Darcy leans against the backrest and closes her eyes. Survivor’s guilt. Michael Rivers continues to destroy lives from a jail cell.
When Darcy blinks her eyes open, Amy falls against her shoulder and cries. She strokes the girl’s hair, kisses the top of her head as she did Jennifer when her daughter was younger. The sobs taper off a minute later, and Amy sits up.
“Sorry,” Amy says, wiping her eyes with her shirtsleeve.
“There’s no reason to feel guilty. Those girls wouldn’t be alive today if he’d captured you, and my death wouldn’t have brought back any of the victims. We’re both alive because we fought back. Don’t waste your second chance. Fight for the life you earned.”
The teenager gives an almost imperceptible nod as she wipes her nose on a tissue. Darcy doesn’t know if she’s gotten through to the girl, but Amy seems more at ease in the unfamiliar surroundings.
“You want to watch more of the show?”
“I’ll find something else, I think.”
Darcy sips from the mug and places it on the end table. Her stomach growling, she realizes she’s barely eaten in the last twenty-four hours. She pads barefoot to the kitchen and decides skipping dinner was a mistake. In the refrigerator, she grabs deli turkey, lettuce, and condiments, then slices four rolls on the cutting board.
Picking up the phone, she rings Jennifer, who sulks behind the locked door of her bedroom.
“What?”
“How about you take a deep breath and join us in the living room? I made turkey sandwiches.”
“Yum.”
The reply overflows with sarcasm.
“We all need to eat,” Darcy says, spreading mustard on her roll. “No sense getting sick.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“Someone I told you about after I left the FBI. Come out. I’ll introduce you.”
“So awkward.”
“Jennifer.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Have you heard from your brother? He should have come home by now.”
Jennifer pauses to check her messages.
“Nada.”
Darcy wraps Hunter’s sandwich and slides it into the refrigerator. Calling his phone, she gets his voice-mail and leaves a message.
“You’ve been out long enough, Hunter. Searching for my children is starting to wear on me tonight.”
Jennifer’s door opens as Darcy carries the sandwiches into the living room.
“You never let us eat on the couch,” Jennifer says, leaning against the entryway.
“Have a seat and feed your face. Lose another pound, and your skeleton ass will scare everyone away at Kaitlyn’s party.”
Jennifer’s face brightens. Darcy knows her daughter deserves punishment for her latest outburst, but she also appreciates the stress they’re under, Amy included. Darcy’s inner psychologist acknowledges Jennifer needs something to look forward to, an escape from the constant danger.
Despite Darcy’s concerns over how Jennifer will react, her daughter eases Amy into a conversation, and soon the girls are talking about music and apps and next year’s festival lineup between sandwich bites. It’s the only time Darcy has seen Amy smile, and she wishes she could wrap both girls in her arms and hug them close. Should her daughter reign in the explosions, she will be a leader, a teacher, an organizer. Darcy’s heart warms with love and pride.
Giggles echo down the hallway while Jennifer shows Amy around the house. When they return, they decide Amy will sleep in Jennifer’s room. The queen-size mattress is large enough, and Jennifer claims Amy won’t get a wink of sleep in her mother’s room with Darcy’s snores crumbling the walls.
It’s strange to see the girls hit it off, regardless of the five-year age difference, until Darcy considers the abduction attempt on Amy Yang. Amy stopped growing at fifteen and found a safe place in her mind to hibernate. In reality, Amy is a fifteen-year-old girl living on her own. The state sees her as an adult, but Darcy knows the truth.
When the talk shifts to cute boys, Darcy takes the cue to leave the girls alone and retreats to her bedroom. Locking the door, she closes her eyes and breathes, a trick to clear her mind. Theories about the killer still run through her head. If she worked as a federal agent, she’d call the prison and check the logs for Michael Rivers’ frequent visitors. Eric Hensel could find out.
But Darcy doesn’t need Hensel to conduct her own research. She opens two search windows on her laptop. Into one she types Michael Rivers, the other the Full Moon Killer. She cross-references both with Boolean searches for fans and message boards. The windows fill with hyperlinks. Darcy clicks on a promising link, a message board devoted to famous serial killers.
Here is the ugly underbelly of the world wide web. While most of the posters and admins discuss various serial killers with twisted fascination and academic curiosity, others tread beyond normal interest. These are the people who cheer the Manson family murders and speak of names like Speck, Bundy, and Dahmer with reverence. Darcy makes a note of these posters. They hide behind user names, but a few divulge locations. None are from North Carolina or New York.
One poster stands out. FM-Kill-Her. Darcy clicks on his avatar, a bloody blade against a full moon. The profile displays the poster’s recent messages and most active forum topics. A red dot beside the avatar tells her the administrators suspended the poster, and a quick scan through his recent comments uncovers the disturbing post which caused his suspension.
Darcy covers her mouth. It’s a short story, a disgusting piece of fan fiction written from the Full Moon Killer’s point of view as he brutally murders teenage girls at a slumber party. The poster included photographs or some form of artwork, but the admins removed the pictures and locked the thread. She wonders why they didn’t delete the topic, but the 10,000 views, huge numbers for a niche website, draw eyes and sell advertising.
Steeling her stomach, she forces herself to read on. If FM-Kill-Her left a trail of breadcrumbs, she’ll follow them to the psycho’s true identity. Her heart lurches. He named one of the victims Amy. Her murder is excruciating and brutal, the killer chopping Amy into bits as a torrent of blood splashes the walls. Nausea gurgling in her throat, Darcy searches the text for her own name. And finds it. The final victim.
She calls Hensel. The agent sounds relieved to hear from her. Though the FBI isn’t involved, Hensel must be following the case.
“I’ve got someone you should look into,” she says, saving an image of the screen in case the site removes the post.
“Shoot.”
She reads him the name and web address.
“Chances are it’s some lunatic who lives with his parents,” Hensel says, clicking through the pages. “The odds on this being the Darkwater Cove killer are slim.”
“Any way to track his real name?”
“If the FBI was involved, I’d pressure the site owner to turn over domain addresses. But we’re not involved, so…”
“It’s a serial killer, Eric. It’s only one body, but the murder and branding are homages to Michael Rivers. This is either a crazed fan, or Rivers has someone killing for him.”
“A partner.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Hensel pauses for a beat. He’s a good agent, the best investigator she partnered with. She hears him processing the evidence, and memories of working together drift back to Darcy like a favorite song from her youth.
“I’ll call the lead detective on the case,” Hensel says. “Maybe I can make him see what he’s up against. That might be enough to push FBI involvement up the chain of command.”