“It’s all right, Amy. I’m right here. Slow down and tell me what’s wrong.”
Several seconds pass before the girl composes herself. Darcy sits on the carpet with her back against the bed and her knees drawn to her chest, the phone locked between her shoulder and ear as she returns the case folder to the box.
“Nobody believes me, and I don’t know who to turn to.”
“Did someone try to hurt you, Amy?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“It was him. The Full Moon Killer.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Amy Yang wears polka-dot pajama bottoms and a heavy sweatshirt when Darcy arrives on her doorstep. An odd twist of fate has brought them together again. Taking a break from college, Amy works for an advertising firm in coastal North Carolina and rents this two-bedroom house in Smith Town.
They hug inside the foyer as Amy’s eyes dart over Darcy’s shoulder.
The young girl locks the door and throws the bolt. Inside, the house looks barely lived in. The foyer leads into the living room where a brown leather couch torn by cat’s claws holds court in the center. It’s the only piece of furniture in the room, and it probably came with the house. There’s no TV, but this isn’t unusual. Many of the younger generation find entertainment in mobile devices and don’t have a need for a legacy item like a television. Darcy takes in the remainder of the downstairs. The adjoining dining room is empty except for a glass cabinet in the corner. There are no glasses or dishes inside. No table, no chairs. Across from the dining room, the kitchen is tiny but functional. The linoleum floor is old and curling up at the edges, and rust stains mar a white electric stove. No table in the kitchen either. Does Amy eat her meals leaning over the sink?
Amy escaped Michael Rivers, but she’s a victim like the others. An intelligent girl, Amy seemed destined for a full scholarship at a private college. The brush with death altered the arc of her life, and now she works a dead-end job when she should be taking notes inside a lecture hall.
Despite the mild October morning, the girl draws a blanket around her arms and collapses on the couch, the space between the cushions almost swallowing Amy’s tiny frame. Her legs bounce as she sits, and her gaze keeps traveling to the curtained picture frame window.
Darcy pulls an ottoman in front of the girl and sits on the edge. She places a hand over Amy’s.
“Start from the beginning. Don’t leave anything out.”
Amy nods once. Her lower lip trembles, and she can’t stop glancing at the door and windows, the house’s most vulnerable entry points. Darcy recognizes the paranoia. She’s lived with it since the stabbing.
Amy feels certain someone has followed her for two weeks. Temptation coaxes Darcy to remove a pen and notepad from her pocket and conduct a full interview. Old habits die hard.
“Where did you first notice the man?”
“At the movie theater last Monday. They have two-dollar matinee specials at noon, and I had the day off from work. Halfway through the movie, I got the feeling someone was watching me. I turned and saw him in the back row. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Probably just a typical creep, nothing to worry myself over. Then afterward, I stopped at the cafe, and he was standing in the bushes across the street and staring at me.”
The second meeting could have been coincidental—Smith Town’s population is half of Genoa Grove—but Darcy knows better than to doubt a stalking victim.
“Did you get a good look at his face?”
Amy shakes her head.
“It was too dark in the theater, and he stayed in the shadows outside the cafe.”
“Was that the last time?”
“No. Two nights ago, I toured the lighthouse with a girl from work. Every time I looked out the windows, he stood beside the ocean staring at me.”
“Did your friend see this man?”
“No. He vanished when I tried to point him out.” The girl averts her eyes and rubs the back of her neck. “You think I’m crazy.”
“Not at all. There’s a chance you have a stalker. On the other hand, it might not be a big deal. Maybe it’s a guy who thinks you’re cute but can’t work up the courage to ask you out.”
Bending over with her elbows on her knees, Amy grabs her hair.
“No, it’s him. He got out. I can’t explain how. Now he wants to finish what he started four years ago.”
Darcy leans forward and levels her face with Amy’s. The girl reminds her of Jennifer, steadfast and convinced of the impossible. Only five years separate Amy and Darcy’s daughter. Is this who Jennifer will become in the near future?
“Amy, I checked the inmate database last night and twice again this morning. Michael Rivers will never get out of prison.”
“No, he’s here. It has to be him.”
“He’s not Houdini. Whoever is following you, it can’t be the Full Moon Killer.”
“I know it doesn’t make sense, but it couldn’t be anybody else.”
“What convinces you this man is Michael Rivers?”
“Come with me.”
The girl’s bony fingers grasp Darcy’s wrist. Amy rises and leads her through the dining room and into the kitchen where a side door Darcy hadn’t noticed opens to a yard of dirt and brown grass. A junk pile of old rakes, rusty car parts, and assorted trash steams in the bushes.
But it’s the red spray paint on the side of the house that stops Darcy’s heart.
It’s an evil smiley face, the calling card of the Full Moon Killer.
CHAPTER FIVE
The ride home to Genoa Cove is fraught with confusion and creeping dread. Unless Michael Rivers is a phantom who can appear at any location, a stalker is playing a nasty game with Amy. But how did he know the serial killer attempted to capture Amy Yang? The police omitted the minor’s name four years ago. Nobody knows about Amy, not even the press.
Darcy stayed with the girl until she phoned the police. Amy would have to share her past with the officers, and a few loose lips would soon spread her name to the public and media.
Darcy doubted the police would take the girl seriously. What did they have to go on besides graffiti vandalism and an unrecognizable man who might or might not have followed Amy around Smith Town?
The clock reads noon when Darcy pulls into the driveway. In the kitchen, she releases the bar and slides the deck door open. Hands cupping elbows, she walks a full circle around the house, half-expecting to find the leering graffiti painted on the exterior. There’s nothing. Inside, she slides the locking bar into place and opens the kids’ rooms, confirming the rooms are secure. Hunter’s window is open a crack. Darcy shoves the pane down and throws the latch.
Impulse urges her back to the computer, but she recognizes her obsession ballooning toward dangerous levels. She’s doing herself no favors staying locked inside the house with only her fears as company.
After mixing a quick salad, Darcy trades her sneakers for flip-flops and dons a baseball cap. The sun is warm on her face as she crosses the street. With everybody at work, the neighborhood is silent, peaceful. On the opposite side of the loop, a sand path cuts between two grassy dunes and opens to the beach. This is why she chose Genoa Cove.
Half a mile to the south, waves pound the public beach. Here at the cove, water sloshes over the sand in hushed whispers. She’s surprised to see another person on the beach. It’s a large man, his back to her. A planted fishing pole juts out of the wet sand, and a taut line extends into deeper waters. He leans back in a reclining beach chair and nurses a bottle of beer.