“Could be they visited all my neighbors.” Darcy doesn’t think so. None of her neighbors profile serial killers who brand faces into their victims’ necks. She wonders how much Bronson knows about the case. “They wanted to know if I saw any vehicles on my street that didn’t belong there.”
“This is insane. Who visited?”
“Detective Ames stopped by with Julian.”
“Ames? Can’t imagine why they’d send their lead detective door-to-door.”
“He questioned Hunter and Jennifer at school. I’ve been trying to contact them to find out what he asked, but neither kid is answering my texts at the moment.”
“He’s always concocting trouble in Genoa Cove. Should have worked in one of the big cities. I figure he’s been waiting for something like this to happen for the last two decades so he can justify his existence. Did he tell you any specifics about the murder?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. Wouldn’t figure he would. Hey, Darcy, I don’t want to sound forward, but if you’d like me to come over when the kids get home, it might help them to talk to a nosy ex-cop about the murders. Let them vent a little.”
“Let me talk to them first and see where their heads are at. I’ll get back to you by dinner time. Is that fine?”
“I’ll be here all afternoon.”
“Okay, Bronson. Thanks for checking in on us.”
Accepting the tea can’t allay her frayed nerves, and fighting the urge to jump back on the anti-anxiety pill wagon, Darcy paws through the cabinet for something stronger and pulls down a Merlot. She pours a glass and unlocks the deck door, remembering at the last second to enter the alarm code. The sun tries to break through, but the clouds keep beating it back. She wipes water droplets off the Adirondack chair and settles down with the wine.
The backyard ends with a meadow of chickweed, clover, and dandelion. Bees dart among the wildflowers, the wind drawing long ripples through the tall grass as though something black and spindly slithers toward the house. She sips the Merlot and taps her finger on the armrest.
Is the killer the same man raping young women in Smith Town? Serial killers often begin with rape before working up to the ultimate power over life: murder.
Her phone buzzes with a received message. Initially she ignores the intrusion, caught up in her worry. Shrugging off the paralysis, Darcy calls up the message.
No words. Just a picture of a petite young woman planting roses along the side of a house.
Darcy doesn’t need to zoom in to recognize Amy and the Smith Town residence. Glancing at the unrecognized phone number, she dials Amy’s phone, her pulse thrumming.
Please pick up, please pick up.
Amy finally answers.
“Where are you?”
“Darcy? I’m outside my house. Why do you ask?”
“You’re planting roses.”
Amy goes silent for a long second.
“How could you know that?”
“Lock the door and don’t open it for anybody. I’m calling the police.”
The girl’s voice quavers with frightened tears.
“What’s going on?”
“Just do it.”
When Darcy hears Amy slam the door and throw the lock, she hangs up and dials the Smith Town Police Department. The deep-voiced officer who answers sounds gruff and impatient, but he tells Darcy he’ll send a squad car to check on Amy.
She should tell Bronson too.
Afterward.
Darcy calls Amy back and confirms the girl locked the house. The nineteen-year-old is crying now, voice hoarse as she wipes a tissue across her nose. Telling Amy the truth will only terrify the girl, but Darcy has no choice. The killer might be outside her window. She reveals the truth.
“Did you see anyone in the neighbor’s yard?”
“Nobody,” Amy says, the shade crinkling as she pulls it back. “I can’t see anyone outside.”
“The picture was taken from behind, but at an angle,” Darcy says, recalling a mental image of the property next door. “There’s a thicket bordering the backyard, right?”
“Yes, a stand of trees above the creek bed. But the yard is empty.”
Over Amy’s phone, Darcy hears the approaching siren. That was fast.
“I’m calling my friend, the man I told you about. Stay with the police. I’ll be over soon.”
Darcy checks the time. In two hours, school lets out. Until then, the kids are safe. She texts Jennifer and Hunter and demands they go straight to practice after school and remain with their friends and coaches. Hunter doesn’t reply. Jennifer sends a confused message, asking for details. By now the detective finished his interviews, and the entire village knows about the murder.
Jennifer’s next message tugs at Darcy’s heart.
Are we in danger?
Only a precaution, Darcy types back. Neither you nor Hunter should be alone. I’ll pick you up after practice.
Darcy phones Bronson during the drive to Smith Town and tells him about the anonymous message.
“Whatever you do, don’t delete the message,” he says. “Let the police check the number.”
Darcy understands the evidence is crucial. During her time with the Behavior Analysis Unit, she used the latest technology to track calls and messages. She doesn’t tell him this, only warms a little inside when the man promises to meet her at Amy Yang’s house in twenty minutes.
Two officers patrol the backyard while another pair speak with Amy in the doorway when Darcy arrives. The girl wraps the same tattered blanket around her shoulders, making her appear waif-like, destitute. The officers eye Darcy with suspicion as she bounds out of the Prius and up the walkway.
“Ma’am, I’ll need you to stay where you are,” the officer, a thick-shouldered man with a mustache, says.
“It’s okay,” says Amy, letting the blanket fall down her shoulder. “She’s my friend, the woman who called you about the picture.”
The second officer is thin as a rail and has a boyish face. His skittish movements mark him as a green rookie. Neither officer takes his eyes off Darcy until Amy hugs her in the doorway.
Bronson arrives in his Dodge pickup a minute after. The rookie moves his fingers toward the gun before the older partner shouts with recognition.
“The cove run out of fish early today, old man?”
Wearing a tight-lipped smile, Bronson glances between the officer and Darcy.
“I see you’re letting that hamster grow over your lip again, Pinder. Shave that thing before it scares away the women.”
Amy, who’d been glancing in confusion between the two men, relaxes a little when Pinder laughs at the joke. The police seem to take the situation more seriously now that Bronson is here.
“This is Bronson, the friend I told you about,” Darcy says, touching Amy’s cheek. “You’re safe now. Bronson is a retired Genoa Cove policeman.”
“Little leagues,” Pinder says with a smirk.
They convene around the kitchen table, two chairs to serve the five of them. Only Amy sits, the girl trembling as Darcy rubs the goosebumps off the girl’s shoulders. Amy and Darcy repeat the events of the last hour, then Darcy hands the phone to Pinder, who orders the rookie to send a copy of the message back to the office.
“Probably using a burner,” Bronson says, studying the photograph over the rookie’s shoulder.
A burner is a prepaid phone with no contract minutes. If the buyer pays in cash, it’s almost impossible to identify the caller.
“That would be my guess,” Pinder says, itching his neck. “Good for covering your tracks.”
Bronson shares an unreadable glance with Pinder, before he opens the shade and studies the backyard.