Jennifer scowls but doesn’t protest. Hunter shoots her a sympathetic look from the hallway before he leaves. Darcy loves that her kids stick up for each other when the pressure is on.
Jennifer sits with one leg crossed over the other, her eyes glued to the table top. She bites her lower lip and fiddles with the salt shaker.
Darcy feels as if she looks into a mirror. It’s not so much the physical resemblance but the mannerisms, the way her daughter fidgets when she knows she’s done something wrong, the downward tilt of her head as she braces for punishment.
“You hurt my feelings, you know?”
“I’m sorry.”
The apology isn’t out of her mouth before Jennifer starts crying. And it isn’t a sob, but a waterfall of emotion that leaves the girl hitching and hiccuping as she buries her face in a napkin. Darcy reaches for a Kleenex and gently takes the napkin from Jennifer’s hand, trading her the tissue.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Jennifer says, wrestling with every syllable. She blows her nose and stuffs the tissue into her pocket. Darcy hands her the box. “Sometimes it doesn’t even seem like it’s me saying things. It just comes out. I know it’s wrong, and I don’t want to hurt people, but I can’t stop.”
“Shh.” Darcy strokes the hair off her daughter’s eye. “You’re fourteen. There are enough hormones jolting through your body to light a city block. Every girl goes through this. I did. So did Grandma.”
Though Darcy’s mother never admitted as much. She was forever above teen angst and immaturity.
“It doesn’t make sense. This never happens when I’m with my friends. Just with you and teachers.”
Darcy cringes. If Jennifer erupts on one of her teachers, the school will punish her, perhaps suspend Jennifer.
“You have problems with authority, no different from Hunter, except he expresses it in different ways. But Jennifer, you can’t go around thinking the world is against you. That sort of hate eats at you until you’re hollow and alone. I’m not out to get you, and neither are your teachers. I love you and Hunter more than words can express.” Darcy takes a breath while she composes her thoughts. “About these parties. Understand that part of being a parent is saying no when I don’t think you’re ready.” Jennifer slumps her shoulders and tosses another tissue into the trash. “But I never said you couldn’t go to Kaitlyn’s party, only that I want to speak with her parents first.”
Jennifer lifts her head, face brimming with sudden hope.
“I swear to God I’ll be careful and won’t drink, and if things get weird, I promise I’ll call and you can come get me.”
“Slow down. I didn’t say yes…yet.”
“Okay.”
Jennifer remains reserved, but she sees the light at the end of the tunnel and desires to rush forth.
“Now let’s talk about your grounding.”
Jennifer clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth.
“You’re actually grounding me?”
“Don’t start again.”
“Sorry.”
“Every day after school through next week, you’re to come straight home after cheer practice.”
Jennifer folds her arms and glares at the table again.
“No hanging out afterward, no stopping at friends’ houses. Straight home, dinner, and homework.”
“There’s a dance this Friday after the game.”
“Tough.”
“I can’t even watch Hunter play?”
“Of course, you can watch your brother’s game. But you’re sitting with me, not your friends unless they want to join us.”
“Awkward.”
“That’s the deal, and I’m not negotiating. Stick to the straight and narrow and I’ll consider letting you go to Kaitlyn’s party.”
Jennifer sighs through pouting lips.
“Okay.”
“Now give your Mom a hug. She’s had a long day.”
Jennifer leans over and hugs Darcy. They hold each other for a long time, the girl sobbing every few seconds. For the first time in forever, Darcy feels connected with her daughter. Caressing Jennifer’s back, she wishes she could freeze time and stay here forever.
Then both kids lock themselves in their rooms, presumably doing homework. Probably on their phones, Darcy thinks.
Night presses against the windowpane. Darcy draws the curtain and assesses the ranch’s safety. Even with the new lock, the glass door itself is vulnerable, easy for an intruder to smash through, though he’d make a helluva racket doing so.
Or not. The ranch sits on the western edge of the neighborhood loop, the house next door vacant. Would anybody hear the glass break?
Darcy can’t shake the growing dread that something is wrong. Sitting beside her computer, she eyes the closet and chews her nail. A cardboard box rests on the top shelf, the sweatshirt thrown over the lid doing little to conceal the box’s existence. Pulling a step stool beneath the shelf, she climbs up and hauls the container down. After setting the box on the bed, she listens at the door. It’s quiet inside the kids’ rooms.
She edges the door shut. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Darcy reaches inside the box and removes a manila folder containing the notes and pictures from the Michael Rivers case. She shouldn’t have copied the files before leaving the Bureau, but she considers the folder’s contents as protection, ammunition should the Full Moon Killer come after her again. Know your enemy.
Though she’s reviewed the pictures since the investigation’s nascent days, the brutality takes her breath away. The depths of the stab wounds indicate strength and frenzied rage. A twisted smiley face brands each girl’s neck. Though the tag is the Full Moon Killer’s calling card, Darcy believes the symbol exists to taunt the police and FBI.
The brainstorming session she’d used to construct the original profile is stuffed behind the case notes. Reading the page causes her skin to prickle with goosebumps. It’s the most accurate profile of her FBI career.
White male, thirty-five to forty-five, six feet or taller and muscular. Organized—think Ted Bundy or Dennis Rader. First signs of violence displayed during childhood. Egocentric and without remorse. Lives alone in an isolated location, probably in a rural location with plenty of land. Works a solitary job, possibly a contractor.
Though Rivers had a substantial bank account thanks to inheritance money, he lived in an old, weather-beaten farmhouse. Per the profile, the serial murderer was an electric contractor and utilized his van to transport abducted women back to his house.
Studying the printed map, Darcy examines the circle drawn in red marker, indicating a 150-mile radius stretching from North Carolina down to Myrtle Beach and Murrells Inlet. Darcy was certain the killer lived inside the radius, and this also proved to be true.
Yet she cannot understand how a man becomes a mass murderer. Victims of childhood abuse struggle with demons, but the vast majority lead normal, productive lives. A small percentage become violent offenders. What sets Rivers apart is his seemingly normal childhood. No abuse, no trauma.
She continues thumbing through the notes when her phone rings. The unexpected shrill causes her to spill the gory pictures across the floor, and she gathers them up before one of her kids walks in and sees the horror splayed across the carpet.
Darcy doesn’t recognize the number and considers letting the call go to voice-mail. On the fifth ring, she answers.
The woman on the phone is too distraught to speak clearly, but between the sobs, Darcy identifies the voice.
Amy Yang.
It’s been a few years since Darcy last spoke to the girl. She must be nineteen by now. Darcy tries to picture the girl four years older and fails. Time moves at blinding speeds.