty chains before, his eyes, his mind, and his entire being were filled with such searing rage that he saw nothing else but the empty chains and her running through the woods away from the cottage—away from him.

But not for long. The little bitch had no clue who she was dealing with. It hadn’t taken long to chase her down. It never did. No matter how much of a head start they get—when he allows them, that is—he always catches up to them.

There was that one girl in Hagerstown last year. Hell, that bitch got halfway to Baltimore before he finally caught her, cut her throat, then left her in the dumpster out back of a Dollar Tree.

He went to the body and knelt. She’d strangled him with the chains by the look of it. Jessop had given him a spare key to the steel door and the locks on the mask and manacles. It would appear more authentic that way. The old man was senile and clueless when Jessop had kidnapped him and brought him here a few days ago.

The perfect scapegoat.

After an injection of diazepam, which has a potent effect on altering memory, especially in the elderly, the old man wouldn’t remember how he had gotten there. The police, with no other suspects, would peg the kidnapping and killing on him.

Now, he needed a new plan.

Jessop took a deep breath, filling his lungs with venom, and then moved back to where Bronte lay, a small moan escaping her lips.

The old man was a stroke of genius on behalf of Jessop. But the woman? She was a mistake. A mistake he now had to take care of himself. Usually, his victims were people passing through his hometown: tourists, backpackers, people with no direct link to the town, such as that woman Ellie Sutton. Both his father and his grandfather had been most insistent. That was fine for them. They were born and bred in Ravenwood and never left the town. But Aamon wanted more. He wanted to expand his horizons—travel to other places and reap the benefits that were on offer there. It was that thin-faced academic, who taught political science at Georgetown University, that Jessop confided in. He had told a young, impressionable Jessop that he needed to spread his wings. He had also taught Jessop how to strangle his victims using a garrote—something Jessop’s father would have considered brutish and barbaric.

Bronte mumbled something that Jessop couldn’t decipher. Her eyes remained shut, and her head lolled to one side, pressing one cheek against the cement.

Jessop smiled then drew his knee up high, his heavy-duty boot poised over the side of her face, aiming the thick, chunky heel at the soft side of her skull, ready to smash and stomp her head into a bloody, bone-fragmented paste.

Then, his phone chimed. He lowered his foot, then checked the screen.

“Well,” he mused, watching the video footage from the spy cameras he had set up. “I wanted one, but now I have three.” While he only recognized Carolyn Ryder on the video and not the other two women with her, he felt a sizzle of excitement at the possibilities. “The more, the merrier.”

He glanced at Bronte, who was now stirring. No need to chain her up again. There was no way she could escape through the steel door, and the room was soundproof. He had tested it with that British backpacker. My God, how she had screamed! I guess you would, too, if your arm was being cut off with a hacksaw and no anesthetic.

Jessop kicked Bronte in the head for good measure, rendering her unconscious again, then climbed the steps.

Time for the show to begin.

39

SHORTCUT

Ten minutes later, they passed through a small, wooded area that ran along a line of low cliffs, where, over the years, the wind, rain, and ocean spray had steadily worn away at the ground, leaving a ragged edge of coastline.

The path curved onward, past low scrub on both sides, until the shape of a small cabin loomed out of the moonlit shadows. They stopped.

Carolyn came up next to Susan. “What’s that?”

“It used to be an old fishing cabin,” Susan said. “The first structure built on the island well before the King family bought the place.”

“Could she be in there?” Abby asked.

“I doubt it,” Susan replied. “It’s in ruins and….”

Slipping out her gun, Carolyn stepped past the two women, flipped on her flashlight, and swept the beam across the old cabin. It was old and dilapidated, but she wanted to make sure, nonetheless. Hollow windows, gaping black, stared back at her, the glass long since smashed. Part of the roof slumped inward, and some logs had rotted and crumbled off one wall, leaving a jagged, open wound along the side.

She stepped inside and shined the light around. The place was empty.

They continued and rounded the northern tip of the island, losing sight of the lights of Erin’s Bay behind them, before following the path east until they reached a small wooden shed.

They stopped again. “Generator shed,” Susan said with a frown.

A soft chugging sound came from within the shed.

“Someone has turned the generator on,” Susan said, edging forward. “We should take a look.”

“There’s no time,” Carolyn snapped, feeling more anxious by the minute. “It’s obvious someone is here, using the cottage. Let’s go.”

They headed south, moving faster, and emerged at the base of a high cliff surrounded by a tumble of black, treacherous rocks.

Susan pointed up.

Following her pointed finger, Carolyn could just make out the silhouette of the cottage high on the hilltop set against the backdrop of a starry indigo sky. A dull glow came from inside. Some of the interior lights were on, but not all of them.

Looking out to the east across the water, the lighthouse on Moors Island defiantly stood, its light blazing in the darkness. Tendrils of mist, shimmering under the aura of the light above, were swirling around its craggy base. It was hard to imagine that she and Abby had traveled underground from the Ballard Mansion to that wretched place. She wondered what other secrets Erin’s Bay had.

“Where’s that dirt track you mentioned?” Carolyn asked, turning back to Susan. Time was running out. They needed to find Bronte fast.

“This way. And stay close. It’s pretty overgrown.” Susan led the way again.

As she rounded the curve of the path, Carolyn spotted a small rock formation just off the path. She gave Susan a questioning look.

“Not me,” Susan said. “Someone else put them there. Like a marker. I wouldn’t have noticed the dirt track otherwise.”

Carolyn wondered who had placed the marker stones. Who else knew about this hidden shortcut up to the cottage on this side of the island?

“You take the lead,” Susan said to Carolyn. “You’ve got the gun.”

Carolyn stepped forward and into the wall of vegetation next to the marker stones. Darkness immediately fell around her. Despite the sudden drop in moonlight, she resisted the urge to turn on her flashlight. Shadows pressed in all around her as she looked at her feet. Sure enough, a thin trail of dirt snaked its way off the path and behind the rock formation before disappearing into more thick undergrowth ahead.

She pulled her gun out and pointed in front. “Stay close,” she whispered over her shoulder, and Susan and Abby fell in behind her.

“Christ,” Abby said, stepping over a gnarly tree root sticking out of the ground, both her hands pushing away branches, “this is some thick-ass shit.”

Despite her stomach coiling with apprehension, the comment made Carolyn smile.

She followed the path as it meandered through the trees. Dark shapes seemed to move and flow around them as they went, and Carolyn tried to listen for any sounds, but the silence was complete, and the entire island seemed shrouded in total darkness.

A hundred yards, she paused.

“What?” Abby said, almost running into Carolyn’s back.

“A sound—I think.” She definitely heard something.

Moonlight filtered through the branches, casting a ghostly shimmer over everything. Somewhere, an owl hooted in the trees above. Maybe it was some nocturnal creature scurrying through the undergrowth. The surrounding woods were a mixed jumble of shapes in various shades of gray.

Carolyn pulled them off the path, and they huddled behind a wide tree. She peered into the darkness ahead to where she thought she had heard the sound. It hadn’t sounded like a creature scurrying around. It sounded more like a person’s foot stepping on a fallen branch.

She squinted off into the darkness. Whatever or whoever had made the sound was gone now.

They resumed their climb, but this time, staying off the path. Their progress would be slower but much safer. Breathing hard, Carolyn was careful not to step on a tree branch or twist an ankle on a protruding tree root.

A heavy layer of forest mulch covered the ground, and Carolyn led them around denser sections of undergrowth as they continued upward. Several times, Abby stumbled, almost falling, before regaining her footing again.

The trees thinned, and Carolyn increased her pace, worried that they might be too late. The ground beveled off, and the silhouette of a boxy structure appeared. Carolyn kept within the tree line as the others gathered up alongside her.

“That’s it?” she whispered.

Susan nodded.

A faint, oddly welcoming glow came from the windows of the cottage. She pictured Bronte inside with a knife held to her throat by the blond guy.

Then, a sinking feeling descended on Carolyn. Maybe the boat at the jetty belonged to the caretaker who looked after the place while the owners were away. He had probably started the generator and was inside the cottage now doing some repairs.

Anger welled up inside her. She was angry at herself for being too gung-ho and taking off here without knowing for sure that….

Her cell phone vibrated inside her pocket. She had switched it to silent when they came ashore.

She read the message.

Welcome, Carolyn. Glad you could make it. I see you’ve brought some friends. Good. The more, the merrier—for me to kill.

40

FLASH BANG

Something tumbled through the air.

Not a softball, not a tennis ball, more like a small aerosol can with a big lever handle at the top.

By the time Carolyn recognized the object spinning end over end toward her, it was too late.

She turned and screamed. “Cover your eyes and your….”

Everything exploded in eyeball-searing white with a simultaneous tooth-jarring bang. She grabbed both Abby and Susan by their shoulders and wrenched them away, dragging them to the ground before the flash-bang grenade exploded.

Shielding them with her body on the ground, it felt like twin Mike Tysons had driven an ungloved fist into each side of her skull, ramming both her ears inward until they smashed together like two massive brass cymbals in the middle of her head. With her eyes shut tight, she prayed that Abby and Susan had done the same.

There wasn’t so much a ringing in Carolyn’s ears; it was more like a massive rape alarm was screeching inside her skull.

Gradually, her senses returned. She had her hands on the back of Abby’s and Susan’s heads, pushing their faces into the dirt. She released their heads.

She needed to get up, to fight back. He would be coming—coming right at them at full speed. You don’t throw a flash-bang grenade and then retreat. It’s the first stage of an all-out assault on the hapless victim as they lay stunned, blind, and disorientated on the ground.

She had thrown a few flash bang grenades in her day, but just as practice. The big, burly guys in body armor handled the real situations, kicking in doors and asking questions later.

She teetered up to one knee, the earth tilting left and right. She felt sick, but her sensors were coming back. Groans came from behind her on the ground. Abby tilted her head and gave her a confused, drunken look while Susan sat upright and rubbed her ears.

The effects would pass soon, but not soon enough for Carolyn’s liking.

A whisper of smoke was breaking up where the flash-bang grenade had detonated in front of them. She brought both hands up, expecting a shape to barrel out of the darkness toward her.

Gun! Her mind screamed. She fumbled for her gun and brought it out of its holster. It wavered in front of her as she held it up, aiming at anything, something. She was tempted to pull the trigger and let off a few shots. But then she knew the muzzle flash would give away their location.

He knows your location already, you fool! Another tirade from her groggy brain. The fogginess in her head cleared and the rape alarm faded. He had seen them. He knew where they were standing. He had been watching them all along. She remembered the text message.

I see you brought some friends.

How? How had he seen them so clearly when she couldn’t see him?

It was a trap, and she, like a fool, had led them right into it. He had prepared and was waiting.

She gripped her gun tighter, came up to a kneeling position, and panned the gun left and right, searching for a target to kill. Seconds ticked by.

Nothing. No raging bull charging at them. Not a bullet in the head for her and the other two.

God, if they die. She would never forgive herself.

“What the hell?” Abby mumbled. She was on her knees now, staring blankly at Carolyn. So was Susan, except she looked more with it.

Keeping her gun aimed at the cottage, she hissed over her shoulder. “Get back. Get back into the woods. Stay low. Go!”

The two other women scuttled back on their hands and knees, then disappeared out of sight.

Carolyn crawled behind the nearest tree, covering Abby’s and Susan’s retreat.

They had to retreat, regather, and reassess. They were facing one person: the blond-haired guy. Not an army. However, she felt hopelessly outnumbered. Santa’s Little Killers outnumbered her, though. But this was different. Felt different. The enemy was different.

Surprise. That’s what it had been. The stuff they teach you at military college and police academies. The element of surprise can make you feel you’re part of an army of hundreds when it’s only a few of you, and you can overcome a much greater force.

Here, the tables had been turned on the three of them. Unless? No, it was just one person, surely?

He had thrown a flash-bang grenade at them. What else did he have in his dirty bag of tricks? What would be next? Has he booby-trapped the woods around the cottage? Set up a few Claymore mines to shred them to pieces if they took the wrong step on a tripwire?

Retreat! Her mind screamed.

On her haunches, she scampered back, away from the cottage, her gun sweeping the woods in front of her as she went.

Retreat, then reassess. Find him. Find Bronte. Make sure she was safe. Then kill him.

The one who tries to kill you must, in turn, be killed. It was a simple mantra.

It was her mantra.

41

MONSTER

Part way down the hill, the three of them gathered in the darkness next to a thick wall of brush.

Abby and Susan had recovered, but Carolyn still had a slight ringing in her ears. Given that she was the closest to the grenade when it exploded, she expected the effects would take longer to wear off. What was important now was that they could defend themselves under another, more lethal attack.

“Did you see him?” Susan demanded, her eyes wild in the moonlight. “Where is he?”

Carolyn glanced up the hillside. They needed to move, especially if he was moving toward them at that moment. She shook her head, then turned off her cell phone. She wanted no more messages from him.

“So, what now?” Abby asked. “Can we…?” Her words died in her mouth, and she turned and looked up the slope.

Carolyn had heard it, too.

They all crouched down, and Carolyn pointed her gun back up the slope toward where the sound had come from, her eyes searching. Then, up ahead, the watery darkness moved. She could see the murky outline of a person moving through the woods. But something seemed odd about them. Something wasn’t right. They weren’t using a flashlight to navigate, but they seemed to move at a steady pace, faster than she had been going when trekking to the top.

The person had confident strides, stepping over logs and moving around trees. They were off the path too, searching for them, she was certain.

Carolyn couldn’t really see their face, and the person seemed to be carrying something in one hand.

Suddenly, the person stopped, then turned toward where Carolyn and the others were crouching. There was no way he could see them. The bush behind which they hid was thick, and she was peering through a tiny gap between twisted branches. The person was just standing there, motionless, twenty feet away. Then the head swiveled, and it was almost as if they were looking directly at where the three of them huddled. Moonlight glinted off their face, like it had briefly caught something shiny on their face.

Carolyn’s heart jumped as their face came into focus. A face, dark, hideous, and skull-like, peered out from the folds of a monk’s hood. A large beak, black and cruel, twisted downward like that of a giant bird.

Abby’s hand gripped Carolyn’s arm. She had seen the person as well.

Seconds seemed to stretch out into minutes while the beast-like apparition just stood there. Finally, the person turned and moved on, the darkness enveloping them.

“What the hell was that?” Abby whispered.

Carolyn lowered her gun. She turned to the two women. “A monster,” she murmured. “And we’re going to kill it.”

42

BURN THE BOATS

The moon shone brightly, and there was only a thin scattering of clouds. The surrounding landscape shimmered in a mix of ghostly gray and black outlines.

They waited a full five minutes in case the intruder returned before Carolyn pulled their group down to the bottom of the slope.

“What now?” Abby asked, standing beside her.

Carolyn knew there were limited options available. They could go back to the cottage to see if Bronte was being held there. Again, it meant becoming sitting ducks. And if they found Bronte there, they could make sure she was safe, then hunt down the man.

The second option was getting to the beach they had first arrived on, climbing aboard Susan’s boat, and getting the hell out of there. Carolyn didn’t like that option. She had never run from anything her entire life, and she wasn’t about to start now.

There was a third option, her most preferred: a combination of the first two, but involving just her. “You both make your way back to the beach where we came ashore. Take my gun, Susan.” She held it out to Susan. “You know how to use it. Take it. Get to the boat and leave this island. This is my fight, not yours.”

Even in the gloom, Carolyn could see Abby’s eyes go wide. The young woman shook her head. “No way are we leaving you to deal with him. We find Bronte together.”

Susan folded her arms, but Carolyn pushed the gun at her. “Take it. This is my problem, not yours.”

Susan looked as defiant as Abby. “We’re in this together. When you both found me with a very dead Joe Durant, I signed over a blank check to you both. One that you could either cash, and I’ll then end up in prison orange, serving twenty to life. Or one you can both keep stashed in some old bedside table for a rainy day.”

“I didn’t view it as insurance, Susan,” Carolyn said. “It was trust.” She gestured to Abby. “You’ve entrusted us with your secret. And by us accepting that trust, we are all bound.”

“Damn right,” Abby chimed in. “One for all and… all… one… for….” She threw her hands up. “Oh, fuck! I don’t know how the saying goes. But you know what I mean.”

Carolyn smiled, feeling a tinge of something as she regarded both women.

“Put your gun away, Carolyn,” Susan whispered. “You heard Marilyn Monroe over there. He is one, not three. We are three, not one. The three of us must trust each other.”

“Marilyn Monroe?” Abby said. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Susan nodded. “We’re all part of this. Whatever happens tonight stays with just us three.”

Carolyn knew there was no point in arguing anymore. They had to find Bronte Perkins. She was alive, and he was using her as bait.

A plan formulated in her head. He is one, not three. We are three, not one. Bronte’s kidnapper had obviously gotten to the island on that boat they had seen tied to the jetty. He would leave that way, too, unless….

“Okay,” Carolyn said. “So there’s no turning back? You can if you want to.”

Both women shook their heads.

“All right,” Carolyn said. “Then, as they say, let’s burn the boats.”

Abby’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

Susan blinked, then she smiled. “Yeah. Burn the boats. No turning back.” She looked at Carolyn, her face suddenly serious. “You mean just one boat, don’t you?”

* * *

Following Susan’s instructions, Abby disconnected the gas hose from the outboard, then began squeezing the rubber hand pump.

She used the rubber hose to squirt gasoline into the hull and then doused the portable gas tank with it. Pungent fumes enveloped the boat.

Dropping the hose, she climbed out of the boat and stood well back on the jetty. Then, taking the flare she had found in the boat’s storage locker, she ignited it into a brilliant red phosphorus ball.

“Burn, baby, burn.” She tossed the flare into the boat.

Flames hungrily chewed along the inside of the hull toward the gas can at the rear.

Abby ran back along the jetty, then turned. An almighty boom echoed as the entire boat erupted into a fiery ball. Burning pieces of wood, plastic, and metal spiraled upward like small comets in the night sky. The explosion propelled the boat out of the water, as if tethered to the mushroom cloud of fire, before it crashed back down, flames consuming every inch.

Abby waited.

Five minutes later, he came rushing out of the trees, ran to the jetty, and skidded to a stop, one hand shielding his eyes.

“Hey, asshole,” Abby called out.

The man pivoted around, his wild eyes searching the tree line.

Abby stepped out and could see he was holding something in his hand. It was a hood—no, a big mask—an enormous bird mask she had seen before. Two eye sockets in the mask glowed green. With the headpiece off, she could see his blond hair.

“Over here, blondie,” she taunted.

His eyes locked onto hers.

She cocked one hip. “Gentlemen may prefer blondes, but proper women like me prefer dark-haired men.” She blew him a kiss. “See if you can catch me, pasty face.”

Abby took off at a sprint.

43

RUN BABY RUN

On the hill, Susan heard the explosion and saw the fireball rise above the trees down where the jetty would be.

“Run, baby, run,” she whispered.

It wasn’t a case of drawing straws. It was a case of common sense. Abby was younger, faster, and had run track and field in high school; somehow, she had kept her personal best (PB) for the 400m inside that blonde little head of hers. Fifty-five seconds flat—a decent clip. For Susan, running the 400 back in school was like running one long, sickening sprint. Forget that.

Susan knew how to use a gun, had killed before, and wasn’t scared to kill again if it meant saving a young woman’s life. If they were mistaken and more than one assailant existed, another creep would probably be left to guard Bronte. Carolyn believed she was being held inside the cottage on the hill; therefore, she gave Susan the gun.

And Carolyn? Well, she wanted the endgame—wanted to face him alone. Mano a mano, as she had put it.

He is one, not three. We are three, not one.

The front door to the cottage was wide open, with a dull glow emanating from within. Susan raised the gun, all her senses lighting up like an angiogram.

In her mind, she pictured Molly, her five-year-old daughter, being held captive inside, not Bronte Perkins. Carolyn had suggested it, and instantly, Susan had switched to ruthless, motherly, save-at-all-cost mode. Bronte was someone’s daughter anyway, and her mother would be worried sick about her. Susan had experienced that nightmare-feeling before.

So, it was good enough motivation for Susan.

She eased through the doorway, stepped over the twisted hall runner, and continued forward past a small laundry until an archway opened up into a kitchen, dining room, and living room area in an open-plan space with French doors that opened to a porch area at the rear of the property. A few low-wattage lamps had been turned on, but all the brighter ceiling lights were off.

She went down a smaller corridor past the kitchen area, her gun sweeping left to right, pockets of shadow everywhere. There were three bedrooms, their doors open, and all were empty. Ahead, a steel door came into view, and Susan tightened her grip on the gun. Find Molly—No, Bronte. Find Bronte. I’m going to find you, baby, and take you home to your mom. She’s waiting for you.

The steel door was ajar, and she nudged the door open with her toe, then stepped through, her gun aimed at wherever her eyes went.

She was standing at the top of a small flight of steps. The room wasn’t a room at all; it was more like a small chamber with smooth walls and no windows. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting such a feeble glow that most of the chamber was masked in shadow. Susan waited for her eyes to adjust.

The chamber was empty except for a few steel drums. Her heart sank. Then she saw chains hanging from the opposite wall, and her heart tightened in anguish. Her pupils dilated some more, and two shapes on the ground sharpened into focus. Two bodies.

She descended the stairs with the gun raised. One body moved, and Susan switched her aim toward it. The body groaned, a woman’s groan, and Susan rushed forward and knelt. “Bronte?” Susan said, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible. “It’s okay. Everything is fine. You’re safe.”

Susan’s heart sang as she helped the groggy young woman, her face bleeding, one side of her cheek swollen, to sit upright.

Blank eyes stared at Susan. “Who… who are…?”

Susan could see the young woman was in a daze, trance-like. Horror suddenly flooded the woman’s face, and she began crying. Susan cradled her in her arms, pressing the woman’s face into her neck. Heat, soft and gentle, filled Susan. “It’s okay, baby. I got you. You’re safe.”

Tears ran down Susan’s neck and soaked into the top of her shirt, but she didn’t care. She held Bronte Perkins tight and rocked her slowly. Daughters, no matter what age, still needed their mothers—forever.

“Hush, now. You’re safe, Bronte. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Bronte responded by nuzzling deeper into Susan, which she didn’t mind at all. Not one bit.

Glancing over the top of Bronte’s head, Susan saw the body a few feet away. Judging from the age and appearance, she guessed it was some old man, late seventies perhaps, and dead for a good reason.

“I killed him,” Bronte sniveled, looking up. “I killed him with the chain….”

Susan cut her off. “It was self-defense, wasn’t it, Bronte?” It was more a statement than a question, and she hoped Bronte would catch onto that. “He attacked you and tried to kill you. You truly believed you were in mortal danger.” Susan glanced at the dead man. Both his hands were empty. It would require some explaining to the police how and why a young woman had killed an old man who appeared to have no weapon of his own.

“Correct?” Susan insisted. “You feared for your life.”

Bronte nodded. “Y… Yes,” she finally replied, more firmly now, picking up on Susan’s suggestive framing of the situation. “He attacked me. I was unarmed. I had no choice. I feared for my life.”

“Do you have any other weapons on you now?”

Bronte shook her head. “The old man, he was with that other guy,” Bronte continued. “The blond guy.” She pushed away and rubbed tears from her eyes. “Do you know where he is?” she asked Susan, a stricken look in her eyes now. “He’s got a knife, and he wants to kill me. He’ll kill both of us.”

Susan could hear the panic rising in Bronte’s voice. She looked at the chains on the wall and saw a rubber mask on the floor. Her chest tightened.

“Did he harm you?” She didn’t know how else to say it. Rape you? Torture you? God, she hoped not. It was obvious Bronte had taken a beating. At least she had killed one of them. That was fair, wasn’t it?

“No,” Bronte said. “But he was going to kill me.”

More adrenaline began coursing through Susan, and her heartbeat grew elevated as she helped Bronte to her feet. “You good to walk?”

Despite the tears, swollen cheekbone, and blood-streaked face, Bronte smiled. “I can run if you need me to.”

“Good girl. Stay behind me, and let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

They weren’t out of the woods yet, Susan knew. They had to get out of this place and back to where they had agreed to meet.

She just prayed that Abby was fast enough and that Carolyn’s plan would work.

44

DARK STAIN

We are three, not one. We are three, not one.

The phrase kept replaying over and over inside Abby’s head as she tore along. The track on which she ran wasn’t dirt and stone. It was clay-brown and made of synthetic rubber.

There were no trees, no bushes, no foliage at all. It was day, not night, with the sun high in the sky, and she could see everything clearly—the deep blue sky. The high school stadium, packed with cheering faces. The waving hands, the marching band, Coach Wilson, her running coach, red-faced and yelling at her from the sidelines. Everything was crystal clear.

And as she rounded the curve on the home stretch, all she could see in front of her was Wanda Jones—her rival. All summer, Abby had run second to Wanda. Now, at the school championships, she was determined to beat her.

Ignoring her screaming lungs, tearing calves, and exploding heart, Abby gritted her teeth and found another spark deep inside her. She kicked harder, her legs and arms pumping. Then she couldn’t believe it. Up ahead, the back of Wanda Jones was growing, not shrinking. She was closing on her, hauling her in.

The cheering crowd vanished as though wiped away. Coach Wilson drifted behind Abby. The sun, bright and glowing hot moments before, began cooling to a dark orb of lifeless stone. From above, fingers of black unfurled from the heavens. They grew and divided and spread as though the Devil’s own blood, inky and black, was being poured into the calm, clear waters inside a fishbowl.

The world was going dark, and so was Abby. Something quivered inside her, something sinister, something that had been hibernating.

And as absurd as it was, she knew her once-blonde hair was now a long, glossy mane of flowing raven, as black as the sky.

A slither of white split the darkness ahead of Abby, and a pool of moving light touched the earth. And within the pool of light was a lumbering Wanda Jones. Her arms and legs were now slowing, like she had hit a sea of molasses.

Abby’s eyes narrowed, and so did her whole universe, until all she saw through the aperture of her irises was that bitch Wanda. At that moment, Abby didn’t just want to beat Wanda. She wanted to stomp her body senseless, to crush her skull, to smash bone and cartilage into the dry earth. But even then, she wasn’t done. She wanted to grind the flame of Wanda’s life with her heel. To extinguish her soul, her very existence. Erase even her memory from the world.

As Abby ran past Wanda, her elbow cut into the pool of light, and she felt a sizzle of pain burn across her skin. Then, it was gone.

Abby hit the line first, and the world around her was immediately bright again, full of rapturous cheers and joyous faces. And as she bent over, hands on knees, gulping in the sweet, clean air, a patch of darkness, a blemish on her once pure soul, left its indelible stain on her.

45

GUNSHOT

Carolyn stood at the base of the high cliffs surrounded by a tumble of black rocks, where they had stood before, the cottage perched above.

The moon, full and blanched, bathed everything in a watery glow.

Had Susan found Bronte in the cottage? She prayed she had and that they were both safe. It was a risk, splitting up. But she felt it would be better. Someone had to find Bronte and lure her kidnapper away from her and to this spot. Three of them bunched together would have wasted more time—which they didn’t have.

Then, a crack of thunder came from the west side of the island. It wasn’t thunder, though. It was Abby, taking care of the boat on the jetty. A surge of adrenaline hit Carolyn. Abby had estimated only ten minutes for her to hightail it from the jetty, then along the dirt track heading east, before skirting around the southern reach of the island, then to the windward side where Carolyn now waited.

She counted off in her head.

Five minutes gone. Then six. Then eight minutes.

Out of the darkness, along the dirt track, came the sound of someone approaching—no, more like sprinting as though being chased by the Devil himself on horseback.

Carolyn tensed and took a deep breath. We are three, not one. We are three, not one. They were coming.

The racing footsteps grew louder, and she imagined Abby tearing along the path toward her.

She bunched her hands into tight fists. The wait was over.

The shadows parted, and the blurred shape of Abby came streaking out.

Abby peeled off to one side and slowed to a stop, her chest heaving, her hands on her knees. She tilted her head up at Carolyn and nodded. “New PB,” she gasped.

Carolyn peered into the impenetrable darkness but couldn’t see anything.

Thirty seconds. Then a full minute. Still nothing.

Abby walked over to Carolyn, her breath less labored now. “He was right behind me,” she said. “I swear. I saw him. He’s fast, too, but I’m faster.”

Carolyn continued to look along the path from which Abby had emerged. It had been what? A minute, maybe two, since Abby arrived?

“And he was on your tail?”

“I tell you,” Abby replied, “he was right behind me. Maybe he tripped or something.”

With each passing second, the ball of dread in Carolyn’s gut grew larger and larger. Maybe it was them who had tripped—tripped up.

Then, a gunshot. Not close, but from above.

Carolyn jerked her head up the cliff face to where the cottage sat.

46

CAN’T LEAVE

They tore up the shortcut through the woods, Abby leading the way, sprinting as though they were on a flat surface, not some steep incline.

Carolyn struggled to keep Abby in sight, fearing that Abby would reach the top only to face the horrible mayhem that awaited them alone.

Through the dappled moonlight, Abby’s shape bobbed and weaved maybe twenty yards ahead, as agile and fast as a frightened gazelle, leaping over logs, sidestepping bushes, ducking under low branches without downshifting—running toward danger and not away from it. In another life, she might have had a career alongside Carolyn if her temperament had been honed and channeled in the right direction.

She was undoubtedly fast and ran how she drove. One speed: flat out, and almost with no regard for her own safety.

Carolyn’s lungs burned raw, her thighs ached, and needles of pain stitched into her knee joints, but she pushed harder. They had to get there.

That gunshot? She prayed it was from her gun that she’d given Susan.

Their plan had failed. He had taken the bait, then backtracked for whatever reason, breaking off the chase of Abby at the very last moment, and made for the cottage instead. He figured out their plan and that Abby was just a piece of misdirection, as was the burning boat. That meant something of value was in the cottage. It had to be Bronte Perkins.

The track leveled out, and Carolyn crested to the top. Her lungs were shredding inside her chest, and her legs were jelly. Dizzy and gasping, she stumbled out of the tree line, everything swimming in her vision.

Abby was already across the clearing and crouching near the base of the front porch steps of the cottage.

If Carolyn had enough breath, she would have called out and warned Abby to stop. Told her that it could be a trap. But she could barely breathe, and it took every ounce of effort for her to get air back into her lungs.

She staggered across the clearing, her eyes scanning the surrounding trees. Susan was crouching over a person on the ground, who Carolyn assumed was Bronte Perkins, with Abby next to her. Dread, dark and oily, boiled up inside Carolyn as she approached.

Susan looked up. “Bronte’s just twisted her ankle,” Susan said. “Nothing serious.”

Carolyn crouched next to the little group, conscious that they were hopelessly exposed. “What happened?”

Susan shook her head, seemingly angry with herself. “He had her chained in the basement. We were coming out of the house and onto the porch, and he came at us with a knife. He was waiting for us. Sneaky bastard.”

Susan still held Carolyn’s gun and, without being asked, handed it back to her. “I got off a shot,” Susan said. “But he was quick.”

“Did you hit him?” Carolyn checked her gun. It was still warm.

“I’m not sure. I just got off one shot—more of a reflex action. We struggled, and then all three of us fell down the steps and landed in a heap. That’s when Bronte twisted her ankle, and I dropped the gun. By the time I got my senses back, he was gone. He was wearing a hideous mask like some kind of prehistoric bird.” Her head swiveled back and forth, searching the area around where they huddled. “I don’t know where he is. But he’s out there somewhere.”

Abby was feeling around Bronte’s ankle. “Nothing broken, minor swelling.”

In the moonlight, Carolyn saw that Bronte’s eyes were wide. She was going into shock. Whatever she had endured during the last few days was now hitting her in one mighty wave. She began to shake, and Abby touched her arm. “It’s okay. He’s gone, and you’re safe now.”

The young woman didn’t so much nod as her head bobbed rapidly. They needed to get her away from here and off this godforsaken island.

Carolyn turned back to Susan and noticed veins of fresh blood running down the outside of her right forearm. “My God, you’re bleeding. Did he cut you?”

“Forget about me,” Susan snapped. “It’s him you’ve gotta worry about. He’s insane. We need to stop him.”

“We need to get to cover,” Abby said to Carolyn. “He might throw one of those grenade things at us again.”

Carolyn was acutely aware of that possibility. “Bronte, can you walk?”

Again, the jittery head-bobbing.

Taking her under each armpit, Abby and Susan helped Bronte to her feet. She placed some weight on her ankle and took a few tentative steps. “It’s okay. I can walk.”

“Good girl,” Carolyn said. She scanned the tree line again and saw nothing but a collage of twisted shadows. He was watching them right now—a predator waiting in the dark.

What options did they have? They could flee the island, make it to the boat, and get the hell out of there. That meant he would escape. But he was here for Carolyn. Bronte was just bait.

And with that thought, she knew, even if they wanted to leave, he would not let them.

47

JESSOP

They were halfway across the clearing to the main path that would take them back down to the jetty when a thick, black fog seemed to flow out between the trees toward them.

Carolyn stepped in front of the others and raised her gun at the hooded shape as it floated toward them before stopping. Fingers of mist wafted out from under the hem of the long black robe while ghostly green eyes peered out from a hideous black skull wreathed with tar-black feathers swept back in the plumage of a vulturous beast. The mask was that of a black raven, with a massive, curved, snorkel-like beak.

Abby, Susan, and Bronte gathered behind Carolyn, and she sensed an aura of defiance emanating from their little group.

The eyes drew Carolyn’s attention the most—those flat, lens-like discs that shimmered green. Now she knew how he had seen them clustered in the tree line when they had first arrived at the cottage. Now she knew how he had thrown the stun grenade with such accuracy, landing it just feet from where they had been standing.

Night vision.

Night vision capability was built into the mask.

It all made sense now. Those confident strides he had taken, stepping over logs and moving around trees in the darkness up the hillside, too. And when he had turned his head and looked directly at them as they crouched, shielded behind the twisted branches of a thick bush.

There was nothing magical or supernatural about night vision. He was a man parading as a monster, yet deep inside the man, she knew a real—not fake—monster lived.

“Get that at Walmart, did you?” Carolyn threw out, aiming her gun at his chest. At this distance, she could not miss—center mass—thoracic cavity.

At first, he seemed hesitant, confused at such a frivolous insult.

“Bit late for Halloween, isn’t it?” she added.

The luminous green sheen of the eyes intensified. He lowered the hood to reveal a head of blond hair. Then he peeled off the mask and tossed it aside. Cruel, gloating eyes regarded Carolyn with a malevolent curiosity, a knife held in one hand.

“Don’t move, or I will send you to Hell,” Carolyn said, adjusting her aim. Deliberate or not, he had taken a small step to his right. Behind her, she could hear Bronte whimpering.

It was him, for sure. The way he had moved his body then and now. The blond tussle of hair, his almost effeminate features—sculpted, high cheekbones, full lips, a pointed jaw. Features that Carolyn imagined could easily disarm a weak-minded woman and have them eating out of the palm of his hand. Based on looks alone, he didn’t need a date-rape drug like Rohypnol to lure women into a more compliant state.

However, something else shaped his youthful face in a subtle, ravenous way. A deep, soulless pool of murderous lust seemed to ooze from the pores of his skin as he regarded their little entourage.

“Carolyn Ryder,” he said with a flashing smile. “Your reputation proceeds you.” His voice was suave and confident.

Carolyn tightened the grip on her gun. The warm greeting was more suited to meeting a blind date for the first time that exceeds your wildest dreams. No, she had to be extremely careful with this one. Take away the flowing robe, despicable mask, and circumstance. He was highly dangerous, simply because he didn’t appear to be dangerous at all.

“You know my name. Big deal. What do you want?”

“Finally,” he declared. “I’ve waited a long time to meet you at last.” He glanced at the gun pointed at him. “How crude.”

Carolyn shrugged. “Gun beats knife, and it’s not as crude as what you’re holding.”

His eyes came back to Carolyn, studying her as though he was of two minds.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He made a condescending clicking sound with his tongue. “How rude of me.”

He gave a slight, apologetic bow. The man’s smile didn’t waver. His face was fixed in a heinous grin. “Aamon Jessop.”

Amen? Is that what he said?

“Aamon,” he repeated, as if sensing her confusion. He then spelled it for her. “I am the Grand Marquis of Hell. I rule over forty infernal legions. I am the demon of life and reproduction.”

Carolyn thought she had heard it all, but this was something else. She wondered how he had said all that while keeping a straight face.

Behind Carolyn, Susan snorted. “Sicko,” she said, not too quietly.

The knife in Jessop’s hand twisted a fraction, and he looked past Carolyn. “Ah,” he said, looking at Susan. “The old whore speaks. I thought you just snorted like a pig.” He pointed the knife. “You tried to kill me, no?”

“You tried to kill me.” Susan stepped forward. “You sick….”

Carolyn raised her hand, and Susan’s words abruptly stopped. She knew what he was about to do: goad them all. Get under their skin, so one or all of them would take the bait and do something rash. Then it would descend into chaos. She needed to maintain control, be the spokesman for the group, and keep everyone’s emotions in check. With his looks, voice, and demeanor, Jessop was cunning and manipulative. And did she believe all he had was a knife? That there was nothing else concealed under that dark cloak of his? Not a chance. It may look over-the-top-theatrical and suit his narrative as some kind of demon, but the primary purpose of cloaks is to conceal.

“Ah,” Jessop said, looking at Bronte. “I see you’ve found my bride.”

“Bride?” Abby sneered, her arm around Bronte. “What crap are you talking, Blondie?”

“Abby,” Carolyn cautioned over her shoulder while maintaining her aim on Jessop.

Jessop’s gaze shifted to Abby, and his jaw tensed. “Oh, I have something special reserved just for you.”

“I’m too fast for you, blondie,” Abby retorted, ignoring Carolyn’s request. “Shoot him, Carolyn, and be done with it.”

If he came so much as another step forward or reached under that cloak he was wearing, she would definitely shoot him. But it was her he wanted. Bronte Perkins was just bait.

“I will kill all of you,” Jessop said calmly, as though he, not Carolyn, was holding the gun and had the upper hand.

“Then I will impregnate each one of you after I have first cut off your heads. Your head must leave your body so you can be reborn in another form with a new identity.”

“What sort of sick fantasy is this?” Abby said.

Jessop’s mouth twisted into a jackal’s smile, and his eyes narrowed to a vulture’s stare directed at Abby. “I will take my time with you, pale one. You have a long and lovely neck.” He sighed and whispered lovingly, “So much to live for. So little to die for.”

“No one’s head is coming off,” Carolyn said. Yet she knew he would do it to all of them. There was nothing hollow or idle in his threat. It was like a promise.

There was Ellie to consider. She was Jessop’s ultimate target. That’s why he was here in Erin’s Bay. And that’s why he wanted Carolyn. She knew precisely where Ellie was. Did he honestly think she would reveal her location to him?

She had to stop him, kill him now. It was going to end right here. And if she failed, he would also kill Susan, Abby, and Bronte before moving on to Ellie. For Carolyn, she would go to her grave suffering a fate worse than death, knowing that he had also killed the others in the ghastliest fashion.

Jessop stepped forward, wielding the knife.

Carolyn pulled the trigger.

48

KILL HIM

The gunshot rang out, and Jessop’s shoulder twisted violently, his body jerking away.

He didn’t go down, just stood there, his body turned away, one hand clutching at the top of his shoulder, his face hidden.

Slowly, he turned back and stood tall, his chin jutting out defiantly. Then he spoke, rage seething in his eyes, pure malevolence twisting his lips.

“You can’t kill what is unearthly,” he hissed, holding the hand that held the blade to his shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers.

“Then why are you bleeding?” Carolyn said, keeping the gun trained on him. “Drop the knife, or we’ll see how much you can really bleed.”

“I’m going to kill you.” He lowered his hand and pointed the bloody knife first at Carolyn’s face, then swept it back and forth. “All of you.”

Carolyn took a step forward. “Drop the knife.”

“Jessop’s eyes darted to the gun, then back up to Carolyn. “You won’t kill me. You can’t kill me.”

“Wanna bet?” Carolyn said.

All except Bronte had stepped up alongside Carolyn but still kept their distance from Jessop. He wasn’t a cornered animal, just an injured one, and equally dangerous. And yet Carolyn sensed his arrogance hadn’t changed. It wasn’t recklessness or foolhardiness from him. Something wasn’t right.

“Drop it, and I won’t shoot you again. You have my word.” She wanted him alive.

He let out a manic laugh. “You’re a lying whore, just like your two other sisters. All three of you, and that heathen I caught, will not see the sun rise on this day.” He made quick stabbing thrusts with the knife, the blade ramming home his bitter-laced words. “None of you are worthy to take the life of a supreme god of the darkness!” he shrieked. Then his face collapsed. The act was over. He dropped the knife. It landed at his feet, still within his reach, Carolyn noted.

“Kick it away,” she said. “The knife.”

Jessop sighed, then kicked the knife. It scuttled along the dirt a couple of yards. He looked up. “Satisfied?”

She glanced at the knife on the ground. “Why were you asking about Ellie Sutton? Why her?” She needed to know.

Jessop gave a gloating look. “You were there, in Ravenwood, weren’t you? So was she. I met her.” He looked away, his eyes distant.

“Go on.”

Jessop looked back. He smiled. “That’s the beauty of it. I get to choose who I want as my brides. They must all be young, attractive, and virile. When I met her in Ravenwood, I knew at that very moment that she was worthy of me—worthy of my seed. She was different. Special. I could sense it. I could smell it.”

“Shoot him in the head, Carolyn,” Abby said. “See if he can sense a bullet pulverizing his tiny brain.”

Jessop’s eyes darted to Abby, then returned. “Then she vanished, disappeared from town.”

“So, then you went looking for her?” Carolyn asked.

“Correct, and the trail led me here, to Erin’s Bay.” He glanced over at Bronte. “That mothering whore lied to me when I asked her. I saw it in her eyes. She told me Ellie’s true name, then tried to walk it back. And for that, she has to die.”

“Why the text message to me?”

“That was obvious. I was about to leave town when I walked by the police station and saw you. I recognized you and thought it strange that I would find you here. It was obvious. There was a link between you and Ellie. You were in Ravenwood. She was in Ravenwood. You know each other, don’t you? Probably are good friends.”

Susan gave Carolyn a questioning look, as if to say, who is Ellie?

Carolyn ignored the look and wasn’t about to tell him anything. Her nose twitched. There was a scent, a slight mousy or musty smell about him she hadn’t noticed before.

Jessop continued. “So, I needed you to tell me where she was.”

And there it was. Carolyn was right.

“I’ll let the others go,” Jessop offered. “Then it will just be you and me.”

“No,” Susan protested. “We are not going anywhere.”

“The three of you are truly sisters,” he said. “And as such, you will all die together with my seed inside you.”

He turned back to Carolyn. “I won’t stop until I find her. I will search to the ends of this godforsaken Earth if I have to. But I will find her.”

Carolyn believed him. “I won’t let you find her and kill her,” she said.

Jessop stood a little straighter. The top of his shoulder was wet and dark with blood. Nothing more than a flesh wound. “You can’t stop me,” he said. Even without the mask, his eyes took on an ethereal glow. He was possessed by the creature of the mask he wore.

He tilted his head and drew back his lips to reveal a row of sharp little teeth. “And you definitely can’t kill me.” He took another step, but away from them this time. Away from the knife but toward where the mask lay.

“Hold it right there,” Carolyn said, her aim tracking his movement.

Like an owl clock, his eyes sped back and forth between all four of them: Carolyn, Susan, Abby, and Bronte.

A slither of apprehension cut into Carolyn. He was judging the distance between them. The four women were standing too close.

“Keep your hands up where I can see them,” Carolyn said, her apprehension ratcheting up into dread. “Don’t try and throw one of those grenades again,” she warned.

“Shoot him, Carolyn!” Susan yelled. “He’s up to something.”

“Yeah, kill him!” Abby cried. “Don’t trust him.”

Jessop took another step, then grimaced as he brought both hands up in surrender. “See, I am unarmed. Nothing to see here.”

Carolyn glanced at one hand. Open, empty, stained with blood. Her gaze shifted to his other hand—a loose fist—something clenched within—a white sphere no bigger than a golf ball.

He drew his hand back as if to throw the….

She shot him.

49

SKULL FACE

Jessop shunted back a step, like a massive fist had hit him in the chest, his arms flaying, and then sank to his knees.

Steeped in prayer, his head drooped, chin on chest.

Carolyn was confused. She hit him in the center of the chest. He should be down, dead, lying on the ground. She stepped forward.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his face riddled with pain, his eyes tightly shut. “I am Aamon, the great and powerful Marquis of the Infernal Empire,” he recited like an incantation, conjuring up something evil deep inside him. “I take the form of a man with a dog’s teeth and the head of a raven.”

His eyes opened, and Carolyn swore they were the Devil’s eyes: hot, bloodshot, and speckled with splinters of black.

“I told you that you couldn’t kill me,” Jessop sneered. One edge of his robe fell open, and she saw a curve of his torso, rippled smooth and shaped like… body armor.

“Shoot him in the head!” someone screamed.

Carolyn brought her gun up and aimed at his head.

Jessop threw the sphere hard into the ground at Carolyn’s feet. It exploded into a ball of thick white cloud that engulfed them all. She squeezed off another shot, aiming for where Jessop was kneeling just a split second ago.

She began coughing, choking on the vapor that surrounded them. A thick, musty stench invaded her nostrils and clung to the back of her throat. Nausea and dizziness gripped her all at once, and she sank to her knees. Behind her, she heard the gagging reflux of someone vomiting, then felt the wet sourness of her own coming up her throat. Her stomach fisted into a tight ball, then vomit came out of her mouth and nose in a putrid, watery gush.

Through the thick cloud came the distinct electronic whine of something powering up, then more vomiting sounds all around her.

Out of the whiteness, a boot appeared and stomped on her hand holding the gun, then kicked it away.

On all fours, she teetered, delirious, disoriented, unsure what was happening to her or her body.

The fog parted, and a dark, skull face floated before her eyes. “Don’t run, my little one,” whispered a soothing voice. “I promise that if you allow me to take your head, then I will spare your sisters.”

She looked up into that hideous face with the green eyes and heard the whistle of air up the long, curved beak. An image flashed into Carolyn’s mind. A gas mask, the old-World War I kind, with huge, flat eyepieces and a ribbed flexible hose. Jessop’s mask wasn’t all for show. It was also a cleverly disguised gas mask he wore to protect himself from whatever incendiary devices he had hidden in his robe. He had thrown some kind of smoke bomb that released a toxin.

Carolyn felt her intestines twist in fear. Fear not for herself, but for the others. She, and they, were paralyzed, but she had trained with tear gas at the academy and had some semblance of how to deal with this.

The gleaming blade of a knife appeared. “Your life for theirs?” The soothing voice again. The Devil, holding death in his hand, dealing out who lives and who dies.

Carolyn’s tongue lolled in her mouth. “Go fuc….”

A cruel kick sunk into her stomach.

She gasped as wrenching pain tore through her.

Her stomach cinched as though caught in a hangman’s noose, and she vomited again. There was nothing else to expel from her body. Her hand groped the dirt for her gun, a rock, anything. But it was useless.

“Bitch!” He kicked her again, this time in the back, as she twisted away from the next crushing blow. “Tell me where she is!”

Her spine burst in sharp, shattering agony, as though thousands of frozen needles had been plunged deep into each of her vertebrae. She fought the darkness that threatened to swamp the edges of her vision. Watery bile, warm and sour, rose in her throat because that was all that was left.

She began crawling along the ground, away from the wrenching, choking sounds she imagined were Susan, Abby, and Bronte, suffering from their own nightmare. At least if she could draw Jessop away from them, they would be safe for now.

She got to her hands and knees, her movements slow and ponderous, the cloud swirling around her.

A large rock formed through the murkiness a few inches in front of her. The closest and only weapon—that is, if she could get her hands on it. Another wave of dizziness—not as intense as before—rolled through her head. She teetered slightly, then swallowed, willing her mind to keep her upright.

An unsettling feeling shot through her body. He was there again. The point of the knife edged toward the middle of her face. “Where do you think you’re going, FBI-whore?”

Carolyn tilted her head and saw the hideous skull float balloon-like in front of her as though Jessop’s head was detached from the rest of his body and was following her like a stray dog.

She took a deep breath, slowing her heartbeat despite the churning in her stomach. Drool seeped from one corner of her mouth, and she tried not to look at the rock just inches away. He would know.

The hideous skull mask floated closer. “Scopolamine,” it said. “Also known as Devil’s Breath.”

Devil’s what?

She pushed back onto her haunches to see Jessop squatting in front of her, the rock nestled between his feet. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and wrenched her head back. “That’s why you feel the way you do,” he said. “It’s a propane alkaloid,” he said, studying her face. “It causes dizziness, nausea, and vomiting. It can have a hallucinogenic effect in the right proportions—or too much, and it’s lethal.” He pulled something from within his robe and held it up. It was another white sphere.

“Devil’s Breath is derived from the flower of the borrachero shrub, common in South America, especially Colombia. When powdered and extracted via a chemical process, the seeds contain a chemical similar to scopolamine. Borrachero has been used for hundreds of years by native South Americans in spiritual rituals.” He glanced lovingly at the sphere. “In gaseous form, its effects are magnified. Added to an explosive potassium nitrate mixture, hence the smoke that surrounds us, it creates a very effective weapon, don’t you think?”

Fuck the chemistry lesson! She grabbed the rock and swung her arm back—then toppled sideways into the dirt.

Jessop looked down at her, then pocketed the sphere. “Oh, Carolyn, you’re such a disappointment. Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying? The effects will take a while to wear off.” He forced open her fingers, removed the rock, and tossed it away. “Pitiful.”

“Carolyn!” Her name pierced the murkiness. It was Abby.

Jessop’s head jerked up.

Carolyn’s mind switched into gear. “Just… you… and… me. No one else.”

Jessop bent down. “What was that?”

“You and me. Let the others….” Reaching up, she gripped the snorkel beak and pulled it down with all the strength she could muster. The mask slid forward, and she jerked the snorkel sideways, pulling it partially off his face. Spluttering, coughing sounds came from behind the mask. There was enough of a gap for the toxic gas to seep in.

Jessop gripped her hand and twisted back her wrist.

Pain shot through Carolyn’s wrist, and she let go. But the damage had been done.

Jessop struggled to his feet, then toppled onto his back, both his hands clutching at the mask, desperate to slip it back into place.

Carolyn staggered to her feet and stumbled away, away from where the sound of Abby calling her name had come from.

50

FIGHT

The noxious cloud tore apart as Carolyn staggered through and back into the clearing.

Tilting her head skyward, she gulped down fresh air, cleaning out her lungs. The effects of the toxin still lingered, but the dizziness and nausea had subsided to a tolerable level. She was still unsteady on her feet, and her balance wasn’t back to normal, but with each passing minute, her senses were coming back online. She had to get Jessop away from the others.

Ahead, the cottage hunkered in the shadows. Turning, she yelled behind her. The cloud was now breaking up into a thin mist.

“Jessop. I’m here. Just you and me, like you said.”

Moments later, a dark shape, coughing and spluttering, stumbled out of the mist. It was Jessop, and his mask, which was firmly back in place. Knife in hand, he drunkenly hobbled toward her, his stride faltering every few steps. Enough of the toxic gas must have gotten into his mask to affect him—a taste of his own medicine.

“Just you and me,” she called out again to him before turning and staggering toward the cottage. Holding the handrail, she climbed the stairs and tottered inside.

Moments later, she heard heavy footsteps on the porch steps outside, then the shape of Jessop appeared in the doorway. His mask’s snorkel amplified his labored, raspy breaths, like those of someone with emphysema.

Carolyn stood in the hallway. “Come on,” she beckoned with one hand before toppling against the wall. She shook her head, stooped, and dry-retched, then spat out a dribble of saliva. Wiping her mouth, she stood upright again. “Just… you….” She stumbled back and reached out to the wall again to steady herself. “…and me.”

She retreated down the hallway, glad that she had at least lured him away from the other three.

Down the corridor and away from the front door, she passed a small doorless room on the left, then three bedrooms, then a rustic kitchen, living room, and dining area in an open plan.

French doors at the rear next to the kitchen opened out onto a porch that sat right at the cliff’s edge.

In the kitchen, a few drawers lay empty on the floor. Nothing. Not a single knife, fork, or sharp utensil in sight that she could use.

“I’ve never killed someone in a kitchen before.” A voice behind her.

She whirled around just as a hand grabbed her and wrenched her sideways. She crashed into a chair near the counter, smashing it beneath her.

Pain instantly tore through one arm, but she ignored it and rolled off the splintered pieces of wood.

Grabbing a splintered leg of the chair, Carolyn groggily got to her feet, wielding the piece of wood like a baseball bat. “Come on!”

Jessop paused, smiled, then gave an approving nod before advancing again, the blade unwavering in his hand.

Carolyn backed up toward the French doors until she felt one of the door handles dig into her spine.

She had no choice. She dropped the chair leg, twisted, and wrapped her fingers around the handle.

Locked.

She spun back and grabbed the chair leg off the floor.

Jessop stood motionless, not trying to stop her, just watched as she wasted her effort trying to open the door. He knew it was locked.

“Where to now, Carolyn?” he said. He looked around the kitchen. “You know, this is the perfect place to take your head.” He looked at the kitchen sink. “It’s going to be messy, but I can wash up in there.” He glanced at the floor. “The blood should easily come off these tiles.” His gaze moved to the refrigerator. “And I can put your head in there for safekeeping.”

Carolyn shimmied sideways against the wall, her eyes fixed on the knife in his hand, and moved behind the small table and chairs. She tossed aside the splintered leg and picked up one of the spindle-backed chairs, holding it in front of her with the four legs jutting out. An image came to mind as she stood there holding the chair. Kirk Douglas as Spartacus and the Ethiopian, Draba, fighting to the death in the arena in the movie. Draba was wielding a trident spear, while all Spartacus had was some old, tattered fishing net. Now, she knew how Spartacus felt. Or did he have a short sword, too?

With one hand, Jessop wrenched the small table aside like it was a kid’s plaything, clearing the other chairs away too. He had youth, strength, and madness on his side.

Carolyn shuffled sideways some more, right into the corner of the room next to the fireplace.

Nowhere to go.

Jessop smiled as though he, too, realized her tactical error. He angled toward her, closing the gap, boxing her in the corner with his knife out in front.

She thrust the chair forward, and the knife drew back. The knife came again, and this time, she stepped forward and met it with the chair.

Jessop’s forearm slid into the gap between the front leg, back leg, and cross brace, and she spun the chair like she was turning a big old steering wheel. His arm hitched, then his elbow over-supinated, twisting the joint beyond its tolerance. He screamed, and the knife clattered between the chair’s legs and fell to the floor.

Pivoting away from the corner, Carolyn kept twisting the chair. With his bent arm jammed between the legs and cross brace, Jessop stumbled with her. From the shoulder down, it was as if he was caught in the jaws of a mousetrap.

Carolyn kept up the pressure on the arm, twisting the chair, keeping one step ahead of Jessop, who was now on his tiptoes and turning with her, trying separately to overcompensate the acute angle so he could release the tension and pull out his arm.

Gripping the seat of the chair, Carolyn thrust the chair forward and drove him up against the wall, pinning him to it, the cross brace crushing the snorkel of the mask into his face and kinking the hose.

His arms thrashed about, and his feet tried kicking her shins. But she was leaning forward with all her weight while her legs were tilted back and away from his kicks.

A nasal gasp came from behind the mask. “You… fuuuuck…. bitc…,” he croaked. He couldn’t breathe with the cross brace crushing the air hose. “Ree… lease… me….”

His strength waned. Raising his free arm, he suddenly brought it up vertically, then drove it downward like a steam train driver pulling the cable down on the whistle. The tip of his elbow crashed through the cross brace, and the chair tilted sideways.

Carolyn fell back as he hurled the chair aside, scooped up his knife, and Frankenstein marched toward her.

51

SMASHED FACE

Carolyn caught the blur of the knife slashing toward her face.

She ducked and stepped away, her thigh banging into the side of the dining table.

Jessop came at her again, slashing the blade in a horizontal sweep, aiming at the middle of her torso as if to slice her open and let her intestines spill out.

The tip of the knife swept past her stomach, missing her by millimeters.

The snorkel of his mask swayed back and forth, part of it dented, a small split in the rubber. That’s why he hadn’t thrown another one of his toxic bombs. He would also breathe in the gas.

With nowhere to go, Carolyn slid across the top of the table and landed on her butt on the ground at the base of the kitchen island counter.

Jessop lumbered toward her, a crackling sound coming from the face mask. Maybe she had injured his throat with the chair, damaging his larynx. She could only hope.

She stumbled to her feet and backed up against the refrigerator.

The blade came again, thrusting directly at her head this time.

She jerked her head sideways and felt the swoosh of the blade slice through the air past her ear before the knife buried itself into the thin aluminum of the refrigerator door. Jessop growled in frustration and began wrenching the knife's handle left and right, trying to pull it free.

Ducking, Carolyn threw a quick-fisted rip into Jessop’s midsection before she realized the mistake. Pain enveloped her fist as her knuckles struck the Kevlar shell of his body armor.

Clutching her hand, she shifted away from him as Jessop growled in frustration and began wrenching the handle of the knife left and right, trying to pull it free.

Carolyn didn’t wait. She pounced—literally—onto his back and wrapped both her hands around his head, wrenching it back as far as she could.

Jessop let go of the embedded knife and drove himself backward and into the edge of the counter.

Carolyn’s lower back exploded in hot white pain, but she still clung on, her fingers clawing at the straps that held on the mask.

Lashing out behind his head with a clenched fist, he struck her flush on the temple.

Fireworks burst inside her head, and her grip on his head loosened.

A hand clamped around her wrist, then Jessop dropped his hips, bent forward, and threw her off judo-style.

Carolyn flipped over and hit the floor hard, smacking the back of her head. Everything around her strobed in a crescendo of white stars as she struggled not to lose consciousness.

Jessop stood over her, his chest heaving. “So much not to live for,” he said, “and everything to die for.”

Dazed, all that Carolyn could do was look up at him as he stepped over her and wrenched the knife from the refrigerator door. He swung around, dropped onto her chest, and pinned each of her arms with his knees as he straddled her.

He looked down at her. “Now, what shall I do with you?” He reached down, grabbing a fistful of her hair and twisting her head to the side. “I prefer making the first incision along the side. Much easier to then….”

“Hey, asshole!”

Jessop paused, then looked up over his shoulder.

A thick tree branch smashed into his face.

52

SPHERE

One lens of the mask shattered with a static hiss, and the bridge of the snorkel broke off.

Swaying side-to-side, Susan brought the branch up again and smashed Jessop in the head again. “Die!” she hissed. The branch hit his head with a wet, hollow crunching sound, and he toppled off Carolyn.

Squatting down, Abby then ripped off the mask and tossed it aside. Together, they helped Carolyn to her feet.

“How did you end up in here?” Susan asked.

Carolyn took a deep breath; the stars cleared, and her eyes came back into focus. Her head ached from the smack on the floor. She looked at the two women. “Where’s Bronte?”

Abby and Susan exchanged looks. “We thought she had fled back here. That’s why we came here. I crawled out of the toxic cloud, found Abby, and we began searching for the two of you.” She blinked hard. “Christ, that was awful. I must have coughed up one of my lungs.”

She nudged Jessop with her foot. He gave a muffled moan but didn’t move.

“I didn’t see her,” Carolyn said. Reaching down, she threw open his robe. Tiny pockets lined the insides, and she pulled out several white spheres, two more knives, a flashlight, and cable ties. Thankfully, there were no more stun grenades.

“He’s a real walking bag of nasty tricks, isn’t he?” Abby said as Carolyn made a little pile of what she had found on the kitchen counter.

Susan lifted one of the white spheres. It was slightly larger than the others and dimpled like a golf ball.

“Careful,” Abby said as Susan held it up.

“Nasty things,” Susan said.

Carolyn explained to them what Jessop had boasted to her about his toxic bombs.

“I wonder if you can order them online,” Susan said, placing it back down on the counter.

“Susan, use the cable ties on him,” Carolyn said. I want him alive.

Susan raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? After what he did to Bronte and us?”

Carolyn nodded. “I suspect there are other victims out there, and I want to know who they are.”

Susan began binding Jessop’s hands and feet.

Carolyn turned to Abby. “Come with me,” she said, handing Abby the flashlight taken from Jessop. “We need to find Bronte.”

“The poor girl was probably stumbling around, still feeling the effects of the toxic cloud,” Susan said over her shoulder.

53

MISSING

Outside, the toxic gas was all but gone, and a strong breeze came in off the ocean.

Dark clouds masked the moon, cutting down the visibility, and they split up, using their flashlights to search while still keeping each other within sight, both calling out Bronte’s name.

It didn’t take Carolyn long to find her gun lying on the ground, and after checking it, she slipped it back into her holster.

After ten minutes of searching, they found no trace of Bronte, and Carolyn felt like her worst fears were coming true.

“Where the hell is she?” Abby asked, pacing about. “She was right next to me when that thing exploded. I heard her coughing and throwing up like we all were.” She rubbed her forehead. “It makes little sense.”

“Did you see her, though?” Carolyn asked.

Abby stopped pacing. “I couldn’t see shit. That cloud was so thick. But I heard her the same way I heard Susan. We were all close together on the ground.”

Carolyn pivoted around and aimed her flashlight at the tree line.

“Maybe she took off into the woods in all the confusion?” Abby said, angling her flashlight in the direction of the sea. “She was pretty scared. We all were, but her the most. I know what she must have gone through. It messes with your mind.”

Carolyn panned over the trees with her light. They were all highly disoriented. She recalled Bronte whimpering when Jessop first appeared. Maybe in panic, and despite the disabling effects of the toxic gas, her mind and body switched to pure survival mode, and she just took off, running blindly in any direction just as long as she got away from Jessop. Fear throws all rationale out the window.

Bronte could be anywhere in the woods, lost and disoriented.

Carolyn’s mouth went dry—the cliffs.

As if reading her thoughts, Abby turned and looked across to the ragged line where the earth finished and certain death started.

They both hurried over and then angled their flashlights down, searching the dark rocks below. Together, they scoured the base of the cliffs.

Nothing.

It didn’t make sense to Carolyn. Had Bronte somehow gotten off the island? By now, Jessop’s boat would be a charred wreck, and Bronte couldn’t have known where Susan’s boat was when they first landed.

She tried to put herself in Bronte’s shoes and began eliminating the limited options. Go back to the cottage? Unlikely. Fell off the cliffs? There was no visible body unless the waves had pulled it out into the ocean. Lost in the woods, huddled and frightened? Possibly.

They searched the other side of the cottage, but Carolyn doubted Bronte would have ventured that far.

“What’s that?” Abby asked, pointing her flashlight farther along the edge of the cliffs. The beam settled on a small structure, a shed.

Cautiously, they approached it.

It was a small shed with a latch door at the front, and cut logs were piled against one side.

Carolyn stepped forward and slowly lifted the latch, then opened the door. “Bronte?”

She shined the flashlight inside. Two shovels, a garden rake, more wood, a weed whacker, a jerry gas can, tins of paint on top of a counter, a sack huddled under the counter….

A hand came up under the counter to shield the eyes, and there was Bronte Perkins, sobbing uncontrollably.

Tears filled Carolyn’s eyes as she slowly stepped toward the work counter Bronte was hiding under. “Oh, baby, you’re safe.” Reaching out, she gently touched Bronte’s quivering arm. “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

Even as she said the words, she knew they were hollow and meaningless to the young woman. Her life would never be okay ever again. It was going to be moments of calm and normality punctuated with flashbacks of sheer terror and night sweats.

Bronte tilted her head up. “Is he… Is he dead?”

Carolyn saw a slight cut, an incision, on the side of Bronte’s neck just below her earlobe. It was small and smeared with dried blood. Gently, she touched the cut. “What happened?”

Bronte began breathing rapidly, and her eyes darted back and forth as her words tumbled out. “That thing went off. I couldn’t see. I felt dizzy. I threw up. I couldn’t stop throwing up. Tried to get away. Crawl. Stand. Dizzy again. Threw up. And… and then….”

Carolyn squeezed Bronte’s arm.

“And then… he… he was there on top of me. Had me pinned down.” Her lips quivered, and tears ran down her cheeks. “He had a knife—that knife he had before. He said this time he wasn’t going to fail. He was going to cut off my head.” She touched the cut on her neck and then stared deep into Carolyn’s eyes as though seeing her for the first time. “Then you called out. You called out his name, and he stopped. He was going to kill me, but when you called out, it distracted him. He got off me and vanished.”

Carolyn couldn’t believe it. The sneaky bastard Jessop, when she had momentarily lost him in the toxic cloud, had scuttled back to find Bronte to kill her. He was truly evil. And to think she just called out to lure him away, without knowing that, indeed, he was on top of Bronte, about to cut her head off. If Carolyn had called out just a few seconds later, Bronte could have died.

Together, they eased Bronte out from under the counter and led her out of the shed.

54

SNEAKY

Something was wrong.

She could feel it as she stood just inside the doorway of the cottage. It wasn’t a seismic shift, but something malevolent tinged the atmosphere inside the cottage compared to when they were there before.

“Abby,” Carolyn said in a low voice, her eyes fixed on the stretch of hallway in front of her. Her hand hovered closer to her gun in its holster. “Take Bronte into the first bedroom. Lock the door behind you, and stay with her.”

Carolyn slid out her handgun and turned to Abby, who was behind her. Bronte was standing outside on the porch. “No matter what you hear, don’t come out. Don’t leave Bronte alone. Wait until either of us returns. And if anyone other than Susan or me knocks on that bedroom door,” she handed Abby the gun, “kill them.”

Abby went to open her mouth, but Carolyn shot her a glare. The last thing Carolyn wanted was for Bronte to panic and suddenly break out into a hysterical fit. “Do it quietly, too.”

Abby took the gun and nodded. She then led Bronte into the first bedroom and shut and locked the door behind them.

Ignoring the pain that racked her battered body, Carolyn took a deep breath and then looked down the corridor toward the kitchen. The cottage was unnervingly quiet, and she could hear the crash of the waves outside. Her instincts were bristling.

She walked down the corridor and into the open kitchen, living room, and dining room—and froze.

Aamon Jessop had his arm curled from behind around Susan’s chest and was holding a small penknife to her throat.

Susan gave her an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry,” Susan said. “He was faking unconsciousness. I tried to put the cable ties on him and he….”

Susan’s nose was swollen and bleeding. It was most likely broken. It would have been easy to conceal such a small knife inside a secret pocket within his robe. Carolyn hated herself for not being more thorough when she had searched him.

The tip of the blade was perfectly positioned over the jugular of Susan’s neck. Despite its size, if the knife went in, Susan would bleed out in seconds and be dead.

Giving Abby the handgun was a wise piece of foresight on Carolyn's part. Brandishing her gun at Jessop now would be pointless. The shot to his head would be nearly impossible without hitting Susan, who Jessop was holding so close to his own body as a human shield. And he would have given Carolyn that cliched ultimatum: Drop your weapon, or I will kill her.

At least now, Carolyn knew that if, by some unfortunate twist of fate, Jessop killed them both, Abby could then shoot him dead if he opened that bedroom door.

“What took you so long?” Jessop said, a feverish gleam in the one eye she could see. “Did you find that slutty bitch?” Like the mythical Greek Cyclops, his eye swiveled menacingly past where Carolyn stood. “Where is she?”

To Susan’s credit, a deep gash had opened up Jessop’s forehead above one eye, and blood seeped into it.

“We searched but couldn’t find her.”

The eye, watery red, seemed to glow. “And the blonde one? I don’t see her.” He gripped Susan tighter. With one arm holding her in a rear choke and the other gripping the knife, Jessop couldn’t wipe the blood that oozed from the cut and into his eye, and he tried blinking it away.

“Tell me where she is, or I’ll kill her!” he hissed. Gone was the arrogance, the calm confidence. Now Jessop seemed panicked, uncertain.

Good. He is one, not three. We are three, not one.

“I gave her the flashlight. Told her to search in the nearby woods. We think Bronte may have run off into them. After all….” She almost said, You tried to cut her head off, but thankfully, she didn’t. “…you had kidnapped her. Given the chance, I imagine she would have run as far away from you as possible.”

Jessop seemed to contemplate the lie.

“We don’t know where she is. However, right now, she’s searching for her.”

“Where’s your gun?” Jessop snarled.

“I dropped it, and you kicked it away. Remember? I haven’t found it.”

“Bullshit, FBI woman! You have a cunt, which means you’re a natural born liar!”

Carolyn gritted her teeth. “Use that word on me—on any of us—again, and I’ll take that knife from you, cut off what little you have down there, and hack out one of your very own so you’re not jealous anymore.”

The eye glowed brighter. “Lift your shirt and turn around slowly,” Jessop said.

Carolyn lifted her shirt and slowly rotated until she came back, facing them. “Satisfied?” All she had concealed was an empty holster.

“Very satisfied,” Jessop said with a lingering look.

“So, what now? We seem to be at a stalemate.”

“We are not a stalemate, FBI woman. I’m holding a knife, and you’re holding nothing but thin air. I can see the fear that is weighing you down. You don’t know what to do. You’re powerless. I have all the power, and you have nothing.”

It was true, but she wasn’t about to admit it.

“Tell me where Ellie is, or I’m going to make you watch,” he said, “while I kill this old whore.” He pushed the tip of the knife in a little, then stopped. A trickle of blood ran down Susan’s neck.

“Kill him,” she snarled, wrestling against Jessop’s arm. “Kill him, Carolyn. Forget about me. Just kill him, no matter what.”

“Hold still!” Jessop said, pulling at Susan.

“I don’t know where she is,” Carolyn said. “Honest, I don’t.”

“Bullshit!” Jessop snarled.

Carolyn watched as Susan’s eyes shifted to the small pile of items on the counter she had removed from Jessop’s cloak, then cut back to Carolyn. Susan then gave a slight nod.

“Have it your way then,” Jessop said to Carolyn. He nodded at the counter. “Take those cable ties, and bind your ankles with them. Make sure they are tight. I will check.”

Carolyn watched as Susan turned out her fist and then opened her fingers slightly. One of the white spheres sat snug in Susan’s palm.

Susan smiled at Carolyn.

Carolyn could survive another bout of toxic gas—if it meant saving Susan and killing Jessop. She now knew what to expect but doubted that Jessop did.

“Okay, I will bind my ankles,” Carolyn said and moved toward the counter, making sure it didn’t block her from running straight at Jessop. The gas had to be inhaled for it to work. She just needed to hold her breath long enough—so would Susan—for them to both overcome him. And there was no taking him alive this time. It would be quick, brutal, and messy. But they had to do it.

Susan took a deep inhale and held it. Carolyn did the same.

Susan dropped the sphere.

Jessop jerked his head around and peered down at the sphere on the ground. It was unbroken. Susan couldn’t throw it down with enough force to crack its shell. “You sneaky fuc….”

Susan stomped on the sphere.

55

BLINDING

An intensive bright light, like an exploding star, engulfed all three of them.

A split second ago, Carolyn had seen the white sphere on the ground, Susan’s foot raised above it, ready to stomp on it. In that split second, panic shot through Carolyn. The sphere was the dimpled one, different from the smooth one Jessop had used that contained the debilitating gas. And for whatever reason, Carolyn shut her eyes tight as well.

She’d also glimpsed Jessop, leaning over Susan’s shoulder, peering wide-eyed down at the sphere. With one eye filled with blood from the cut, he mustn’t have recognized the sphere as not one of the toxic gas ones but an eyeball-searing stun bomb instead.

He gave an agonizing scream, and Carolyn waited a few more seconds before opening her eyes. Jessop was staggering around the kitchen, one arm outstretched and searching, while the other, holding the knife, slashed wildly about. Susan must have managed to get away from him. She was standing well back and obviously had the sense to close her eyes too, as a double precaution, just like Carolyn. They both watched while he continued like a whirlwind tornado, colliding with the countertop, then the cabinets, then the sink, his face streaked with tears.

Turning to Carolyn, Susan held a finger to her lips, disappeared from view behind the island counter, then reappeared holding one of the kitchen drawers that had been pulled out and thrown on the floor.

Moving in tandem with Jessop as he swung the knife blindly, she began stalking him, looking for the right moment. They most likely had around sixty seconds before his full eyesight would return.

Jessop barreled into the fridge, and Susan pounced, bringing the drawer crashing down on the back of his head. There was a loud crunch as the drawer broke into pieces, and Jessop cried out in pain.

In Susan’s hand now was just the front panel of the drawer, which she held by the handle like a small shield, the rest of the drawer in pieces on the floor.

Jessop swung around, and Susan smashed him in the face with the front panel, once, twice, three times until it too broke in half. He staggered back and out of the kitchen and toward the French doors, his face a human meat lover’s pizza of smashed bone and cartilage, shattered teeth, and gore.

Incredibly, he still held the knife and was waving it madly, as if warding off some invisible phantom that was pursuing him. “You fucking bitch!” he screamed at no one in particular, teeth hanging from gummy threads.

Susan stepped in and delivered another blow to Jessop’s head with her fist; this time, it sounded like the soggy crack of a watermelon splitting open on the sidewalk after dropping from a great height. She deftly stepped out of range as he swung the knife at her, missing her entirely.

He retreated some more and gave a guttural snarl.

Bending her knees, Carolyn then sprang forward, charging full tilt at Jessop. She drove her shoulder into his torso, barreling him backward.

He hit the French doors, went through them in a shower of splintering wood and shattering glass—and kept going across the porch until his back hit the rail. His arms windmilled over the rail behind him, and his legs tilted up. For what seemed like forever to Carolyn as she watched him through the tattered maw of splintered wood and shards of hanging glass that were once the French doors, he seemed suspended in the air. His body was a cantilever, his lower back a fulcrum with gravity snatching at his upper torso.

Then his legs tilted up some more, and he slid backward over the rail and out of sight.

Carolyn and Susan stepped through the torn opening of the door, went to the rail, and looked down into the darkness.

An angry boil of waves broke over the black rocks a hundred feet below. They scanned the rocks, expecting to see Jessop’s broken and disfigured body twisted and smashed.

But there was nothing. He had fallen just moments before. Maybe a wave had smothered the rocks, then dragged him into the sea like the watery hand of a monster.

“He’s dead,” Susan said after a few minutes, her voice hollow.

Carolyn kept on searching the rocks, wanting to see his dead body. She had been here before with Pritchard and had been fooled that he had also died. She needed proof—a corpse—to convince herself that Jessop was dead.

But how could he have survived? It was a straight drop to the rocks below, with nothing to break his fall on the way down. There were no soft areas where he could land and cheat death. It was all rock.

No, he had to be dead.

You can’t kill what is unearthly. Jessop’s words came back to Carolyn.

56

SCAPEGOAT

“It’s Ralph Jacobson,” Abby said.

“Who?” Susan said. She had taken them down to the chamber under the cottage to show them where Bronte had been held prisoner and where the body holding a knife was.

Abby knelt next to the body. “He’s a local recluse who lives down on the coastal salt marshes in an old fishing hut. The shallow saltwater channels there feed into Long Island Sound. Long ago, he owned a fleet of fishing boats—well before I was born. He was once one of the wealthiest locals back then, my father told me.”

“Your father knows him?” Carolyn asked. “Were they friends?”

“It’s a long story. According to my father, gambling and drinking finally got to Ralph, and the bank took his business. He rarely comes into town now, but when he does in his old beat-up pickup truck, he’s usually found at the hardware store or down by the docks.”

Abby frowned. “I just can’t believe he’s mixed up in all this.” She reached for the knife clasped in Jacobson’s dead hand.

“Don’t touch it.” Susan stepped forward. “It’s evidence. Leave it for the police to find.”

Carolyn turned to Susan. “You said Jacobson attacked Bronte with the knife when she was chained up?”

“That’s what she said. They fought, and somehow, she strangled him with the chain she was bound to without getting stabbed herself. She then found a set of keys on him that unlocked the manacles and the lock on the hood they had put on her.”

Abby looked up. “They?”

Susan shrugged. “Looks like Jacobson and Jessop were working together.”

Abby stared back at the body. “But they are so different—the two of them. The few times I did run into Ralph in town, he seemed like he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“They all seem like that at first, Abby,” Susan added.

“And you’re sure Jessop is dead?” Abby asked.

“No one could survive that drop,” Susan replied.

“And Jacobson was already dead when you found Bronte in here?” Carolyn asked Susan.

“Dead as a doornail,” she replied. “Bronte was hysterical. She said he was going to kill her. Jessop probably told him to if he didn’t return.” She let out a slow breath. “Looks like a simple case of self-defense if you ask me, given this Jacobson guy had a knife.”

“And this is how you found him, holding the knife?” Carolyn asked. It seemed odd to her that in the ensuing struggle, anyone desperate to save their own life would not drop the knife and use both hands to try and get the chain off from around their neck.

Susan’s eyes narrowed. “He was holding the knife,” she said flatly.

“So, what now?” Susan asked.

“The police will have to be told, but not by us,” Carolyn said, holding Susan’s deadpan gaze for a few more seconds before pulling away. She turned to Abby. “We will take Bronte back to the mainland, and they can handle it from there.”

Abby stood. “This is private property. How are we going to explain to the police what we were all doing here?”

“I’m not sure how I’m going to spin this,” Carolyn said. And Morelli? How was she going to explain all this to him? “How’s Bronte holding up?” she asked.

“Still in the bedroom upstairs,” Susan said. “She’s calmed down a bit.” Susan had checked on her before they entered the chamber. Susan said it was a good idea to leave the young woman there and not have her come down here and relive the trauma all over again. Carolyn agreed.

“Any obvious injuries?”

“None,” Susan replied. “But she needs to go to the ER and get checked out just to make sure. You do, too.”

“We all do,” Carolyn replied. “But that will not happen. The last thing I want is the police being called by some doctor because four women present to the ER looking like they went twelve rounds with Michael Myers.” The name came out before she could think, and her stomach coiled, remembering the creepy mask Pritchard had worn while terrorizing Ravenwood. She still had nightmares about waking up in the middle of the night to see him leaning over her, knife in hand.

“How’s the nose?” Carolyn asked. Susan’s nose had stopped bleeding, but it was a dark, throbbing red.

“Broken.” Susan touched her neck. “And the cut is just a flesh wound. Nothing more.”

“And you, Abby? No ill effects from the gas?”

“All good.”

“Then we’ll leave now,” Carolyn said.

“What about Jacobson?” Abby asked. “We can’t just leave him here.”

“He’s dead,” Carolyn replied. “There’s nothing we can do for him. Leave him for the police. We’ll drop off Bronte, then we need to take care of something more urgent.” She looked at Susan. “More urgent than worrying about Jacobson’s body.”

“What about Bronte?” Abby asked. “She’ll tell the police about us. About what happened here.”

“I agree,” Susan said. “We don’t want her getting confused about what happened. We need to get her story straight.”

The early stages of a plan had already started forming inside Carolyn’s head. “Let me worry about that. I’m going to have a little talk with her during the boat ride back to Erin’s Bay. But first, I need to ask her something.”

Abby stood. “Ask her what?”

Carolyn gave a nonchalant smirk. “How far she can swim.”

57

LAST RITES

The body had to be prepared. It couldn’t just be dumped in the ocean as it was.

What would happen if it floated to the surface a few days from now, or worse, if it washed up on shore? The three of them couldn’t risk the body of Joseph Edward Durant ever being found. So, they had decided the three of them would wrap the body as best they could after they had dropped Bronte into the ocean about two hundred yards from the boat harbor. In the dark, no one had seen them, and they waited until Bronte had made it safely ashore.

She didn’t know how she could ever repay all three women for rescuing her and saving her life. Then Carolyn had told her there was a way that she could repay them.

The story Carolyn gave Bronte was a simple one, and after Susan had reassured her that Jessop was dead, Bronte’s spirits lifted, and she seemed like a changed person. She listened intently as Carolyn explained what she wanted her to do and say, even suggesting a few ideas of her own. Carolyn stressed to Bronte that neither she, Abby, nor Susan could ever be mentioned, and Bronte agreed. That was what the three women wanted in return for saving her life, and Bronte was more than happy to go along with their plan.

“No one will ever speak of what happened tonight again,” Carolyn said, and Bronte agreed.

They all wore Tyvek protective suits, boot covers, and gloves. They had to ensure that no forensic evidence was left behind by them or the body.

Abby laid two layers of thick plastic sheeting on the floor, and Carolyn secured the feet and hands with thick cable ties. Next, all three of them hefted the body onto the center of the plastic sheeting. Taking their time, they carefully rolled the body up like a package, using ropes to secure the plastic around the head, torso, and feet. Twice, they had to redo the ropes until Carolyn was satisfied that they were secure enough to prevent an arm or leg from slipping out.

When they finished securing the body for transport, all three women stood back and admired their handiwork.

“It looks like a body,” Abby said.

“Because it is a body,” Carolyn replied. “There’s no point in trying to disguise the fact. The aim is to make sure it doesn’t see the light of day again.”

“But won’t it float?” Abby asked.

“Leave that to me,” Susan said. She looked at Carolyn. “We good to go?”

“Yeah.” They shifted the body outside the room. Susan then returned and soaked bleach on the floor, making sure all traces of blood were gone. She had already removed all her supplies and any evidence of her presence. Once done, she came back outside to where the others were waiting.

“All done,” Susan said, peeling off her face mask. “Once we’ve got him topside and in the boat, I’ll come back down and do one last check just to make sure we’ve left no trace of anything behind.”

Susan went to her bag and returned with a spray bottle and a small handheld light. Carolyn knew exactly what she was going to do.

She had to give Susan credit. She was impressed by the Tyvek suits and boots, nitrile gloves, bottles of commercial-grade bleach, cable ties, plastic sheets, duct tape, and now a spray bottle of Luminol, along with a UV light. She was certainly prepared and had it all neatly stored—and much more—in an open-top tool bag, the kind you’d see an electrician carry. She didn’t know whether to feel worried about the woman or relieved that she had thought of everything in advance.

Susan Edison, mother of Molly, wife of Roy, a Harvard Law graduate, and a one-time Brooklyn ADA, was becoming a highly organized serial killer, or a highly organized killer of killers—a female Dexter Morgan.

Was she indeed a repressed psychopath, meaning she had a mental disorder that makes it difficult for her to feel empathy toward others? No. She, like Carolyn, certainly had empathy for the victims, but had no empathy whatsoever toward their perpetrators. Did that make you crazy? Not in Carolyn’s books.

Carolyn checked the body again, and when she was finally satisfied, all three hoisted the body onto their shoulders, as if they were carrying a large rug: Susan with the head and shoulders, Carolyn supporting the torso, and Abby holding the legs.

The body was surprisingly light, Carolyn thought as they trudged along the passage to where Susan had told them of an easier exit to the surface that didn’t involve any stair-climbing.

Once on the surface, they had to hurry. It would soon be dawn. They had moored the boat on a small, secluded beach on the ocean side of Moors Island.

They placed the body carefully into the boat, then Abby and Carolyn waited for Susan to return, do one final inspection, and come back. While they waited, they stripped off their protective clothing and placed it in a trash bag Susan had provided.

Twenty minutes later, Susan emerged from the darkness carrying her tool bag.

“All done. Let’s go,” she said, placing her tool bag into the boat.

“You going to dump that overboard, too?” Carolyn said, gesturing to the tool bag.

Susan shrugged. “May come in handy later.”

Susan dragged up the beach anchor, and all three helped push the boat off the sand and into the water. The small outboard motor started with the first pull, and within minutes, they were heading out into the vastness of the ocean.

58

VANISH

Three miles offshore, Susan cut the engine.

The dark edge of the horizon was already fading to a dull orange as the dawn approached. Looking north, Carolyn could see in the distance the remnants of a storm and a scatter of lightning near the lighthouse. But it was far enough away not to affect them.

The boat bobbed up and down in the gentle swell, the water black as oil. Apart from the winking light of an ocean buoy they had passed a mile back, there were no other boats; the ocean was calm and empty. They still had to hurry. By now, Bronte would have contacted the police, and they would have sent a boat to Hidden Island. They couldn’t risk being seen here out on the water.

Susan checked the depth finder. “It’s deep enough here.”

They carefully hoisted the body onto the gunwale, making sure they kept the plastic sheet firmly wrapped around the body.

Susan hefted a large kettlebell. “I’ll have to find something else to do my swings with,” she said, loping a length of rope through the handle.

Carolyn looked at the kettlebell, wondering why Susan had innocently said before that she had no idea how she was going to get rid of Durant’s body. She knew all along she was going to weigh him down with the hunk of metal and dump him in the ocean. A wolf in sheep’s clothing this one was. Move over, Tom Ripley. There’s a new psycho in town.

“Know any good knots?” Susan asked, looking up, that tone of innocence in her voice again.

“Wait,” Carolyn said. “I’ve got a better idea.” It had just come to her. Sure, it was gruesome and a little perverse, but she had to be certain. They all had already stepped over the line in gruesomeness, so what was another few feet? And she didn’t care how deep the water was; she just didn’t want a scuba diver happening across a neatly wrapped decomposing body.

“Unwrap him,” she said.

Abby frowned while Susan smiled, then grabbed a knife.

“Why, Carolyn?” Abby asked. “Why can’t we just dump him over the side with the weight attached?”

Susan answered for Carolyn. “Because he could still be found.”

“But you can’t make him vanish completely,” Abby protested, shaking her head.

“We can’t,” Carolyn said, looking out. A dark triangle suddenly slit the water, then sluiced toward the boat. “But they can.”

Susan cut away the ropes, exposing the body, while the plastic sheet sat under it. Next, she cut away the cable ties.

Blood dripped from the sheet and into the water, and Carolyn watched as a second fin appeared, then a third. “The smell of blood always brings more predators,” she said.

“Well, there’s one less land-based predator now,” Susan said, taking one end of the sheet.

Abby and Carolyn took the other end.

“Any last words?” Susan asked.

“Rot in Hell,” Abby suggested.

“Go sleep with the fishes,” Carolyn offered, hoping the mouths to feed would find the body quickly.

“Bon voyage,” Susan added before they rolled the body over the side.

The water instantly churned as the sharks began tearing the corpse apart.

They watched on, and when they had seen enough, without saying another word, each of them turned from the gunwale.

Susan tossed the plastic sheet overboard as well. “The water will wash away the blood and any traces in a matter of minutes. And no one is going to pay any attention to another piece of garbage floating in the ocean.”

She started the motor, and they headed back to the mainland as a new day broke over the horizon.

59

QUESTIONS

The bodies were mounting up, and he feared there would be more.

At the center of it all was a man Morelli had never heard of until a week ago when Bronte Perkins, cold and soaking wet, came ashore at the boat harbor around three in the morning, claiming she had swum from Hidden Island, where she had escaped after being held captive by him.

It was late afternoon, and Chief of Police Clayton Morelli was alone in his office, staring at the faces on his dry-erase board and the scrawl of notes he had made during the past week. He had missed lunch and was tired, hungry, and irritated at the numerous red question marks on the board.

At the very center was a name written in big black letters. Aamon Jessop. The name was also ringed in red marker—many times, as if to cut a hole through the board itself. Like comets with arrows for tails, other, smaller circles shot out from that central name, forming a web around it.

Morelli did not have a photo of Jessop. Levine—a self-proclaimed social media aficionado—had conducted an extensive search, and, strangely enough, there was not a single photo of Jessop to be found anywhere. He was a ghost as well as an enigma.

Levine had discovered that the family owned a hardware store back in Ravenwood. Bronte also confirmed that it was Jessop who had come into the diner, Something Fishy, just before Christmas, asking about the whereabouts of Ellie Sutton.

Subsequent inquiries revealed that Jessop’s Hardware had been in the family for three generations, passing from grandfather to father to Aamon. The store was currently being run by a non-family member employee in Aamon’s absence. Apparently, Aamon had told his father that he wanted a break from the store and would be away for a few months. Morelli had made a note to investigate the Jessop family in more detail in the coming weeks.

Taking his red marker, Morelli drew another circle around Jessop’s name. A black arrow ran to another circle labeled Ravenwood. That damn town again.

When Morelli discovered Jessop was from Ravenwood, he swore under his breath about Carolyn; she had drawn another psychopathic killer to Erin’s Bay.

Against his better judgment, Morelli had given her the benefit of the doubt by not contacting her about what had transpired with Bronte Perkins. No doubt word would have reached her, but still not a peep. Practically everybody in town now knew Bronte was alive and well, and Morelli had kept the details scant, other than she had escaped from her kidnapper, whose identity was yet to be officially confirmed. Bronte and her mother also agreed not to make public any details.

Truth be told. Morelli was playing a game of wait-and-see with Carolyn, him waiting to see if she would take the initiative and contact him about Jessop and his links to Ravenwood.

Morelli interviewed Bronte Perkins several times, and she provided him with a straightforward account of what had happened. The statement, however, was light on detail. When pressed further by Morelli, Bronte said, given all the stress and the trauma she had been put through, she could not remember any more other than she had been abducted from her mother’s home, sedated, then she woke up in a dungeon-like room, underneath the cottage on Hidden Island. She had then escaped by killing Ralph Jacobson, of all people who, apparently according to Bronte, must’ve been in cahoots with Jessop.

Several red question marks dotted Ralph Jacobson’s name on the board in front of Morelli. It just made little sense that someone like Ralph Jacobson would work with Jessop and had been involved in kidnapping Bronte. But his body had been found with its larynx crushed and with a knife in his hand. Bronte repeated in her statement that she felt her life was in mortal danger, and given that Jacobson was wielding a knife, she had no choice but to kill him by wrapping the chain around his neck and pulling it tight.

Excessive force? Who knows?

Then there was the complete curve ball that had hit Morelli right between his Italian eyes. There was blood on the knife Jacobson had been holding. Not Bronte’s. Not his own.

After killing Jacobson, Bronte fled the dungeon, only to run into Jessop, who was returning to the cottage. Where had Jessop been returning from? Bronte couldn’t say.

A fight ensued, and both fell together through the French doors and out onto the porch, where Jessop toppled over the railing and fell to certain death.

On the board, Body? had been circled in red, and Morelli once again pondered the dilemma. No body had been found at the base of the cliffs beneath the cottage. It was at least a hundred foot drop over the railing onto the rocks below. Morelli had been up there—three times. A contingent of police officers from Nassau County had combed the entire island and the surrounding waters by boat. They called in an expert on ocean currents and threw a test dummy into the water.

Nothing.

With his red marker, Morelli wrote on the board. Not dead?

He let out a slow breath while tapping the marker on his chin. Then he wrote, Someone is lying?

Fleeing the cottage, Bronte made it to the jetty, only to discover a burned-out boat.

Morelli moved to the next word circled on the board: Boat then wrote, Why? Why indeed? Another unanswered question. Another aspect of the investigation that didn’t make sense.

The boat belonged to Wilfred Bromley, who had his own circle on the dry-erase board, but for the time being, Morelli stayed with the boat. Bronte’s drugged state prevented her from remembering the crossing to Hidden Island. However, it had been in Bromley’s boat. But why had Jessop set fire to the boat, his only means of escape? To prevent Bronte from leaving in it herself? A pretty dumb move on Jessop’s behalf. The extensive search of the island had not uncovered an alternate mode of transport off the island—not even a canoe. He drew another question mark, his jaw bunched.

Morelli’s stomach grumbled, and he tossed aside the red marker. He had sent Alice to fetch a pepperoni sub, his favorite, from Driftwood Bakery. He checked his watch. Where the hell was she?

He picked up his coffee cup and took a swig before realizing it was stone cold. Now, the bitter taste in his mouth matched his mood.

Slamming the coffee cup down, Morelli picked up his red marker again and moved to the circle containing the name Wilfred Bromley. The name contained no question marks because it was an open and shut case of murder.

After Morelli got the call that Bronte Perkins had come ashore at the boat harbor, he called Bromley, who he knew was the caretaker of Hidden Island on behalf of the King family from Arizona. When he didn’t answer his cell phone, Morelli had driven to Bromley’s house in town, only to find him with his throat cut and his jaw hacked off. The keys to Bromley’s old Chevrolet Silverado pickup truck were missing, and so were the keys to his boat that he kept down at the harbor.

Morelli had seen Bromley driving around town in his pickup and even waved to him. Bromley had waved back. However, according to Jay Winter, the medical examiner from Suffolk County, Bromley had died much earlier than when Morelli had seen him.

It was Jessop parading around town as Bromley, going back and forth between Erin’s Bay and Hidden Island in disguise right under Morelli’s nose.

60

TOFU

Morelli moved to the next circled name. Jennifer Walsh. She had vanished at the Sunoco gas station fifty miles west of Erin’s Bay and off I-495 East. To date, Marvin Tanner had found nothing. She, along with her SUV, was still missing. Morelli had drawn a different colored question mark next to her name. An orange one, not a red one. Was Aamon Jessop the reason she was missing? Morelli didn’t seem to think so.

Next to Jenny Walsh was another circle, one containing the name Tess Jorgensen, also with an orange question mark. Police discovered Jorgensen’s black pickup truck abandoned at a gas station three miles north of Erin’s Bay. Kids on bikes found her body—minus the head—stuffed into a culvert drain under a dirt road five miles west of the gas station.

Her case was the most gruesome so far. After the autopsy, Jay Winter told Morelli that Jorgensen’s head was most likely removed while she was still alive. The autopsy report’s most disturbing fact was the use of a sharp knife, likely a boning knife from a slaughterhouse. And it wasn’t a hack job, either. The killer made a clean and meticulous cut.

An arrow from Jorgensen pointed to another circle, which had the single word “Head” written in it. It was yet to be found, and given the level of skill displayed in removing it, Morelli doubted it would ever be found.

While Winter didn’t like to give an opinion when it came to a perpetrator’s motives and thought process, she agreed on this occasion with Morelli.

Morelli had also put an orange question mark next to Jorgensen. Like Jenny Walsh, he believed her death was unrelated to Jessop. Then again, Bronte had said Jessop kept threatening to cut her head off. Was Jessop involved in Jorgensen’s brutal death? Maybe.

Moving south from Jorgensen’s name was another circled name. Michael Gresner, the missing middle school science teacher. He was now officially a missing person’s case. Gresner moved to Erin’s Bay just over a month ago to take up a position at a local school. Todd Levine had searched Gresner’s home and found his keys, wallet, cell phone, and a laptop computer. They also found his Honda Civic in the parking lot.

Morelli had watched a copy of the security video taken of the light-colored van and the driver who had been wheeling a laundry cart that Morelli believed contained Gresner’s body hidden beneath a pile of towels taken from his bathroom. The best enhancement of the video still could not reveal the driver’s identity or the license plates of the van.

Given that no corpse had been found, investigators were not treating it as a homicide.

On a whim, Morelli then provided Winter with a sample of Gresner’s hair that Levine had bagged from a hairbrush taken from the apartment.

After complaining about budget cutbacks and unwarranted forensic testing at the taxpayer’s expense, Winter finally agreed to do the DNA test, provided Morelli came over for dinner at her place. Apparently, word had spread around Erin’s Bay that Morelli was back on the singles market and that Carolyn Ryder had moved out of his home just before Christmas. Winter acted quickly on hearing such news.

The lab returned the DNA results two days ago, and Morelli’s shock was an understatement. Michael Gresner was not who he claimed to be. His real name was Joseph Edward Durant. Durant’s DNA was already on the police database from when he had been prosecuted in New York City five years ago for child exploitation offences against middle schoolers. Maybe Carolyn was right. Monsters lived right here in Erin’s Bay, and Morelli was oblivious to the fact. Durant had no link to Ravenwood, and therefore, Morelli couldn’t exactly blame her for him being in Erin’s Bay.

Then came the curveball: the blood on the knife Ralph Jacobson had been holding belonged to Joseph Durant. It was a perfect match. Durant’s hair DNA results had come back before the results of the blood on the knife. And when they did, it was irrefutable. Durant had been abducted and then killed by Jessop and Jacobson. Motive? It was another question mark on Morelli’s ever-growing web on his dry-erase board, and he was determined to find out. First, he wanted to know what they had done with Durant’s body.

Any other detective would have thought they had smacked that curve ball into the bleachers for a home run. Not Morelli. Something didn’t feel right about the blood on the knife.

Further digging into the case brought against Durant five years ago revealed a very disturbing link to another resident of the town. A person who, still to this day, remained an enigma to Morelli—a person who was also linked to Carolyn and another recent incident involving dead bodies.

Morelli had circled that person’s name so aggressively in red that he had broken the tip off the marker. Next to the name, he had added another. Carolyn Ryder. Linking to the two names was a two-way arrow, and surrounding both were more red question marks than on any other part of the dry-erase board.

Morelli put down his marker and grabbed the keys to his police SUV just as Alice Munroe walked into his office. She was carrying a brown paper bag, and at the sight of it, Morelli began salivating.

“Where are you going?” she asked, placing the brown paper bag down on his desk.

“I need to call in on someone,” Morelli said, reaching for the bag. He was starving and would gobble his pepperoni sub, then drive out to visit the person.

“Would that certain someone be Carolyn Ryder?”

Morelli looked up, his hands fumbling as he tried to open the top of the paper bag. “No, why?”

“Well, if it was, I was about to say, don’t bother. She’s already here and waiting for you in the interview room.”

Morelli gave an amused grin. It looked like the waiting game was over, and Carolyn had cracked. In his head, he was doing a small victory dance.

He opened the paper bag and pulled out a foil-wrapped sub, noticing immediately that it was not warm. He always had his pepperoni sub heated at the bakery. He unwrapped the foil. “What’s this?” he said, looking down at not a pepperoni sub.

“It’s a tofu with seaweed salad sub with sesame ponzu dressing.”

Morelli pulled open the sub. It was filled with what looked like strands of green hair and chunky bits of milk that had solidified in the sun.

“It’s what with what with what?” he said. His stomach had stopped grumbling.

Alice rolled her eyes. “Tofu, seaweed, sesame dressing.”

Morelli’s shoulders sank.

She looked him up and down. “Eat it. It’s good for you.” Then, under her breath, “You could do with losing a few pounds.”

Morelli glared at her. “What did you say?”

Alice gave him a breezy look. “Oh, nothing.” She made for the door, then stopped and turned back. “And don’t keep Carolyn waiting.”

“Keep her waiting?” he gritted his teeth and squelched the sub in his fist. “Who the hell does she think she is? The Queen of Sheba?”

But Alice was already gone.

61

LIONESS

The small interview room smelled distinctly of pepperoni, and as he sat down, Morelli noticed an empty plate with a scatter of crumbs in front of Carolyn.

“Oh,” she said, pushing the plate away, then wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Alice was kind enough to bring me something to eat. I didn’t ask, but she insisted. She had just come back from Driftwood Bakery with two subs. One was pepperoni; the other was seaweed and tofu. The seaweed and tofu looked and sounded good, but she said to try the pepperoni one instead, that you had asked for the tofu sub.”

“She said that, did she?” Morelli said, jutting his chin out.

“Yeah, that you were on some kind of diet or something.”

An annoying little paper cut sliced across his ego.

Carolyn had a consoling look in her eyes. “It’s okay, Clay. You don’t need to lose any weight.”

“I know I don’t,” he said a little too loudly. Now, the paper cut widened into a knife wound.

“You look fine as you are,” she said, tipping some salt into the wound.

“Fine?” he said gruffly. “Just fine?”

Carolyn blinked. “No… good—I meant good. No, great. You look great.”

Morelli inhaled slowly, then let it out like a dying gasp.

There was an awkward pause. Then, Morelli’s stomach grumbled so loudly in the small room that it sounded like an approaching 6 Train at peak hour.

Carolyn didn’t do a good job of suppressing her smile. Clearly, she thought it was amusing.

“So, why are you here?” Morelli asked. He felt flushed and prickly with heat.

“Do I need a reason to come and see you? I just want to know how Bronte Perkins is doing, that’s all.”

“She’s back with her mom and getting some counseling, I hear.”

Carolyn shook her head, then grimaced slightly. “The poor thing. I heard she swam across from Hidden Island to escape.”

“That’s what she said in her statement.”

“Incredible. She’s one tough cookie. And no one helped her?”

“Apparently not.”

Carolyn slowly nodded. “Incredible,” she repeated.

“Almost unbelievable,” Morelli added, watching her closely. She was wearing a little more makeup than he had seen her wear before, especially on her cheekbones and around her eyes. And she seemed uncomfortable sitting in the chair, as if she had a backache. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You look like you’re sore or something.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Just slept awkwardly, that’s all.” Something dark and winged flittered behind her eyes then was gone.

Another awkward pause.

“You know, Carolyn,” Morelli said. He needed to get a reaction to a hunch he had. “I thought you would ask me about Aamon Jessop.”

“Why would I?”

“I thought you would be curious about him.”

“Why? Have they found him?”

“No, but he seems like your kind of guy. The kind you tend to attract.”

She held his gaze, then tipped the entire saltshaker into his wound. “So that must make you a psychopathic killer, too.”

Morelli gritted his teeth. “No, all I was just saying was….”

She gave him a dismissive wave. “I’ve read enough about him in the online news. And I called Ellie too. I told her about who it was. She remembered going into the family hardware store last fall back in Ravenwood, but he really didn’t make an impression on her. But now it’s obvious she certainly made an impression on him.”

“Enough for him to track her down all the way here to Erin’s Bay?”

“I know what you’re thinking, Clay, but as I said before, Ellie didn’t tell anyone where she was when she was here last summer. And I can’t imagine her deliberately telling Jessop when she walked into his hardware store about Erin’s Bay. Give her more credit than that, please.”

“Then how come he walked into Something Fishy and started asking Bronte about Ellie?”

“I don’t know. I guess when you finally catch him, you could ask him.”

Morelli took the punch and flinched slightly but didn’t go down. Then he threw one of his own. “He came here because of you,” he said, pointing a finger. “Just like the others. Like Sam Pritchard and that crazy psycho author who charmed you with his home-made lemonade, then tried to kill you.”

With another grimace, Carolyn gripped the table with both hands, and for a moment, he thought she was going to launch herself at him. Her eyes went dark, as though black window shades had suddenly dropped inside them, cutting off all the light within. “It was store-bought. And even if it weren’t, it would take more than home-made lemonade to charm me, let me tell you. I’ve never met Jessop before. I’ve met none of his family, and I’ve never been in that damn hardware store in Ravenwood.”

“Don’t lie to me, Carolyn.” Morelli’s throat went dry, and his palms felt sweaty. He’d stepped willingly into the animal enclosure of a unicorn only to realize it was, in fact, the cage of a ravenous lioness. He tried looking for an escape, but there wasn’t one.

62

MORE LIES

Carolyn let go of the table, expelled a slow breath, and then rubbed her lower back.

The window blinds of her eyes went up halfway, and she looked half-human again. Her voice softened. “I’m not lying to you. I’ve never lied to you. You know that.”

Morelli’s jaw tingled, and he was unsure what had just happened—how she had changed so suddenly.

Carolyn’s eyes brightened some more, and she smiled wearily. “There is no link between me and Aamon Jessop. Honest.” She slumped in her chair. “If what I read online is true, then he is a brilliant, resourceful, and extremely dangerous young man. Don’t forget that he asked Bronte about Ellie, not me. If he were after me, then he would….” Carolyn frowned as though she was mulling over an intense thought—“then he would be—dead.”

“Dead?”

She made an indifferent face. “But we’ll never know because he came here for Ellie, not me.”

Morelli let out a sigh. Maybe he was grasping at straws. Perhaps subconsciously, he wanted to blame her for any and every murdering psychopath who found their way to Erin’s Bay. What he thought was a promising road to a convenient answer had been a dead end.

“Do you know where she is now?” he asked.

“No idea. I don’t ask her when I talk to her, which is rarely. And I’m sure she wouldn’t tell me, even if I asked her.”

“She doesn’t trust you?”

“I’m the only one she trusts. But it’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of her own personal safety. She’s been through Hell—several times.”

“You’ve been through Hell several times, from what you’ve told me, Carolyn. Yet you haven’t gone into hiding.”

Carolyn buried her face in her hands and began rubbing her eyes.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, speaking from behind her palms. “Just tired, that’s all.” She dropped her hands, and bloodshot eyes stared at him. “Not sleeping too well, either.” She blinked several times. “Where were we? Oh, yes—hiding. That’s my choice, and what Ellie does is her choice. We all react differently to trauma. We all, at some point in our lives, have to make the journey through Hell. Some don’t make it to the other side. And for those who do, we each experience it differently—like a vacation destination. Everyone has a different opinion.”

“TripAdvisor for Hell,” Morelli said, trying to make light of a very dark subject.

“Yeah, it’s called therapy.” She sat up a little straighter, but to Morelli, he could tell she was in some physical discomfort. “And no news on Jessop?”

“There’s a full East Coast manhunt going on as we speak.”

“What about searching the family hardware store in Ravenwood?”

“That’s in the hands of Ravenwood PD. I’m leaving it to them. It’s out of my hands, apparently.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I am, in a way. More disappointed in myself. You were right about Bronte Perkins. I should’ve dug deeper. I’m sorry that….”

“Don’t apologize. Never apologize for anything. I certainly don’t.”

She had a knack for making him smile. “Yeah, so I’ve noticed.”

“What about Jennifer Walsh? I read about her too. Still haven’t found her body?”

“No. Still looking. I don’t think it’s related to Jessop. But we found Tess Jorgensen.”

“Who?”

Morelli frowned. “You didn’t hear about another woman who also went missing at a gas station three miles north of here?”

“I don’t make it a habit of following every missing person or crime that happens around here. Why, who is she?”

“Kids found her body—well, nearly all her body—in a culvert drain under a dirt road five miles west of the gas station where her pickup was.”

Carolyn jolted. Now, she was sitting ramrod straight. “Nearly all her body? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“No head. She had been decapitated. According to Jay Winter, a highly skilled person, like a surgeon, or someone with extensive experience, decapitated her.”

Carolyn’s eyes darted about. “Did Jay estimate the time of death?”

“A few days before Bronte escaped. Why?”

Carolyn still looked preoccupied. “And you don’t think it was Jessop?” She looked at Morelli.

“No, I don’t. Unless there’s something you know and want to share?”

She shook her head and remained silent.

Morelli wondered about asking Carolyn his next question. It was a long shot, but something was still niggling him. “Do you know about Michael Gresner?”

Carolyn’s face didn’t move. “No, who is he?”

“He’s a schoolteacher who has gone missing. I mentioned him to you the other day at your place.”

“Not really. You didn’t tell me the name. Gretner is it?”

“Gresner. That’s not his real name.” Apparently, Carolyn didn’t know about Michael Gresner or Joseph Edward Durant, as was his real identity. He told her—leaving out the part about Durant’s blood being on Jacobson’s knife. Something was still niggling him about that discovery. It was related to the connection between Durant and another person who lived in Erin’s Bay.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“What’s your best guess?” Morelli asked, breaking the silence.

“It’s your case, Clay. I’m no longer in law enforcement.”

“I’m asking you for your professional opinion based on what I’ve just told you.”

She looked at the ceiling. “I would say your hunch is correct. Someone kidnapped him and put him in that laundry cart.” Her eyes found him again. “Did you get the video footage cleaned up?”

“Got it back the other day. Still can’t see the license plates nor the person’s face. We now know the van was white, instead of just lightly colored.”

Morelli also didn’t tell her about his other hunch. He’d watched the video footage maybe fifty times: backwards, forwards, half-speed, quarter-speed. And while the person’s face remained hidden, from their walk and shape, he’d bet the farm—and his inheritance— that it was a woman—another curve ball.

“Maybe Durant got what he deserved,” Carolyn offered.

“I don’t know what he ended up getting because we have no body yet. We also found a list in his apartment.”

“I take it that it wasn’t a grocery list?”

“It was a shopping list of sorts,” Morelli said, his stomach twisting. Not because he was hungry, but because he was disgusted. Durant was a monster. “It was a list of six middle school kids from where he taught. All around twelve years old. Looks like he was getting ready to start again.”

“Christ.”

“Forensics found the list stuck between the pages of an Agatha Christie novel on his bookshelf—Murder at the Vicarage. The top name had been circled in pencil. Lucy Chiswell. She was in his class.”

“You said he was getting ready to start again?” Carolyn asked. “So, he hadn’t already…?”

“There’s been no report of children being abused or ever touched inappropriately by him since he moved here. However, I have a special counselor coming in from the City in the next few days just to make sure. She will conduct closed interviews with parents in attendance. I’m out of my league, Carolyn, when it comes to this. It’s best left to the professionals.”

Carolyn looked relieved, which he expected.

“So, what now?” Morelli asked. “How’s that beach house of yours?” He was hoping she had come in to say she was thinking of moving back in with him. But as the conversation continued, it seemed less likely.

“I’m happy there.”

“When does the lease run out?”

“I was thinking of extending it.”

Morelli’s heart sank a little.

“My life is a little complicated at the moment,” she said. “And I prefer it this way. You have your place, and I have mine.” She got up. “I’ve got some errands to run.”

Morelli’s heart sank a little further. “So, will I see you later?”

She smiled, walked around the table, bent down, took his face in her hands, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Then she pulled back.

Morelli’s heart bobbed to the surface like it was made of cork, not muscle. He’d never had a pepperoni-flavored kiss before. Home run! “What was that for?” Then came the aftertaste of the kiss—something slightly distrusting hidden beneath its sweet surface.

“Dinner at my place tonight,” she said. “Eight sharp, and don’t be late. Bring a bottle of that Rose Hill Estate Merlot I like.” She frowned. “Maybe make it two bottles.”

“Didn’t you say your life was complicated?” Morelli asked. His heart was no longer bobbing on the surface. It had grown wings and was hovering above it.

She gave him a wink. “It is complicated. But a girl’s gotta eat.”

63

MURDER & MARGARITAS

“Back here again?” Carolyn looked up at the sign above the doorway—Murder & Margaritas.

“Stop quibbling.” Abby took Carolyn by the hand, and together, they went through the open doorway set into the brickwork of a nondescript alleyway.

Familiar faces again greeted Carolyn inside. Charles Manson stared down at her. His beady little eyes followed her as she walked past. Hannibal Lecter, wearing his bite-mask, gave her a ravenous glare, leaving no doubt in her mind that he was contemplating eating her liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti. Leaning against his beige 1968 VW Beetle, arm in a sling, Carolyn found herself drawn to Ted Bundy’s dreamy eyes as he silently asked for her help loading boxes into his car.

Susan Edison was already inside and perched on the bar stool at a cozy table in the shadows, away from the noise of the bar. She waved them over, and Abby and Carolyn threaded their way through the crowd toward her.

It was busier than it had been the last time Carolyn remembered. Exposed brick formed the interior, and pictures of famous serial killers, some real, most fictitious, adorned the walls. A slab of rich mahogany topped the bar, which ran the length of one wall. On tiered glass shelves behind the bar were three rows of tequila bottles from every imaginable brand. Backlit, the glass bottles shone in a kaleidoscope of colors.

“My God, I never knew this place existed,” Susan said, getting up. The hugs they gave each other were genuine, held for a few seconds longer than the typical ones of empty formality. “I’m not used to being surrounded by all this murder and mayhem.”

Abby gave an amused smile. “There will always be murder in the world.”

Susan held up an empty hand-painted margarita coupe glass with a long, green cactus stem and wide, salt-crusted rim. “And margaritas.”

The trio burst out laughing, and, for Carolyn, it felt good to laugh with such spontaneity. She couldn’t remember the last time she had.

“Sorry,” Susan said. “I just had to try the Zodiac,” she said, holding up her glass. All the cocktails were named after famous killers throughout history. Carolyn had said to Abby last time that they were more likely to run out of margarita recipes than names to give them.

To Carolyn, Susan looked positively glowing. Her hair was silky smooth and fell loosely around her shoulders. Her eyes held the gleam of a kid in a candy store, and her vibrant face bore a constant, almost mischievous smile. It was a side of Susan she had never seen—a far cry from the one she had witnessed before.

“I’ll get the drinks!” Susan declared, looking expectantly at Carolyn and Abby.

Carolyn consulted the drinks menu on the table. “I tried the Martin Vanger last time, but I think I’ll go with the Ted Bundy.”

“Ah!” Susan nodded approvingly. “Those hypnotic eyes. Those Rob Lowe good looks. I spotted him on the way in.”

“Jeffrey Dahmer for me,” Abby said. “What are you drinking, Susan?”

“I had a Zodiac, but I want to try a Joseph DeAngelo.”

“The Golden State Killer,” Carolyn said.

“Yes,” Susan said. “What a sick bastard he was. At least they finally caught him, unlike the Zodiac.” And with that, she vanished into the crowd.

“She’s completely different,” Abby said. “Looks different, too. It’s hard to believe she’s the same person.”

“I guess we all have two sides to us,” Carolyn said. Abby had picked up on it, too. Susan Edison, Harvard law grad and ex-ADA, had somehow applied all the skills of hard work, intense focus, attention to detail, and preparedness that earned her that law degree and led her to the top of the DA’s office to trap and then kill Joseph Durant. If she and Abby hadn’t stumbled in on Susan’s little setup beneath Moors Island, they would be none the wiser.

Susan returned, skillfully carrying their drinks. “Let’s make a toast.”

They raised their glasses and looked at each other. “To what?” Abby said, grinning.

“To my new nose!” Susan laughed. She turned side on. “What do you think? Dr. Liotta did a wonderful job.”

“Dr. Liotta?” Abby asked.

“She’s a dual board-certified facial plastic surgeon on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. We’re also having lunch next week. I think we could be friends.”

“Give me her card,” Abby said quickly. “I might need to get some work done.”

“You’re stunning as you are, Abby,” she said with a dismissive wave. “You don’t need any work.”

“What did you tell her?” Carolyn asked. It was true. She couldn’t tell that Susan had broken her nose, but she didn’t want to say anything.

“That it happened during a boxercise class,” Susan replied. “That I had partnered up with an overzealous woman, and she accidentally smacked me in the face during one of the sessions. Anyway, let’s toast my nose.”

The three margarita glasses clinked together, and they drank.

Susan looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping on them, then huddled closer. “No fallout yet?”

“Not from my end,” Abby said.

Carolyn shrugged. “Morelli is fine. Leave him to me.”

“Still no sign of Jessop?” Susan asked.

“No,” Carolyn replied.

“He’s not dead,” Abby said, her mouth twisted. “He somehow survived the fall and slithered away like the snake he is.”

Susan’s eyes flickered with coldness. Then it was gone. “Who is Ellie?” she asked.

Abby leaned in. “She’s your friend, isn’t she? I spoke to Bronte. She told me about a young woman who lived in the apartment above the diner last summer.”

“And why was Jessop so determined to find her?” Susan added.

Carolyn had to tell them. So, she did, about what happened last summer and Sam Pritchard hiding out on Moors Island and how Ellie was helping her and how Ellie had walked into Jessop’s Hardware in Ravenwood in the fall last year when they had gone to Ravenwood searching for Pritchard.

“I want to meet her,” Abby declared once Carolyn was done.

“Is she safe?” Susan asked, a look of concern in her eyes. “Do you think he will find her? Jessop was obsessed with her.”

“She’s safe,” Carolyn replied. “I’ve already spoken to her about Jessop and what happened here. And he can’t find her if he doesn’t know where she is.”

Susan nodded. “Let’s hope so.” She took a sip of her cocktail.

Carolyn changed the subject and explained about Tess Jorgensen and how someone had stuffed her headless body in a culvert drain just outside of town. “Looks like Jessop killed her.”

“Why?” Abby asked. “Who was she to him?”

“Probably a nobody,” Carolyn said. “I just think he enjoys killing women. There’s no solid motive with him. He’s the exception.”

“And the Ballard Mansion?” Susan asked.

“Nothing reported,” Carolyn replied. “Same with Moors Island. But Hidden Island has been crawling with cops for the last week. Best to stay away.

“I can’t imagine the family who owns it is too pleased,” Abby said before taking a sip of her cocktail.

Just then, a woman walked in and took a look around. Her eyes locked onto Carolyn’s. Carolyn took a mental photograph of the woman. Around twenty-eight years old, raven black hair cut into a short bob, small nose, elfin-like features. She was too far away to determine her eye color. Maybe gray eyes. Five foot eight, one-hundred-forty pounds. The woman gave the slightest of smiles to Carolyn before continuing to the bar.

“Speak of the devil,” Abby said, apparently noticing the woman, too. “I think another one has just walked in.”

64

ABRAXAS

“You know her?” Carolyn asked.

“Know who?” Susan said, twisting her head back and forth. “What did I miss out on?”

“The young woman who just walked in,” Abby said. “She’s at the bar now.”

“Who is she?” Susan said.

“Audrey King,” Abby replied. “Her family owns Hidden Island. That explains why she’s here. Probably liaising with the police as the family representative.”

“That’s her?” Carolyn said.

“I mentioned her to you before, Carolyn,” Abby replied. “The youngest of the three sisters. The crazy one. She was a kid when I last saw her. So was I.”

“Maybe we should ask her over,” Susan said.

“Hell no!” Abby almost choked on her cocktail. “Not after what we did to their property on the island.”

Carolyn wondered if Audrey King had recognized her. She didn’t know her, but her eyes seemed to linger just a tad longer than was comfortable on Carolyn.

“Anyway,” Abby said, bringing all eyes back to her. “Do you want to see something really cool?” She rolled up her sleeve to reveal a tattoo along her forearm.

“What the hell is that?” Susan said, leaning in. “It looks like a spiral staircase gone crazy.”

“It’s the DNA twin helix,” Carolyn said. But to her, it looked different, like one of those Escher pictures that played tricks on your eyes. The two strands, one dark and the other not filled with ink, of the DNA double helix were initially joined; then, farther along, they split into separate strands before reuniting again.

“It’s my new tattoo,” Abby said proudly. “I designed it myself.”

“What’s the significance of the split in the strand, and why is one dark and the other light?” Carolyn asked, sensing she knew the answer.

“Abraxas,” Abby said. “We all have within us light and darkness. A luminosity and a blackness. Day and night. And like the planet, we need both to survive, to exist.”

“Good and evil,” Susan said, her face suddenly all serious.

“Exactly,” Abby said. “We all have both within us. A DNA molecule is two linked strands that wind around each other to resemble a twisted ladder in a helix-like shape. Each strand has its backbone. Like a twin personality.”

The mood around the table had suddenly grown somber.

The tattoo reminded Carolyn of Ellie’s rabbit tattoo on her arm. Or was it a hare? Ellie’s other tattoo, on the inside of her other forearm, was a skull flanked by an hourglass and a wilting flower in a vase.

“Memento mori. Remember, you must die,” Carolyn said.

Susan and Abby looked at her. “What did you say?” Susan asked.

Carolyn blinked and came back to the present. “Oh… sorry… nothing. I was just thinking out loud.”

Susan gave her a puzzled look, then said, “Abraxas, you said, Abby? I’ve never heard of that deity before.”

Abby’s eyes went wide. “You know about deities?”

“A little. I love your tattoo. And by the way, it’s not really cool.”

The smile froze on Abby’s face.

“It’s incredibly cool,” Susan said, raising her cocktail glass in a toast. “Beats my boring-ass story about my nose.”

Abby beamed, and her eyes performed a little happy dance inside their sockets.

“But you have the floor.” Susan gave her a beckoning wave. “Tell us more about the inspiration for your work of art.”

Carolyn glanced at Susan. She was charming, confident, and intoxicating—someone you wanted to be around. And yet, as she watched her, she visualized a dark stain deep inside her—small and hidden. Then she realized she had the same stain, but somehow different.

Abby clapped her hands. “Abraxas is a Gnostic deity. A deity is a supernatural being, such as a god or goddess, that is worshipped as divine. Deities are central to many of the world’s largest religions. So, I thought I would take the DNA strand, which is inside all of us, and alter its design to represent the light and darkness that we all have within us.”

“Like a split personality,” Carolyn added, keeping her eyes on Susan.

“Exactly,” Abby said. “And I gave it a name.”

“To symbolize a goddess, I hope,” Susan said. Taking a sip from her cocktail, her eyes shifted over the rim of the glass to Carolyn.

Carolyn held Susan’s unnerving gaze for a few seconds before she switched her attention back to Abby.

“Yes, that’s right,” Abby said. She twisted her forearm, admiring the tattoo. “What do you know about deities?” she asked Susan.

“Not much. I’ve been doing some research lately. Reading Paradise Lost by Milton.”

Carolyn recalled the book Susan was holding when she went to the library.

Abby rolled down her sleeve. “Aren’t deities fallen angels? I’ve never read the book. Maybe I should.”

“It’s a poem, not a book,” Susan said. “And a damn long poem at that. Deities, yes, are fallen angels—outcast from heaven.”

“Well, we’re not angels ourselves,” Abby scoffed before taking a sip of her cocktail.

“So true,” Carolyn said.

“Anyway,” Susan continued, “Milton did a twist on the Holy Trinity and came up with the Unholy Trinity.”

The three women looked at each other.

“The Unholy Trinity?” Abby frowned.

Susan nodded. “It comprises Beelzebub, Lucifer, and Astaroth—all fallen angels. Evil to fight good. Hell against Heaven. I’m leaving a lot out, so I don’t bore you all to death—pardon the pun.”

“So why did you decide to get the tattoo?” Carolyn asked.

“When I was running—sprinting my ass off after setting light to Jessop’s boat at the jetty.” Abby’s eyes clouded over, and the warmth vanished from her face. “Something happened while I was running. It was like I remembered running away from the jetty, then arriving where you were standing, Carolyn. But there’s a gap in between that I can’t remember. It’s a blank. I felt like something had transported me away for a few minutes, leaving me with no memory of it.

The trio was silent for a few moments. All content just to stare into their cocktail glasses.

Abby slapped the table, and her face brightened. “Well, I need another cocktail so I can hopefully forget about all that happened on that island.”

“Hear, hear,” Susan said, waving her empty cocktail glass.

“Same again, ladies?” Abby asked.

Carolyn had only drunk half her cocktail. It was nice, but she didn’t want to forget a single detail about what happened—and she wanted to get up early tomorrow. “Not for me.”

Susan nudged her. “Come on. Have one more. We’ve got so much to talk about.”

Carolyn sighed. “Okay—just one,” she said, unsure what Susan meant when they had all agreed not to talk about what had happened on Hidden Island and Moors Island again.

After Abby left for the bar, Susan touched Carolyn’s arm. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m good. And you?”

Susan lowered her voice. “Morelli paid me a visit last week.”

Something rippled inside Carolyn. “What did he want?”

“He asked if I owned a white van. He also asked me about Joseph Durant and when I was an ADA.”

The ripple grew into a small wave. “And what did you tell him?”

“I told him the truth.” Susan said nothing more for a few seconds. Her eyes wandered over the people crammed in at the bar. “I told him the last time I saw Joseph Durant was more than five years ago when he walked free from court.”

“And the white van?” Carolyn pressed. Susan seemed to be enjoying dragging out the suspense.

She turned back to Carolyn. “White van?”

“Do you own a white van?” Carolyn asked firmly.

Susan gave her a puzzled look, her fingers dancing around the stem of her cocktail glass. “What a strange question. No. Why would I own a white van? I’ve got a white Tesla, but not a van.”

Her smile stayed fixed on her face, and the sparkle in her eyes was back. “If I needed one, I’d just rent one.”

65

THE FALLEN ANGELS

The small wave reared up and crashed into Carolyn.

Sure, Susan had kidnapped Durant and then killed him. But to hear her admit it was her on the video that Morelli had seen, that she had been so cunning, so premeditated, so sneaky, was still a shock to Carolyn. She had thought that maybe someone had helped Susan—a male accomplice—grab Durant from his apartment. But no, she had done it all herself. There was nothing this woman was not capable of doing.

“Don’t look so shocked, Carolyn,” Susan said. “We all have our demons. Mine paid me a visit just after what happened at Christmas. You were there. It was inevitable.” She smiled. “I just put her to good use, to fight evil, instead of using her to perpetrate evil on the innocent.”

“You shot Preston Hood. He was unarmed.”

Susan raised an eyebrow. “So was that guy I found in my barn with a pitchfork sticking out of his throat. That was your handiwork. You saw what was inside that cooler, didn’t you? You knew what they had done and would continue to do if we didn’t stop them.” Susan looked away. “Both our demons made an appearance that day.”

When she turned back, Carolyn saw a shimmer of fire in her eyes. “Do I feel bad or have any remorse for what I did to save my child, Molly? No. I’d just as easily do it again. And Durant? He was guilty, and I proved it, but the courts let him walk. Morelli told me about the list the police found inside his apartment.” She leaned in, her eyes ablaze. “Can you imagine if I hadn’t stopped him? Those poor kids? Their parents? He would have destroyed their lives forever the same way he did to others countless times before.”

Susan drew back. “I wasn’t willing to sit by and let that happen.”

Carolyn didn’t know what to think. Sure, she had done things, broken the law, cut corners, gone on her vigilante crusades, all for the sake of catching the bad guy. But Susan Edison, as a citizen, had taken it to the next level. What was next for her? Who else was she going to kidnap that had walked out of court when she was a prosecutor?

Carolyn was about to ask when Abby appeared with a guy carrying a tray with their cocktails. After placing down the glasses, Abby slipped him a twenty, and he slipped away. “People will do anything either for sex or money,” Abby said. “Sex and money are the root of all motivation.”

“I agree,” Susan said, throwing Carolyn a sideways look.

“Another toast.”

“What to this time?” Carolyn asked. “Your new tattoo?”

“In a way.” Abby turned to Susan. “You know what you were saying before, about the unholy trinity. It got me thinking. I said that we’re no angels.”

“But you didn’t say that we were demons either,” Susan countered, all vibrant and glowing again.

“True, but we all have a dark side,” Abby said. “Why can’t we use it for good and not evil? We should form a pact. Good against evil. We’re all sisters now, bound by our secrets.”

“Please,” Carolyn said, “this isn’t the Marvel Universe, and we are hardly superheroes.” But she saw some merit in what Abby was saying. They had all suffered horrible things in their own individual lives by the real two-legged demons that weren’t the stuff of mythology.

Abby’s face sank, and for a moment, Carolyn saw just how frail and vulnerable she really was. Maybe they all were. Aamon Jessop wasn’t the only one who wore a mask.

“You are my heroes,” Abby said, her voice low and filled with sadness. “I wish I had sisters just like the two of you. Maybe I would have turned out differently then.”

Carolyn glanced at Susan and saw tears crinkling the corners of her eyes.

Susan squeezed Abby’s arm. “We are your sisters. Don’t forget it.”

Abby brightened and once again was all smiles. She raised her glass. “I’m not sure what we should toast to.”

“Not to sisters or the sisterhood,” Carolyn said, raising her own glass. “That’s been done before.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Susan said, raising her own glass.

The trio of glasses came together and clinked.

“To the Fallen Angels. We are three, not one.”

66

SIGMA

“So, how do you feel now?”

“I feel fine.”

Dr. Greenwood searched the woman’s face. Was she fine? Or was she just good at hiding her emotions—emotions that could boil to the surface at any moment?

She sighed, wishing the woman sitting across from her would open up more. “Are you being completely honest with me?”

“Complete honesty is something you have to earn.”

“I thought that referred to trust?”

“They go hand in hand,” the woman said. “If I don’t fully trust someone, then I’m hardly going to be completely honest with them, am I? I’m sure it’s the same with you in your own life. If a complete stranger walks up to you on the street and asks where you live, will you give them your address?”

The woman had a point, Greenwood thought.

“Believe me, I’ve given out my fair share of fake cell phone numbers in bars when I just want to be left alone.”

“Just tell them to get lost.” Greenwood wished a man would approach her in a bar. Any man. Any bar.

“I can’t be that rude.”

“But you want to kill people?” Greenwood flipped back in her journal and then quoted verbatim. “At times, I want to kill bad people.” She looked up. “Isn’t that more than being a little rude?”

“Wrong context.”

Greenwood turned to a new page in her journal and made another note to go with the other six pages of notes she had written during the last fifty minutes. “Then be honest with me, please. I can’t help you otherwise.”

“Haven’t I been honest with you so far?”

“Not entirely. You’re hiding something.”

“We’re all hiding something.”

Greenwood placed her pen down. “But what you’re hiding seems like something major, not minor.” She flipped back through her notes. “Insomnia. Night sweats. Bad dreams where you see yourself dying.” She looked up. “You feel guilty about something. Something that you’ve either done or have been a part of.”

The woman looked out the window, not out of distraction, but out of avoidance. Greenwood had noticed this during their last session, that whenever she was getting closer to the truth about the woman, to the heart of the problem, the woman would look out the window.

“Please,” Greenwood said.

The woman looked back, tears now in her eyes. “I… I’m not a bad person. I just—I just, feel like I’m becoming a bad person.”

“We’re all born with badness,” Greenwood replied, sliding a box of tissues across the table. “We all have a dark side.”

The woman ignored the tissues, preferring to use the back of her hand to dab her eyes. “It’s our choice whether we allow our dark side to control us.”

The woman seemed to ponder this for a moment.

Greenwood made another note in her journal. Guilt, self-loathing, yet seems in conflict with herself. What bad things has she done? Who does she want to kill and why? Revenge? Avenging on behalf of someone else?

“And it’s escalating,” the woman added.

“How so?”

“The urges.”

Greenwood waited. It was best to get the woman to talk without forcing her.

“Are becoming more frequent.”

Greenwood tried to maintain her composure. “And who exactly do you want to kill? Do you know them?”

The woman fidgeted with her hands in her lap. “Bad people.”

“Define bad. It’s a subjective measure. Is someone bad because they cheat on their wife? Or jaywalk, or don’t leave a decent tip? And if so, does that warrant killing them?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “In those examples, no. That’s not what I meant. I meant really bad people—the worst offenders. I watch the news each night. I see the atrocities, and I just want to….” She twisted her hands into a tight ball. “I just want to kill them. I can’t explain it. I haven’t always felt this way.”

“And have you killed anyone yet?” Greenwood prayed to God the answer would be a resounding no.

The woman looked out the window.

Greenwood studied the woman for a few moments. Educated. Highly intelligent. A loner. But a killer? She didn’t look like the type. Then again, it was those who looked the least capable of killing who usually crossed that thin line.

Greenwood closed her journal. She had taken enough notes for the session—enough for three sessions, in fact.

“Trust,” the woman said absentmindedly, not answering the question.

Their eyes met.

“I’ve made some new friends,” the woman suddenly offered. “I really don’t have many friends.”

Greenwood leaned forward. “A woman with no friends or a small circle of friends tends to be very secure within herself. She doesn’t need the approval of others and is totally content with just her own company. A woman like that is to be feared.”

The woman’s face brightened as though pleased—like it was validation for how she viewed herself.

“These women? Can you tell me about them?” Greenwood asked.

“They’re like me. We share the same values. I haven’t known them for long. You spoke about trust and honesty before. Well, I trust them implicitly and will never lie to them.”

“Then nurture the relationships you have with them. You don’t need anyone else. We’ve created this world where we think we need a heap of friends.”

“Or thousands of followers.”

Greenwood smiled, then opened her journal again and wrote two words. When she looked up, she saw the woman was frowning at her.

“What did you just write?”

Greenwood shrugged. “What I best think sums you up, and most likely, the other women in your group. Sigma female.”

The frown on the woman’s face eased a fraction. “Sigma female? What does that mean?”

“It’s best if you look it up. Interpret what it means and how it relates to you.”

“Is it uncomplimentary?”

“Far from it. It’s a little-known personality type. A rare breed, indeed. There are seven male personality types that I believe also apply to females. I’m sure you’ve heard of the alpha male?”

The woman nodded with a wry smile. “I’ve had to deal with them all my life.”

“And you’ve quietly beaten every one of them.”

The woman tilted her head. “How did you know?”

“Because that’s what a sigma does. Think of an alpha as the loud-mouthed, arrogant attention-seeker who craves constant validation and absolutely must be the center of attention in any situation, not just in a social setting.”

“Okay.”

“Now picture that alpha male soundly sleeping in their bed at night, and someone slipping quietly through an open window—a masked intruder—and slitting their throat.”

“A silent assassin?” A smile touched the woman’s lips, changing her completely.

“That’s right.” Greenwood nodded. “It describes you and your friends. Silent assassins.”

The woman really smiled now. “We are three, not one,” she said so softly to herself that Greenwood didn’t pick up on it.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Oh, nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing, but Greenwood decided not to push the point. “It’s odd, though, this new group of friends you have.”

“How so?”

“Typically, sigmas don’t mix. They’re lone wolves. They don’t need anyone. Like I said, they prefer the solitude of their own company.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Well, maybe we’ve created a new breed of sigma females who get along with each other.”

67

MOLLY

“You tortured Joseph Durant,” Carolyn said, watching Molly Edison playing in the sand with a bucket and spade just out of earshot. Molly was building a castle, complete with a moat and walled battlements.

Good choice, Carolyn thought, watching the little girl, who had a determined look of concentration on her face. The same look Carolyn had seen before on her mother’s face when she was cleaning Durant’s blood off the floor.

“I saw the burn marks on his body,” Carolyn continued. “You used a culinary blowtorch. I saw that too.”

“He tortured boys and girls.” Susan stared out at the seagulls as they soared high in the clear morning sky out over the ocean. “I figured he needed to know what it was like. He did much worse to them. I saw the videos; you didn’t. I had to sit through hours of that when I prepared for the case.” She swallowed. “Several of the children had to have….” Her voice caught. “…surgery. They had to be stitched up. The dirty fucker shoved….”

“I can imagine.” Carolyn placed a hand on the top of Susan’s own. “But I don’t condone torture, no matter the reason. No matter how heinous the villain. It just makes us like them.”

Susan turned to her. “Us?”

Carolyn nodded. “The bridge behind us is gone. There’s no going back. You know that. There’s just us.”

It was Susan’s idea to meet, perhaps to clear the air so that there was no misunderstanding between them. Carolyn was hesitant at first, still undecided about this woman who had turned into a killer. And how easily it had happened. Or maybe Susan wasn’t telling her everything. Maybe there were others. Others before Durant.

They sat in silence for a moment on the picnic rug, watching as Molly ventured down to the water’s edge to retrieve another bucket of wet sand. Returning to her castle, she upended the bucket, reinforcing the outer wall, carefully patting it down with her spade.

Maybe the five-year-old knew something Carolyn didn’t.

The desolate stretch of beach was a secluded spot Carolyn had chosen, far away from prying eyes, and seagulls, plump and ruffled in gray, wheeled above Molly like fantastical dragons laying siege to the sandcastle below.

Susan finally spoke. “Perhaps you should watch some of the videos, then decide whether he deserved to be tortured. I just wanted him to taste his own medicine, to see what it was like.”

“You hunted him down, Susan. Kidnapped him, tortured him, then killed him.”

Susan pulled her hand back. “I thought you would understand. What you’ve gone through. What you’ve experienced. The horrors you have seen done to the innocent.”

It had been two weeks since they met for drinks with Abby at Murder and Margaritas. In those two weeks, Carolyn had battled her intense need for vengeance, a need born from her own experiences, while also struggling to accept Susan Edison’s actions. Her moral compass, honed from working in law enforcement, didn’t cease to function just because she had quit. Sure, it had wobbled a few times off her true north. But now it was spinning madly, unable to settle in any clear direction.

Carolyn sighed. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard, was it? Trying to do good? Maybe doing good eventually led you to becoming bad. “But I didn’t hunt people….”

“Yes, you did!” Susan cut in. “Sam Pritchard, your nemesis. You hunted him down. I know because I investigated it. You tracked him down to Ravenwood. You also killed Dylan Cobb.”

“I didn’t kill Dylan Cobb,” Carolyn replied. “You need to check your facts if you’re so sure about my past. A female detective from Ravenwood shot him dead. I had nothing to do with it.”

Susan shook her head slowly. “I’m sure you had a hand in it. From what I’ve found out, Pritchard and Cobb teamed up. You were there. You….”

“I don’t know where you’re getting your intel, but I’m not some vigilante.” Carolyn tasted the bitterness of hypocrisy on her tongue. Sam Pritchard? Yes, she had hunted him down, gathered her army of vengeance around her, and together, they had destroyed the monster.

She glanced sideways at Susan, wondering if she was now sitting next to another monster in the making. A more subtle monster, though, disguised as a mother and a wife—once an officer of the court, but a monster all the same.

Susan pivoted toward Carolyn. Intense blue eyes settled on her. Susan wasn’t muscular, but lean, with sandy brown shoulder-length hair and veins that snaked along the underside of her forearms. Her hands were small with fine-boned fingers. There was nothing threatening about her, yet Carolyn took comfort from the fact her gun sat in its holster under her shirt.

“I want us to be friends, Carolyn,” Susan said.

“You kill people.”

“Bad people.” She shrugged. “Who said friendship was perfect, anyway? All my friends have flaws.”

“You’d have no friends if they knew what you did.”

Susan smiled, then waved at Molly. “Do we really have friends when you think about it? Or are they just people we tolerate to fill the gaps in our loneliness? We still accept them whole into our lives. Flaws and all.”

“It’s a hell of a flaw, killing people, isn’t it?”

“Christ, you make me sound like some kind of serial killer.” She took a sip of the coffee she had brought. Carolyn’s sat untouched on the rug next to her.

“What would you have me do?” Susan said. “Kill the innocent?”

“I’d rather you didn’t kill anyone at all unless it’s a life and death situation.”

“Yeah, right. Try telling that to the parents of the children Durant destroyed. Sure, they’re still alive, but I’m certain they feel dead on the inside. Given half a chance, I’m sure these parents would give anything to get their hands on Durant and tear the bastard from limb to limb.”

Carolyn thought about the sharks that had circled Susan’s boat and the ensuing feeding frenzy.

All thoughts of blood and gore soon vanished as Molly trudged up the beach, dropped to her knees on the picnic rug, and took the water bottle Susan handed to her from the cooler.

“Not too much longer, baby,” Susan said. “It’s getting too hot.”

Molly nodded as she gulped down the water. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, then fixed Carolyn with the same blue-eyed stare Susan had done. “Aunty Carolyn, come and help me with my castle. Mom says you’re really good at building things to keep monsters away.”

Carolyn raised an eyebrow at Susan then mouthed, Aunty?

Susan shrugged, then straightened the bucket hat on Molly’s head. “Aunty Carolyn is busy at the moment, baby. But I’m thinking of asking her around for dinner tonight. Daddy’s away, so I thought, why not? What do you think?”

Molly’s face lit up. “Can we play Call of Duty?” she asked Carolyn.

Carolyn felt a pang in her chest. “Sure.”

Molly launched herself at Carolyn and hugged her. Molly smelled of sand, salt, and the ocean breeze, and Carolyn’s insides melted as the little girl clung to her. “I’ll even let you win,” Molly whispered in her ear before pulling away and then scampering back down to her castle.

“That’s the first time I’ve been ambushed,” Carolyn said.

“You don’t want to come over for dinner and play a little Play Station with Molly? She always beats me.”

“Funny.” Carolyn gave a wry smile. “I thought you’d be good at a game like that.”

“I’m sure you are,” Susan said, raising an eyebrow. “But let her win.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it any other way,” Carolyn replied. “And you let her play a game like that?”

Susan lifted both her hands. “Just preparing her for the big, bad world out there. And when she’s old enough, taking her down to the shooting range.”

Carolyn looked over to where Molly was furiously digging a second moat around her castle and tried picturing the young girl holding a gun instead of a yellow plastic spade.

“I will do anything to protect her,” Susan said, watching Molly. “Anything.” She turned to Carolyn. “If Molly was your child, and Durant had abused her, I’m sure you would have hunted him down to the ends of the earth and killed him.”

Carolyn thought for a moment, trying to find a counterargument, but couldn’t. Seeing Molly and being hugged by her had softened Carolyn’s resolve.

“I have the strength to follow my own convictions,” Susan said. “And have the courage to take action.”

“I also take action when I need to, Susan,” Carolyn replied.

“Abby has it too,” Susan said, staring off into the distance like she hadn’t heard Carolyn.

“Has what? What does Abby have?” Something slithered inside Carolyn.

“The early stages of it. I can tell. How could she not, after what Dylan Cobb and her stepmother did to her?

“What do you mean?”

“When you both walked in on me, I watched both your faces, your expressions. You were shocked, and I can understand why. But Abby?” Susan shook her head. “She looked more intrigued. Did you see her face after I explained to both of you about Durant and his past?”

Carolyn had seen it: Abby’s awestruck look. It was both true and disturbing at the same time. And it was another dilemma Carolyn was wrestling with. Any normal person would have experienced shock and fear. Yet, Abby had a gleam of admiration in her eyes for Susan.

“Don’t fear me, Carolyn,” Susan said, touching Carolyn’s hand. It felt cold, like a dead fish.

“I don’t—at the moment. But don’t give me a reason to fear you in the future. Otherwise, I will take you down. I, too, have the strength to follow my own convictions. And I will act.”

“Now you’re mad at me,” Susan said, looking exasperated.

“I’d be lying, Susan, if I said I wasn’t angry with what you had done. I don’t agree with it.”

“That’s a lie,” Susan scoffed. “You agree with some of it. I know deep in your heart you do. You just don’t agree with all of it. That’s fine. I accept that.” She gave Carolyn a hopeful look. “Still friends?”

Carolyn thought about it for a moment. Susan was not her friend, no matter what Susan thought. However, it would be better to maintain the illusion if for no other reason than to keep an eye on her. As they say, better the monster you know.

“Yes, we’re still friends,” Carolyn said. “But don’t abuse the friendship.”

Susan’s face lit up just as Molly’s had. “I will never betray you. I will always protect you and Abby. We are three, not one. That reminds me. What about Jessop?”

“Leave him to the police.” A creepy thought suddenly entered Carolyn’s head, and her eyes narrowed at Susan. “Surely, you’re not going to?”

Susan gave a husky laugh. “God, no. I just wished he had died when he fell onto those rocks.”

“And the Ballard place?” Carolyn asked.

“Cleaned of all evidence,” Susan replied.

“I meant, why were you using it in the first place? You were taking a huge risk, especially if the realtor happened to drop in with some likely buyers and found food in the refrigerator and trash in the kitchen waste can.”

“I know. I was a little careless.”

“And you have a boat to get across to Moors Island.”

“I only use the boat at night,” Susan replied. “When I can’t be seen. I heard about the Ballard Mansion, and after a little digging—no pun intended—I found out about the tunnel that ran from there to the island. I guess I took a risk with using the place, but it was convenient during the day if I had to get across to the island quickly.”

“What about the night you were up there and hit…?”

“Sorry again,” Susan said with genuine concern. “But I had trouble starting the boat’s outboard that night. So, I drove up there instead and ran into you. Literally. I had no idea it was you.”

“And if you had?” Carolyn asked.

Susan smirked. “The outcome would have still been the same. Maybe I wouldn’t have hit you on the head as hard.”

It was cold comfort for Carolyn, but it made sense. She stared out past Molly at the vast Atlantic Ocean. “Maybe he washed out to sea, and they still haven’t found his body.”

“Who? Jessop?” Susan gave her a puzzled look. “Please, you don’t believe that for one minute, do you? Was that how you felt with Sam Pritchard when he vanished all those times? That he was dead? You knew deep down inside he was still alive when he fled from here.”

Carolyn knew it was true. All those times. It was like she had doused a campfire with water, thinking she had put out the flames. But a tiny ember still glowed defiantly, buried beneath the pile of ash of his victims. With each passing day, that ember grew warmer, brighter, stronger, threatening to reignite into a raging wildfire and consume her world.

No. Aamon Jessop was not dead.

“So, what now?” Susan asked.

Carolyn looked out at the expanse of ocean and suddenly felt a chill, despite summer only being a few weeks away.

“I’m sure something will crop up.”

68

DEAR MARK

Dear Mark,

I killed your wife and unborn child.

What? You didn’t know? I guess that’s why your beautiful Jenny was rushing home to tell you that day, to tell you the good news. It’s a good thing I ran into her first.

Anyway, I’m digressing. Yes, I killed them both.

Will I go to Hell for what I did? I hope so. It’s why I do what I do. The promise of the Kingdom of Heaven is so overrated, and Hell is its own reward.

Just so you know, you will never find them. I made sure of that.

So, when you go to bed tonight, and tomorrow night, and every other night for the rest of your pathetic life, picture this in your mind: all the worms, beetles, and maggots feasting on their flesh, breaking it down over the coming months and years, one molecule at a time. What a delicious thought. Doesn’t it just make you hungry?

If that doesn’t plague your mind and fill you with nightmares for the rest of your life, then frankly, I don’t know what will.

And in case you don’t believe me, or think this letter is a hoax, and that I’m one of those loons who crawl out from under a rock whenever there’s a murder or when a loved one goes missing and claims that they did it or knows what happened, then I suggest you keep an eye out for a package that should arrive in the mail in the next few days. It’s small enough to fit inside a business-sized envelope and wet enough to check the DNA.

Don’t worry; I sealed it inside a Ziploc bag so it wouldn’t leak. We don’t want to distress those hard-working postal workers, do we? And I’m sure you’re surrounded at home by enough traces of your wife’s past life to get a match.

Believe me when I tell you she didn’t suffer. Well, not after she died, anyway. But she suffered immensely, right until I finally killed her—another Kodak moment to add to your dreams for when you go to bed tonight.

Unkind wishes,

A.

EPILOGUE

It was no use; it was dead.

Moments ago, she was driving when, suddenly, the dashboard lit up with a spread of red warning lights, and all power seemed to drain from the vehicle; it came to a rolling stop on the side of the road.

She knew she had taken a wrong turn, maybe half a mile back when the surface of the road changed from smooth and flat to split asphalt dotted with potholes and crumbling edges overgrown with weeds.

She turned the ignition again.

Nothing. Silence. Not even the click of the starter. The engine wasn’t just dead. The entire SUV was now a lifeless hunk.

Carolyn Ryder climbed out of the cool interior and into a thick sludge of watery heat, blinding sunlight, and a chorus of chirping insects.

A row of gray, wooden telephone poles, their lines dripping like overcooked black spaghetti, cantered down one side of the road. Vegetation, thick and unruly, twisted up on both sides, forming an impenetrable wall of green. The edge of the undulating road fractured away to a dusty scree of sand and pebbles on both sides.

A ribbon of oily sweat ran down her back, and her once loose green T-shirt sucked against her skin like it had shrunk a few sizes.

She had definitely taken a wrong turn. This was some back road in the middle of God knows where. She was usually good with directions, yet she was still getting used to the roads farther out from the township of Erin’s Bay.

She panned her cell phone around.

One bar. No bar. One bar. Nothing.

She looked in both directions along the desolate road.

Holding the phone in front of her like a Geiger counter, she moved away from the lifeless SUV and farther along the road, searching for an invisible radio signal, an electronic thread that would plug her back into civilization.

Ten yards. Twenty. Thirty. No signal.

A bend appeared up ahead.

One bar.

She stopped, her thumb hovering, her soggy breath held in her chest, a prayer on her lips. Please, God.

She dialed the number.

It went straight to voicemail. “Hi, Susan, it’s me. Sorry, I’m lost. I’m not sure where I am, but I’ll figure it out. Call me when you get this message. The cell phone signal here is crap, so I can’t guarantee your call will come through.”

Carolyn brushed the back of her hand across her forehead. It came away in a glistening wet smear.

The insects screeched louder—a siren hidden among the foliage.

Perhaps there was a homestead or farm nearby that she could walk to, one with better cell phone coverage or at least a landline, allowing her to call a mechanic.

She glanced back at her SUV. She had just had it serviced in town last week.

Maybe there was something up ahead, around the bend, the entrance to a property. Wishful thinking, but she wasn’t going to wait around for Susan to call her back.

Rounding the bend, Carolyn stopped.

A billboard stood on the side of the road, the facia weathered and peeling, its painted green wooden frame dull and splintered. One corner of the poster hung down from the top corner, and the woman’s face, her right eye and mouth torn out, stared one-eyed back at Carolyn. Big, white letters on a red background. Missing Persons. A name beneath. Melody Matheson. A phone number. Suffolk County area code, some of the other digits worn away.

Another ribbon of sweat ran down the middle of Carolyn’s back as she stared at the woman’s torn face. She checked her cell phone again.

One bar.

She looked back up at the billboard. Despite the fact that part of her face was missing, the woman was smiling, bright-eyed, and happy as she looked back at Carolyn.

A familiar sensation tugged at Carolyn—a sensation she had no control over and one she had felt many times before. One winter, she had the same sensation while sitting in a diner in Willow Falls, Iowa, her hometown. Tyler Finch told her about Clarissa Mulligan, a twenty-two-year-old woman nailed to a white pine with crossbow bolts.

Finch described the staged death scene in intricate detail, expecting Carolyn to show some emotion, the slightest sign of revulsion or reaction. But she hadn’t. Not a glimmer. She just sat opposite him, poker-faced and silent, taking everything in. Cold. Emotionless. The cogs of her objective, analytical mind were turning, processing, storing, and comparing.

Another time, the same gnawing feeling was inside her when Beatriz Vega had sent Carolyn a photo of an eighteen-year-old woman with blonde, shoulder-length hair, blue-gray eyes, pale skin, and a defiant stare with not quite a sneer across her lips. Emma Karen Block. Carolyn knew as she regarded the photo, despite the thousands of predators trolling the open highways and small-town back roads, that something terrible had happened to Emma Block. Sam Pritchard had taken her.

But Emma—now Ellie—was alive, and Pritchard was dead. As Carolyn studied the picture of Melody Matheson on the billboard, with the same clinical coldness she had studied the pictures of Clarissa Mulligan and Emma Block, the cogs of her objective, analytical mind turned once again.

Carolyn took several snaps of the billboard with her cell phone, all thoughts of returning to her SUV and looking under the hood all but gone. She wasn’t mechanically minded, anyway. She would probably make things worse if she started rummaging around the engine, jiggling cables and twisting plugs.

Someone had to know more about Matheson. She couldn’t call Morelli. He would just laugh at her for getting lost and breaking down. She could almost hear his words right now. “What? The bigshot FBI woman is lost and stranded on the side of the road? I thought you didn’t need a man in your life right now.” She also didn’t want him to know that she was visiting Susan Edison.

She redialed Susan’s number and left another voicemail message, stating where she thought she was and describing the old billboard. Carolyn then considered calling Alice Munroe at the police station, but then Alice would blab to Morelli about Carolyn’s predicament. She called Hank, her mechanic, but he was bedridden with the flu and gave her the number of a reliable towing company. They were busy on callouts, and the wait time was a couple of hours.

With time to kill and her curiosity growing, she dialed another number.

“Erin’s Bay Library, Edith Plover speaking.”

“Edith, it’s Carolyn Ryder.”

“Carolyn! So lovely to hear from you.”

Alice Munroe had once described Edith Plover as a local historian who knew more of the history of Erin’s Bay than anyone else.

“How are you, Carolyn? You should come into the library sometime.”

“I will. Look, I have a question. I was out driving yesterday and came across an old missing persons billboard on the side of the road for a woman named Melody Matheson. Do you know anything about who she is or what happened to her?”

“Oh, dear,” Edith said. “Let me think for a moment. The old memory isn’t as good as it used to be. Yes, Melody Matheson. Now I remember. She’s the daughter of Bill and Joyce Matheson. She disappeared about twenty years ago. They still haven’t found her.”

“So, she’s still missing?”

“As far as I know. Maybe check with the police. I dare say they would still have a file on her… somewhere.”

“No, that’s okay, Edith. It’s nothing, really. I was just curious; that’s all. The billboard looks old. But if she disappeared twenty years ago, that would explain it.”

“Yes,” Edith said. “As far as I can remember, Bill and Joyce paid for that billboard to be put up. It’s right in the spot where she disappeared, I believe. They found her car on the side of the road, like it had broken down. No sign of Melody, though.”

A chill ran down Carolyn’s spine. “Did they say what was wrong with her car?”

“Jim Mitchell towed it to his garage in town. He’s long dead now, but when he inspected the car, he found nothing wrong with it. No reason for it to break down.”

Carolyn glanced back to the bend in the road, her own car hidden from view.

“You must’ve taken a wrong turn, Carolyn, if you saw that old billboard. That used to be a road into town until a new one was built fifteen years ago, diverting all the traffic. No one uses that road anymore. What were you doing driving out there?”

Carolyn had to think on her feet. “I was just exploring around town, driving around some places I hadn’t been to before.”

“Well, there’s not much out there anymore. Maybe a few old farms and abandoned homesteads. Poor Joyce and Bill. And her daughter too.”

“Their daughter, you mean?”

“No,” Edith replied. “Melody, she was a young mother at the time. She had a daughter, Kirby. Kirby was only twelve months old when Melody disappeared.”

Carolyn’s gut twisted. “Was the daughter with her as well? Her baby?”

“Oh, no. Thankfully, not. Bill and Joyce were babysitting Kirby. Melody was a single mother who worked. She was returning after her shift to pick Kirby up. Bill and Joyce still live in town, and Kirby would be, I’m guessing, twenty-one by now. The police searched for weeks in the surrounding woods, using sniffer dogs and every other available resource. It’s pretty wild vegetation. Thick and unruly. It was tough going, but they found nothing. There was some speculation, you know, town gossip, that she had run off with another man. No one knew who Kirby’s father was, except maybe her parents. But no one would abandon their child.

“The parents posted a reward of $50,000. That was a lot of money back then. They never found her, still to this day. I suppose, like everything else, the police eventually forgot about her and closed her case. She has a brother too. I can’t recall his name.”

Carolyn looked up at the billboard. Melody Matheson, a young mother with a daughter. Now forgotten, just like the billboard, a faded memory condemned on some back road in the middle of nowhere. A young mother wouldn’t abandon her child—wouldn’t up and vanish one day and run off with another man.

Like a living person, reaching out twenty years in the past, through time to where Carolyn now stood in the present, Melody Matheson stared down at Carolyn.

Forgotten.

Her parents would not have forgotten their daughter. Neither would Kirby have forgotten about her mother, despite being a baby at the time. Carolyn was confident that Melody’s grandparents would have told Kirby all about her mother. Every day since her disappearance would be a hellish reminder. The first thing you thought about when you woke up and the last thing you struggled with when you closed your eyes at night.

Carolyn ended the call and contemplated calling Abigail Brenner, then remembered Abby was away on vacation in California.

The heat squeezed in a little closer as she walked through the knee-high grass around to the rear of the billboard. The back was blank, just bare, thin steel.

She was about to walk away when she noticed something on the back, scratched into a lower corner.

She moved closer, bent down, and looked at the words etched into the metal.

Help me. I’m

Turning, Carolyn saw a narrow trail leading into the thick foliage behind the billboard.

Five minutes later, she returned from locking her SUV and leaving a note on the windshield for Susan. In one hand, she carried a water bottle, and in her back pocket, she had two spare magazines for her gun, which she wore in a holster under her damp shirt.

She took one last look at the scratched words, then stepped onto the dirt trail and vanished into the wall of green.

The story continues…

A woman follows a hidden trail into the woods, looking for a young mother who disappeared 20 years ago in the exact spot

… and finds her.

Carolyn Ryder steps into the woods looking for a young mother who vanished 20 years ago.

24 hours later, five people are dead, and Carolyn is on the operating table fighting for her life.

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The Erin’s Bay Universe

If you want a complete, immersive experience, then I recommend you also read the other books in the Erin’s Bay Universe, starting with the short story, A Wintry Kill, where you will first meet Susan Edison. Santa’s Little Killers, a sinister trio who sneak into homes at night and leave grisly gifts under the Christmas tree, take Susan and her five-year-old daughter, Molly, hostage in their home. It’s a fight to the death and Susan will do anything to protect her only child.

For Carolyn Ryder, it’s her first Christmas in the bay, and she’s looking forward to the wintry holidays with her new man, Chief of Police, Clayton Morelli. She’s had enough of killers and carnage and just wants the festive season to be filled with chilly nights, cozy log fires, and spicy eggnog. But her plans soon take a nasty turn when she sees one of Santa’s Little Killers in town and follows him back to Susan Edison’s home.

The township of Erin’s Bay is also the location of Hidden Justice, featuring Abigail Brenner and the mystery of her missing father, Edward Brenner. He took his boat out onto the calm blue waters of Erin’s Bay one day and vanished. Hidden Justice is a stand-alone thriller in my No Justice series and is filled with little nuggets about Erin’s Bay and Abby and her past.

If you want to know about Audrey King and the dark history of Hidden Island, then you should read, Audrey Kills Again! Audrey is a disturbed heroine who takes it upon herself to hunt down and kill really bad people.  Something terrible happened to her on Hidden Island.

While each book in the Erin’s Bay Thriller series is a self-contained story, I recommend that you read them in the order suggested in the universe. Other related books contain story arcs, clues, and additional details about the characters and the town itself that will give you a more fulfilling and complete reading experience.

Writing this series is like I’m returning to one of my favorite towns, catching up with old friends, seeing what they’ve been up to, and knowing that something exciting is just about to happen.

So let me take you to Erin’s Bay, a small town filled with mystery, hidden secrets, villains who hide in plain sight, and characters I know you’re going to love.

Books also by JK Ellem

Ravenwood Series

Book 1 - Mill Point Road

Book 2 - Ravenwood

Book 3 - The Sisterhood

Book 4 - An Unkindness of Sinners

The Killing Seasons

Book 1 - A Winter’s Kill

Book 2 - A Spring Kill

Book 3 - A Summer’s Kill

Book 4 - A Fall Kill

Book 5 - A Wintry Kill

The Erin’s Bay Thrillers

Book 6 - A Dark Kill

Book 7 - A Forgotten Kill

No Justice Series

Book 1 - No Justice

Book 2 - Cold Justice

Book 3 - American Justice

Book 3.1 Fast Justice –A Ben Shaw Road Trip Thriller #1

Book 3.2 Sinful Justice –A Ben Shaw Road Trip Thriller #2

Book 3.3 Dark Justice –A Ben Shaw Road Trip Thriller #3

Book 4 - Hidden Justice

Book 5 - Raw Justice

Book 6 - Final Justice

Stand Alone Novels

All Other Sins

Audrey Kills Again!

Taxi Man

Murder School

Deadly Touch Series

Fast Read - Deadly Touch

Octagon Trilogy (DystopianThriller Series)

Prequel - Soldiers Field

Book 1 - Octagon

Book 2 - Infernum

Book 3 - Sky of Thorns - coming soon

Boxsets

No Justice Box Set 1

Deadly Touch, No Justice, Cold Justice

No Justice Box Set 2

American Justice, Hidden Justice, Raw Justice

Ben Shaw Road Trip Thriller Box Set 1

Fast Justice, Sinful Justice, Dark Justice

Octagon Box Set

Soldiers Field, Octagon, Infernum

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JK Ellem was born in London and spent his formative years preferring to read books and comics rather than doing his homework.

He is the innovative author of short chapter, Hitchcock-style adult thrillers in the genres of crime, mystery, and psychological thrillers which have multiple plot lines that culminate in explosive, unpredictable endings that will leave you shocked.

In 2022 he was accepted into the Curtis Brown Creative, Writing Your Novel in Six Months course which he undertook in London while working on his manuscript for future submission.

He splits his time between the US, the UK and Australia.

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