The front door opens and clicks shut.
“Mom? You okay?”
Hunter.
Bronson’s eyes snap to the hallway. Hunter’s shadow moves across the floor.
“I think you should go,” Darcy says, handing Bronson his knapsack. The urge is strong to rip it open and make certain he hasn’t taken any of her belongings.
“Darcy, I—”
“Get out.”
Bronson tosses the knapsack over one shoulder and holds her eyes before he pivots and stomps past Hunter. The front door slams, jiggling the jewelry box on her dresser.
“He didn’t touch you, did he?”
Darcy’s shoulders slump. She sits on the bed with her head in her hands.
“No, I just didn’t want him in my room.”
“What was he doing in your bedroom?”
Touching his arm, she says, “He came in here because he couldn’t sleep on the couch. No harm done, but he’s never coming back. Don’t worry about Bronson.”
The big truck motor fires up. The rumble worms through her stomach and sends a shiver down her back. Her spine relaxes when the truck fades down the road.
But that doesn’t stop her heart from racing throughout the day whenever a pickup passes the house.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Glock-22. Holstered and concealed beneath her leather jacket.
Darcy isn’t taking chances when she drives to Amy Yang’s calling hours in Smith Town. Despite her reservations about the body shop, she retrieved her Prius earlier in the afternoon. The mechanics did an admirable job—the vehicle shows no damage, and the new windshield is pristine—but she pictures the bloody slurs scrawled across the car whenever she looks at it.
Though the police watch the cove at all hours, she can’t leave Hunter and Jennifer alone, so Jennifer is spending the night with Kaitlyn, and Darcy agrees to allow Squiggs to come over. Strength in numbers, though she distrusts Hunter’s friend and suspects he convinced Hunter to try Aderrall. The most difficult decision is telling her kids, especially Jennifer, they can’t go see Amy. She worries what the community’s reaction will be if Hunter pays respect to the girl they claim he murdered.
“Let her family say goodbye,” Darcy told them while she changed into presentable clothes. “We’ll visit her grave together and bring flowers. Amy liked pretty things. It would have meant a lot to her.”
Darcy stands at the back of the room while a handful of coworkers and distant family pay their respects. She didn’t know Amy’s parents passed.
When the room clears out except for two female cousins sitting in the back row, Darcy approaches the closed casket. The emotion that pours out of her is sour and furious and shrouded by conflict. She should have kept in touch with Amy over the years.
To hell with Michael Rivers. She’ll watch Rivers and the Darkwater Cove killer burn when this is over.
A tap on the shoulder spins Darcy around. She stares at an older version of Amy Yang. The resemblance is so strong she would believe the girls were twins.
“Are you Agent Gellar?”
“Yes. But it’s Darcy Gellar now. I retired from the FBI.”
Dressed in a black dress with matching stockings, the girl shifts her feet and wrings her hands.
“I’m Keisha, Amy’s cousin on her mother’s side. Amy talked about you. She said you helped her live.”
“Helped her live?”
“After she tried to take her life last year, yes.” Keisha’s eyes widen, and she touches her mouth. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
“Amy tried to commit suicide?”
“Last year. After her parents died. It was a car crash in Florida. Very sad. She took pills, too many. Luckily Amy’s neighbor found her and rushed her to the hospital.”
Darcy swallows the growing lump in her throat.
“She never told me.”
“Amy didn’t smile for over a year, and then she found you. She loved your daughter.”
“Jennifer.”
A tear trickles from Darcy’s eye.
“Yes, that was the name she gave me. I don’t see her, though.”
Darcy runs her eyes over the casket.
“I didn’t know…”
“What to expect? I understand. Only her aunt, my mother, saw the body. There was nothing the funeral home could do.” Keisha reaches into her purse. “Here. This is a picture of Amy when she was happy. Jennifer would like to keep it, yes?”
Keisha says goodbye and leaves Darcy alone with Amy’s remains. The picture jiggles in her hand. She doesn’t need Keisha to confirm Amy was fourteen when the picture was taken. The hopeful, inquisitive smile belongs to a girl who hasn’t met Michael Rivers.
The Excellent Cafe, a green painted structure with a large picture window overlooking Hamlin Street, spills light across the sidewalk at the end of the block. Soft acoustic music mingles with street sounds when a man pushes the door open and crosses the street. She could use a coffee, and being surrounded by people in a well-lit room, four walls to keep the monsters at bay, nudges her down the sidewalk.
Looking over her shoulder at the Prius beside the parking lot fence, Darcy clicks the key fob. The gun rests on her hip, an old, reassuring friend that makes her less afraid of the night. Antonia’s Pizza, the restaurant she took Hunter to before the horror began, stands one block to her right, and she can smell the dough from here. The rest of the stores are closed for the night—the independent bookstore, a dress shop called Willow, Love of Pete’s gifts and cards. She passes the dark windows when she hears the pickup truck growl behind her.
She ducks into the alley. Back against the wall, she waits and breathes as the big engine grows louder. False alarm. The blue 4x4 speeds down Hamlin Street.
Darcy curses herself when someone kicks a can in the alley. The shadow slides behind the dumpster as another truck shoots down the road.
“Who’s there?”
Shoes scuff the crumbling blacktop, but the man doesn’t answer.
Ducking out of the alley, Darcy hurries toward the cafe. It seemed closer a moment ago, and now the building appears to drift away. Footsteps emerge from the alley, and Darcy knows someone is following her.
Before the shadowed figure rounds the corner, she darts into a storefront shaded by a black awning. Listening, she doesn’t hear the man approaching as she removes the gun from her holster. Then the footsteps begin again. Closer than before. Moving uncertainly as though searching.
The car engines disappear. All Darcy hears is her heart pounding as the steps close in on the storefront.
Darcy raises the gun as the man emerges from the dark.
“Don’t move.”
The man gasps and raises his hands.
“Wait—don’t shoot, don’t shoot.”
The lamplight catches his face. Darcy holsters the weapon. Her neighbor, Mr. Gibbons. Panic twists his face. One hand clutches his chest.
“Why are you following me?”
“What? No, you’re mistaken. I was just coming out of the parking lot and—”
“I profiled murderers and put dozens of criminals behind bars with the FBI. Don’t lie to me.”
Gibbons waves his hands.
“Okay, okay. I followed you, but that’s all.”
Darcy narrows her eyes and takes a step forward. Gibbons edges back on his heels.
“Tell me why. Speak.”
“Look, you have to believe me. It wasn’t my idea. Becca Crowley’s father came to my house and wanted to know where you lived. He said your son killed his daughter, like he murdered that Japanese girl who lived with you.”