“Does it look to you like he took the photograph from the trees?”
“Given the angle, he must have. Lansdale and Gracin are checking for shoe prints. If the ground is wet, we might get lucky. We’ll interview the neighbors before we leave, see if anyone saw a guy hanging around the backyards. Trouble is, this neighborhood is a drug trafficking hotbed. Vehicles that don’t belong here always come and go.”
Amy puts on a pot of coffee for the officers. Darcy can’t stomach caffeine now, her imagination centering on a man photographing her children from a nondescript vehicle parked outside the school.
When the other two officers finish investigating the backyard, Pinder sends the rookie with them to canvas the neighborhood. Darcy suggests Amy should rest while company is here to watch the house. The girl’s body slumps with exhaustion, dark circles bordering her eyes and making them appear as black holes.
After Amy departs for the bedroom, Bronson leans against the counter and pops a stick of gum into his mouth.
“It’s clear the girl has a stalker,” Pinder says. “First she spotted the man following her through town, then the vandalism, and now he’s taking pictures of her.”
“But why did he send it to you?” Bronson asks, swinging his gaze at Darcy. “And how did he get your number? It’s unlisted.”
Bronson’s words pop Darcy’s head up. How did he know her number was unlisted?
“Could be this guy broke in and got his hands on Amy’s phone and accessed her contact list,” Bronson continues.
Pinder chews on the theory.
“That’s a lot of effort just to steal a phone number. Besides, most phones don’t work until you enter a passcode.”
“Maybe Amy didn’t set up a passcode. Not every phone requires you do.”
“We’ll dust her phone for prints to make sure, but it feels like a shot in the dark.”
Bronson puts his hands on his hips and furrows his brow.
“A stalker following Amy sends a photograph to Darcy the day after someone murders a young woman a stone’s throw from Darcy’s neighborhood. Could it be the same man?”
“It’s the same guy,” Darcy says, meeting Bronson’s gaze.
“How can you be certain?”
“The graffiti on Amy’s house, the smiley face, is the same mark the killer branded on the dead woman’s neck.”
Bronson glares at her, Pinder glancing between the two and waiting for an explanation.
“How could you know this? There’s nothing about that on the news, and nobody I spoke to mentioned the killer branded the victim.”
Indecision swims through Darcy’s head. She’s run from her past, hiding her head in the sand until the monsters converged on her. She’s been a fool.
“Before I came to Genoa Cove, I worked for the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.” As Darcy speaks, Pinder narrows his eyes and leans forward, palms on the table. “My job was to hunt serial killers.”
“Jesus,” Bronson mutters. His eyes light with understanding. “I knew I recognized your name. Agent Gellar. You’re the woman who caught the Full Moon Killer.”
The surprise in Bronson’s voice doesn’t register in his eyes. The silence in the tiny kitchen is explosive. Pinder’s mouth hangs open for a heartbeat before he speaks.
“The branding…the graffiti on Amy’s wall…was that the mark the Full Moon Killer used?”
“Yes,” Darcy says in a choked whisper.
She can see Bronson watching her from the corner of her eye.
“But he’s in prison. Did you catch the wrong guy?”
“No.” Darcy touches her belly.
The scars slashed across her stomach are the only proof she needs that Michael Rivers was the Full Moon Killer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bronson trails Darcy back to Genoa Cove, and he follows her up the walkway as she accompanies Amy into the house. The little ranch doesn’t have a guest room, but Darcy determines to make do even if she needs to give Amy her bed and sleep on an air mattress. There is safety in numbers, and Darcy won’t let the girl live alone with a serial killer following her.
A dark thought crawls on spider’s legs across her face. Amy is the killer’s target, and Darcy invited the girl into her children’s lives.
Darcy checks her phone. No news from Hunter and Jennifer. By now the kids are practicing with their teams. She fights the urge to drive up the hill and throw them both into the car. She can’t protect them twenty-four hours a day, and surrounded by coaches and teammates, they’re safer now than they would be at home a short walk from where the killer deposited his first victim.
Darcy enters the alarm code, aware of Bronson watching over her shoulder. His eyes sweep the downstairs and narrow on the closed bedroom doors while he scopes out the ranch, walking from room to room. Amy declines Darcy’s offer to pour her a cup of calming tea. Instead, she zombie-shuffles as Darcy leads her to the bedroom. With the girl settled, Darcy softly closes the door.
Finding Bronson inside the kitchen, Darcy releases a strained breath and tosses her keys on the table.
“You should have told me,” Bronson says, crossing his arms.
“It wasn’t relevant before this morning.”
“Dammit, I knew you weren’t a typical soccer mom when you broke that choke hold. But the woman who caught Michael Rivers…”
His words trail off.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread the word. I’ve already got a newspaper writer to deal with.”
“What’s his name?”
“Her name. Gail Shipley.” Bronson’s mouth twists. “You’ve met her?”
“Let’s just say she made a few cops’ lives difficult during my tenure. She’s a bulldog. Once she latches onto a story, she won’t let go. It’s a little disconcerting she figured out who you are.”
“It’s not difficult to find a person through the Internet.”
Bronson nods, pondering the situation.
“What if he didn’t act alone?” Darcy asks. “Michael Rivers. Some serial killers work in teams: the Furlan brothers in Italy, Fred and Rosemary West, several others.”
“You knew the killer left a mark on the woman’s neck, so you must be in contact with the FBI.”
“I keep in touch with my former colleagues.”
“What are the chances they get involved?”
“After one murder? Unlikely unless the Genoa Cove PD requests their presence. Even with the branding, one murder isn’t enough to prove a serial killer exists.”
Bronson’s eyes flick from the window to the deck door.
“Impressive security system. Looks like the installer did a thorough job.”
“Yes.”
“And you said you keep a gun in the house.”
She fidgets on the chair and chews her nails.
“In a safe inside my bedroom. The kids know it’s there, but I don’t share the combination.”
“You worked for the feds and shot a dangerous murderer, so I won’t ask if you still feel comfortable firing the Glock.”
“There’s a gun club outside Smith Town. I shoot every few weeks, just enough to maintain skill.”
“Rogers Gun Club on Walnut Road,” Bronson says, itching his chin. “I stop by occasionally.”
They fill the uncomfortable quiet with small talk. Bronson suggests ordering takeout, but a lead brick sleeps inside Darcy’s stomach. After an hour, Bronson leaves with a promise to check on Darcy after dinner.
A hushed stillness falls over the ranch, unspoken fears whispering from hidden corners. Darcy doesn’t recall when she fell asleep before she awakens on the couch to a door slamming. She pops her head up as Hunter fishes through the refrigerator for a snack.