“I’m sorry you needed to see that.”
“They’re worried,” Laurie says. “Nothing you can blame them for.”
Shifting from foot to foot, Hensel sips from a glass of water.
“I’ll be out in the garage stacking firewood.”
Darcy lets him go, sensing Hensel growing more uncomfortable. He accompanied Darcy and her family with a desire to help, and she’s thrown him into a quagmire as thanks.
After Hensel closes the garage door, Darcy wanders outside to the porch. Wind shreds the clouds and hurls the remaining fragments toward the sea. The moon beams down on the farmhouse, turning the meadow silver and blue. From her pocket, Darcy removes the folded poster of Nina Steyer. She tilts the picture toward the moonlight and studies the girl’s face, though she’s committed it to memory. The child serial killer allowed Nina Steyer to live. But why?
The steady clonk of wood inside the garage settles Darcy’s nerves as she listens to Hensel work. The sound makes her feel human again and reminds her there are other tasks in life besides tracking murderers. She pushes herself up and walks toward the garage, hoping Hensel will welcome the company, but her phone rings before she makes it to the door.
Darcy stops in the driveway and contemplates whether to answer the unrecognized caller. Before she changes her mind, she answers the phone and cautiously says, “hello.”
“It’s been too long, Darcy.”
She fumbles the phone upon hearing the voice of Michael Rivers. She changed her number after the Full Moon Killer called her in North Carolina, yet he’s found her again.
“What the hell do you want, Michael?”
“To see your blood in the moonlight. You’ve been a busy woman, Darcy. I knew you’d come to Laurie’s aid.”
Darcy swings around and watches the meadow for movement. The moonlight drags black, monstrous shadows across the valley like blood spilling off the hills.
“Leave my cousin out of this. Your war is with me, not my family.”
“My war is with everyone you care about, Darcy. You took my life away, and now I’m taking yours.”
The garage door opens. Hensel stares at her, sensing something is wrong. Darcy points at the phone and mouths Rivers, and Hensel calls the FBI to begin a trace. It’s futile. The FBI knows where Michael Rivers is: behind bars outside Buffalo, New York. Rivers is as intelligent as he is powerful. He’s using a burner phone supplied to him by a corrupt guard or prison worker, someone Rivers bribed.
“You know about the kidnapping,” Darcy says, realizing why Rivers called her after today’s abduction. “Who took Sandy Young?”
A hoarse cackle travels through the phone.
“Don’t you wish I’d tell you? He likes teenage girls, Darcy. They’re like a drizzle of honey over ice cream. I bet he’s enjoying himself right now.”
Hensel winds his arm, a signal to keep Rivers talking.
“Let the girl go, Michael. She’s not a part of this. Tell me who took her…hello? Don’t hang up on me, Michael.”
The line goes dead. Hensel’s tight-lipped grimace tells Darcy the FBI didn’t trace the call. Blocking the wind from reaching his ear with his free hand, Hensel finishes his conversation.
“What did he say?”
Darcy recounts Michael’s words.
“He knew about Sandy Young, Eric.”
“Did he say her name?”
She goes over the conversation in her head.
“I don’t believe so.”
“It could be a bluff, and he could have read about the abduction, but it’s likely he’s involved.”
“Call the FBI back and get a team down here. This case is over Tipton’s head.”
Hensel opens and closes his mouth as if carrying on an internal argument.
“It won’t fly. The case falls under local jurisdiction, Darcy. You know that. Unless Tipton requests FBI involvement, we’re on the sidelines.”
“That worked out well in North Carolina.”
“Yeah, well. My hands were tied. If the Genoa Cove PD called us in sooner, we could have stepped in.”
“Wait a minute,” Darcy says, hands on hips. “Rivers called me from New York. Once a crime crosses state lines, it’s the FBI’s decision to step in.”
“I like the way you’re thinking, but we didn’t trace the call.”
“You don’t need to trace the call. We already know where to find Rivers.”
“Yeah, but we can’t prove Rivers called you. If Warden Ellsworth presses him, Rivers can claim someone impersonated his voice. Don’t shoot the messenger, but we need conclusive evidence to take the case.”
“Unless Tipton invites you in.”
“And you think that’s likely?”
“Like I told you, Eric. Tipton feels scared, and he won’t find Sandy Young without our help.”
Hensel leans one arm against the garage door and grins.
“Our help?”
“If it means finding Nina Steyer and Sandy Young, I want to help.”
Darcy’s bravado is short lived, as fickle as autumn leaves caught in a gale. Hensel phones Tipton about Rivers, and Darcy can hear the unconvinced sheriff shouting through the receiver. When she returns to the house, Laurie is in bed and the kids are upstairs, hopefully doing homework and not cruising the Internet on their phones. She knows they break the rules and reach out to their friends. Thwarting their efforts lessens the chance someone will track them down.
The house feels cavernous. Footsteps above her head elicit groans from the bedroom floorboards, and Darcy imagines Hunter crossing the room to show Jennifer a funny meme. But the darkness at the window and the realization that Michael Rivers can reach out from behind his prison bars a thousand miles away and lay his cold, bloodless fingers on her neck sends a chill through her body. Even with two secure doors, every house has points of vulnerability. The windows. The attic. A skilled intruder can lift himself onto the porch roof and scale the wall by placing his feet on the window sill. Then it’s a short climb to the attic where he can conceal himself for days and nights, silent as a ghost, until the house is asleep.
Shutting out her children’s murmurs, Darcy pictures the attack. If she isn’t wearing the Glock, she won’t have time to obtain a weapon if the intruder breaks through the window. Darcy opens the kitchen drawers and assesses the potential weapons at her disposal. Laurie’s cutlery tray overflows with knives. Mostly butter knives, but a handful of steak knives serve as weapons in a pinch. Knowing Laurie won’t miss a few knives, she grabs three and patrols the living room, seeking hiding spots. She slides a knife below a thick encyclopedia with the hilt facing out. Leaning back in the recliner, savoring the waves of heat rolling off the wood stove, she imagines the window breaking and sits up. Reaching behind her, she snags the hilt between her fingers.
The intruder might have a gun. It won’t matter. It’s a short leap from the chair to the window. One stab to his arm when it gropes inside. The face and eyes are more vulnerable. She’ll do whatever it takes to keep her family safe.
She repeats the process through the downstairs until she hides all three knives. After she finishes, Hensel returns from the garage, rubbing the cold off his hands.
“So I talked to headquarters,” Hensel says, moving his hands in front of the wood stove.
“And?”
“They have a team on call and ready to deploy if Tipton gives the okay. In the meantime, the FBI contacted the warden about Rivers’ phone call. It won’t get us any farther than it did in North Carolina, but if they locate the phone, we can prove Rivers called you.”
“Good start. I need to decide how best to approach Tipton, especially after he all but accused us of kidnapping Sandy Young. First thing in the morning, we’ll drive to Millport.”