Darcy’s house is lit like a landing strip when she arrives. Bronson’s shadow passes across the living room window. During the walk home, she felt eyes on her back, a black presence watching her in the dark. Inside, she bolts the door and checks the windows in the kids’ rooms.
“The vic was a teenage girl,” Darcy whispers to Bronson. “I recognized her from school.”
“Better not let the kids know.”
“God, Bronson. Why is this happening?”
Bronson pulls her into his arms, and she goes willingly, nuzzling her cheek against his strong shoulders. His cologne is reminiscent of leather with a splash of flowers. Odd. Why is he wearing cologne in the middle of the night?
“So you saw the girl. Darcy, I’m sorry. No matter how many bodies I saw, I never got used to it. Do you want to talk about it?”
She doesn’t. Something else bothers her.
“Step outside with me.”
He nods. Talking on the couch, Hunter and Jennifer cast furtive glances at Darcy and Bronson.
Darcy shivers and zips her jacket as her body readjusts to the cool air. Lights from the police cruisers flicker in the distance like somber fireworks.
“What do you need to tell me?”
Darcy locks her gaze on him.
“You didn’t hear the man or see him on the monitors when he detached the generator last night.”
“No, Darcy. I was sound asleep. I’m sorry I can’t watch the house twenty-four-seven.”
“And the night the power went out. You were awake then, and somehow you missed this guy unhooking the generator, knocking out the monitors, and killing the power.”
“I don’t know what you expect. Are you blaming me?”
“No, but it doesn’t add up. You were a cop for two decades, and you didn’t catch sabotage occurring under your nose. You didn’t even hear Aaron Torres and his goon friends bashing away at my car last night.”
“Did you? Why am I listening to this? I cart your brat kids around and don’t say a word when they lash out. I’m not their father.”
Tears blur Darcy’s eyes.
“No, you’re not.”
“Maybe I should leave and let you cool down.”
“Nobody told you to leave, and I don’t need to cool down.”
“Yes, you do. And when you do, you’ll see I’m only trying to keep you and the kids safe.” He twirls the car keys on his finger. “Listen, I’m a phone call away. But I think I’ll sleep in my own bed for the rest of the night.”
Her mouth hangs open while he presses the key fob. The lights flash, and then the big truck arrows into the night, the motor growling as he guns the engine.
What the hell just happened, and why did she start a fight?
A small group of neighbors convene down the road, speaking in hushed and frantic tones. Mr. Gibbons stands among them. He points at Darcy’s house, and a woman puts a hand over her mouth. They believe Hunter is the killer. Between newspaper articles and police gossip, rumors spread and become truth in the court of public opinion.
Sneakers scuff against pavement. Running toward the driveway, Gail Shipley holds a recorder aloft like a holy artifact.
“How do you explain another murder occurring after the police released Hunter?”
“Stay the hell off my property, Gail.”
Shipley pauses, noticing the vandalized car. Darcy cringes when the reporter photographs MURDERER in bloody lettering.
“He’s branding the girls like the Full Moon Killer. Did you teach Hunter about Michael Rivers?”
Darcy slams the door in Shipley’s face. She can hear the reporter barking questions outside, but the woman doesn’t bang on the door.
The living room feels vacant, cavernous without Bronson. The bedroom doors stand closed. Darcy throws her jacket on a hanger and sits down at the kitchen table. She could use another pill, enough to knock her out until morning. Instead, she spins the laptop toward her and watches Gail Shipley on the monitors. Darcy allows the intrusion for now, but if the woman ventures into the backyard, she’ll notify the police.
Shipley gives up after a minute and walks toward the neighbors grouping in the middle of the street. They turn to look at Shipley and bob their heads when she pulls out a pad and asks questions. Darcy can only imagine her neighbors’ clickbait-worthy comments.
He was a quiet boy. You have to watch out for those types.
Did you know he listened to heavy metal bands who sing about devil worship and human sacrifices?
Why, no, I didn’t. But that explains where the violence comes from.
Opening the browser, Darcy searches for Angel Devoured, the dark metal band Hunter likes. Examining images from their latest album, Darcy discovers the evil smiling face Bronson told her about. It’s similar to the Full Moon Killer’s tag, but there are differences. The drawing on the album appears cartoon-like in comparison, and the grin quirks higher to one side. It’s not the same. Bronson is wrong, as are the police.
Darcy closes the laptop. She can’t look anymore. But it’s a sleepless night.
The towing company arrives for the Prius the next morning, and Darcy understands the reason for the delay. The village hates Darcy and her family and the angel of death they summoned to rain hell down on Genoa Cove. A hundred dollars per day earns her a beaten Subaru while the body shop repairs the damage. A rip-off, but she can’t be without transportation.
Inside, everyone’s nerves link to detonation devices. Jennifer explodes when she doesn’t find oat milk in the refrigerator. Hunter is a trapped rat, clawing at the walls.
The sun shines today, heedless of last night’s bloodshed. Hunter needs to leave. Walk. Exorcise his demons, or at least keep them at bay. Caving in, Darcy sends him to the store with twenty dollars for Jennifer’s milk and tells him to use the rest to pick up something fun.
“Like?”
“Ice cream, frozen pizza, some disastrous comfort food,” Darcy says, smiling through thin lips. “And come right home after.”
She watches through the window as Hunter follows the meandering road toward the village center, thankful the neighbors aren’t outside. Thirty minutes later, Detective Ames pulls into the driveway. Julian accompanies Ames, but he stays in the vehicle. Ames spends too long scrutinizing the sparkling red plastic from the busted taillight pockmarking the blacktop. Then he straightens his crumpled suit jacket, the same one he wore at the police station, and follows the walkway to her door.
“Detective,” Darcy says, opening the door.
“Is Hunter at home, Ms. Gellar?”
“He’s at the store. That doesn’t break the rules you imposed.”
Ames turns his shoulders and surveys the neighborhood. He runs a nervous hand through his hair.
“May I come inside?” Darcy pauses. “I’m not investigating.”
But any damning evidence the detective discovers inside becomes fair game.
“Okay,” she says after consideration. “What about your partner?”
“This won’t take but a minute.”
Ames wipes his shoes on the mat, though the day is dry. She offers him a chair at the kitchen table, but he prefers to stand.
“Can I offer you some coffee,” she asks. “Or something to eat?”
She flinches, remembering his mother at the police station.
“No, but I want to apologize for my mother. She lives in an assisted living community up the road from the station, but she’s allowed to wander.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Well, the police station is no place for a woman battling Alzheimer’s.”
“I’m sorry.”