When I pick up the phone and say hello, a woman asks, “Is this Gina Royal?”

I usually hang up at that point and block the number; I have a handy 1-button device on my landline that does it in one slap. But there’s something odd about her voice. It’s not angry, like she’s just newly been wronged. And it’s not elated, like someone who’s solved their own personal mystery.

It sounds almost pleading.

“This is Gwen Proctor,” I say decisively. “What are you calling about?” I’ve worked for years and almost a thousand miles to get rid of the existence of Gina Royal. Ex-wife of Melvin Royal.

Melvin Royal, the serial killer. The asshole who terrorized a city and destroyed my life, and the lives of our children. My personal demon.

He’s dead and gone, but the flashbacks are very real. For an instant I feel his breath on the back of my neck, and I hear him whisper, Gina. I shiver it off. Melvin’s rotting in a grave. His ghost can’t do me any more harm.

“I need to ask you a question,” she says. I’m alert for a trap, for a hint of menace, but I don’t hear it, so I don’t hang up. I brace myself for a question like, How does it feel to be the wife of a murderer? I’ve had that question shoved in my face, along with microphones, for so long. But instead the caller says, “Do you think there could be another victim? I mean, one they didn’t find? Didn’t count?”

I recognize the tremor in the woman’s voice, now. It’s not anger, not fear. It’s desperation. I don’t drop my armor; if anything, I try to shore it up, because if there’s anything worse than rage, it’s hope.

I don’t say anything at all. I’m not sure I can.

She clears her throat, “Mrs. … uh, Proctor—”

“Gwen,” I say. “I don’t know what I can do for you.” I don’t ask her name because all too often, names hurt worse than anything else. And if she’s afraid—and I think she is, deeply—giving a name makes you vulnerable. “If you’re asking me if there are any victims that Melvin might have killed that they didn’t find … I don’t know how I can answer that.”

“Is it possible?”

“Anything is possible.” I hate this. I hate encouraging it. “But it’s not likely. The investigation was years long. State and federal both. If there were any more victims, I think they’d have found it.” I stumble over his name. It feels like poison on my tongue, but I manage to gag it out. “Melvin Royal confessed to every one of his victims.” Except me. Except the kids.

“But—” Now she sounds lost. Grieving. “But maybe he kept one back? I have to find her.”

I hesitate. It’d be easy to shut this down. It’s late afternoon, I’m tired, I just want peace. My kids will be home soon. But the woman’s pain is raw and real, even if she’s trying to hold it back, and I don’t want to add to it either. “I really don’t think that’s possible,” I tell her. “But if you can give me a name …?”

“My daughter. Elisa Rahm. She—she was nineteen. I—I have a website for her.”

“I can look at it,” I tell her. “I have a timeline of where he was, and when. Chances are he’s got nothing to do with it, I hope you know that—”

“I do,” she says quickly. “Oh, I do. But at least if you can tell me Melvin Royal couldn’t be responsible for it— I hear you’re a private investigator of some kind. Could you look into this? Maybe find out if the police missed something?”

“I’ll check the timelines,” I tell her. “As for hiring me … we can discuss that later. How do you want me to contact you?”

She balks, which is the first false note I’ve felt in the conversation. “I’ll—I’ll call you. In a week. Thank you.”

She hangs up so fast that I don’t have time to tell her goodbye.

I put the phone back in the cradle and I think about hitting that block button. Think about it sincerely. Instead, I write down the name. Elisa Rahm. I’ve never heard it before.

I really don’t want to get into someone else’s trauma, not again. But in a strange sort of way I had a responsibility toward that nameless woman on the phone, too. To her pain.

I check the clock. Still half an hour until the bus arrives at Stillhouse Lake and my kids brighten up my life, so I pull the laptop closer and type in Elisa’s name in the search bar.

There are pages and pages of entries; I look for the official website and find it close to the bottom of the page. When I click on it, I wish I hadn’t. It’s like plunging back into the past, into all the desperate MISSING pages for my husband’s victims, or worse, the memorials. Raw, unfiltered pain coded into every line, every photo, every comment.

Elisa Rahm is—was—a pretty girl. Soft brown hair in unruly waves down to her shoulders; a narrow, clever face and a big smile. A child of the phone camera, instinctively knowing her best angle. She looks calm and confident.

Just Melvin’s style. He loved taking calm, confident young women and reducing them to something elemental, something only he could understand. Melvin took away not just their lives, but the very promise of self, over and over again.

Was it possible that she’d been one of his? Sure. Melvin was a liar, a cheat, a malignant psychopath for whom other people only existed as things to manipulate. He’d told everyone how many women he’d killed. He’d been proud of it. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have lied as easily as breathing, simply to prove that he could. It would fit his twisted sense of humor to keep back a victim just for himself. A private victory.

I print off the web pages and put them in a folder to read and notate against Melvin’s timelines, the ones established by the Kansas City PD and the FBI. They’re freely available, those timelines, even to me. Serial killer cases are rarely completely closed. Melvin’s got his very own FBI page.

Ironic, since all his victims do as well, most put up by families and friends. And where Melvin’s got his own dark little fandom of serial killer enthusiasts—some of whom collect the letters he wrote from prison—the victims have their own organization, too; it’s a collection of victim family members, armchair detectives, rage enthusiasts who perpetually need a new cause to take up, even when the case is long over. I try to avoid the Lost Angels. They’ve made making my life hell a crusade that never really ends. When I see their forum pop up in my search, I skip it. They’ve got a hot discussion about Elisa Rahm, but I’m never clicking on that link. I have a half-superstitious belief that they’ll know.

That they’ll come for us. Again.

I’m highlighting details from Elisa’s disappearance when I hear the alarm start beeping from the front of the house, and immediate beeps as the code is entered. I put the folder away and head up front.

I get there in the middle of a shouting match.

“I did not!” Connor is yelling, and he’s braced up to his taller, older sister with his fists clenched. “You’re a liar!”

“You’re an idiot!” Lanny shouts back, and hooks her sleek black hair behind her ears. She’s got a pugnacious set to her jaw. “I saw you!”

“Hey!” I say sharply, and shove in between the two. “Connor. Lock the door and set the alarm, you know better than that.” The door is still hanging open. My son hesitates a second, glares at me, then slams the door and flips the locks. He reactivates the alarm and sets it to stay, then strips off his backpack and dumps it on the floor. It hits heavy with books. Lanny’s pack, when it joins his, is a muffled thump that tells me she didn’t bother bringing any homework. Generally, Lanny doesn’t need to. Connor doesn’t either, but my son’s got a full-blown anxiety about excelling at school. I’ve been trying to take that pressure off, but from the way Connor stares at his sister, I think both of them have been under too much stress.

I put my arms around them both. They’re identically tense, though after a few breaths I feel Connor’s shoulders sag. Lanny’s better at holding on to her anger. “Hey,” I try again. “Want to tell me what this is about?”

Connor doesn’t answer. His cheeks are brick red, the rest of his face noticeably pale. He chews on words silently.

Lanny finally comes out with it. “There was a girl on the bus who was throwing game all over him and he didn’t even notice.”

“Was not!” Connor immediately hurls back, and twists to confront his sister again. I use all my strength to keep them separated. “Besides, she’s got a boyfriend.”

“Not enough to stop her,” Lanny says. “Come on, I know you like her.”

“I don’t!” Connor’s shout is loud enough to hurt my ears. I can’t hang on to him as he charges away. Ten steps down the hall and bam, a door slam loud enough to wake the dead.

Lanny laughs breathlessly. “What a liar,” she says. “He’s totally into it.”

I take her by her shoulders. She’s getting so tall, I only have to look down a little bit. From time to time I see a ghost of her father in her expression—usually when she laughs, like now—but we share so much more. Which makes it hard for me to keep my expression still and flat. I watch the sharp mischief drain out of her before I say, “Stop. Your brother understood when you had your troubles with relationships, didn’t he?”

That makes her look down for a moment, because she knows I’m right. “Sorry, Mom,” she mumbles.

“Go make it up to him.”

“He won’t talk to me.”

“Then wait until he will,” I tell her. “You made the mess. Clean it up, baby.” I smooth my hands over her face. “I love you both so much. And I know you love each other. You just forget sometimes.”

She tries to look doubtful, but she does know that. Of course. I impulsively give her a hug and send her on her way. She goes to her room, of course. But I believe peace will be achieved.

I sure hope so. If it’s a longer battle, that’s going to force me to get tough.

I have an hour or so before I need to start lunch, so I head back to my office. Elisa Rahm’s mother didn’t leave a number, and when I check my caller ID, it’s a withheld number—not unexpected. But there’s a contact form on the memorial website, so I let the mother know I’ve mapped Elisa’s movements against my ex-husband’s timeline, and there’s really no chance for Melvin Royal to have had abducted the young woman. I’m respectful about it, and I thank her for her call. I leave my number, in case she wants to talk again.

I’m just getting ready to leave my desk when the phone rings. Number withheld.

“Yes?” I ask. There’s a short silence. “Hello?” I get ready to hit the block button.

“Ms. Proctor?” says a woman’s voice. “I don’t understand your message.”

“My message,” I repeat. I lean forward a little. “You mean the message I sent to you through the website? I thought I was clear: there’s just no chance that Melvin Royal would have had the chance to abduct Elisa—”

“What? Why on earth would you think he had?”

“You called me, you asked me—” I hear my words slow as it hits me. I don’t know this voice. I’m not speaking to the same person who called. “Someone called me and said she was Elisa Rahm’s mother.”

“Well, it wasn’t me!”

“She asked me to find out if Melvin Royal could have taken Elisa. I just want to assure you that isn’t possible.”

“Like I need your help,” the woman hisses. I hear the malevolence in her voice. The utter loathing. “How dare youcall me. You of all people. Yes, I know who you are, Melvin’s Little Helper. I know you got away with murder. Don’t you dare put your filthy mouth on my daughter’s name ever again, bitch!”

She means it. I don’t answer. I listen to the line go dead, and I put the phone back in its cradle gently. The plastic feels cold under my fingers. Everything around me seems sharper and darker.

Someone called me to check on Elisa Rahm.

But it definitely was not her mother.

And I can’t stop wondering why.

* * *

“So,” Sam Cade says to me as we settle in with our wine on the front porch of the house. “Why would someone want to claim to be a missing girl’s mother? To you?”

It’s a nice night out, if a little too cool, but sitting close together helps. So does the fruity, warm taste of the cabernet. I settle in to his warmth as his arm goes around my shoulder. Sam always calms the anxiety inside me. We’re just different enough, and it creates a warm, comfortable silence where we can just … be. No pretense.

I take another drink of wine before I say, “Well, it could be someone with good intentions.”

“Or not,” he says. I turn my nose into his shirt. It smells of woodsmoke and a faint undertone of him, and I breathe it in gratefully. “Could be someone trying to stir something up. Which they did.” He rubs my shoulder gently. Strong hands, calloused with work. “Let’s hope it dies down.”

If it doesn’t, if Elisa Rahm’s mother gets truly angry and comes after me online … well. There are a dedicated army of trolls poised to follow a grieving mom’s lead, most for no other reason than the warm feeling of outrage they get when they hurt someone else. Anonymously. At a distance. My skin is as thick as a rhinoceros these days, but I have kids to guard, and in defense of them I can be a lot more deadly. If the trolls come again—more of them than usual—they’d best remember that.

I sigh. “How was your day?”

“The job’s behind but the work’s going well. Don’t suppose you want to hear about the details of installing a custom bookcase that swings out?”

“Swings out? What’s behind it?”

He kisses my hair. “Can’t tell you,” he says. “I’d have to kill you.” He says it with a poker face but quite honestly, Sam Cade actually might be one of the few people capable of really hurting me these days. That’s what love does to you. And trust. And on some level I can’t control, I’m always just that small bit aware of it, and wary. When I don’t respond, he gently nudges me. “I’m kidding. It’s a gun safe. Want me to tell you the combination?”

“Of course not,” I say. “I’ve got all the guns I need.”

That’s not a lie. I have weapons, I train with them regularly, and I’m always, always ready to use them in defense of myself or my loved ones. Normal people don’t do that. But I’m not normal.

“Elisa Rahm,” I say, when he doesn’t answer. “I didn’t know much about her. But the caller was right, she might have fit Melvin’s type.”

“No chance of that though?”

“Not unless the timelines are wrong,” I say. And I get a little flutter. Are they? Could they be? Multiple law enforcement agencies can’t be wrong. But still. I should take another look and be less reliant on what others have put together. Couldn’t hurt.

Sam takes a sip of wine. “You’re not letting it go, are you?”

“I’m trying.”

“But you’re not.”

I clink glasses with him and don’t answer.

* * *

Elisa Rahm is a mystery. The more I dig into her, the less I know. She had—has, frozen in time—a social media presence on multiple platforms, and I read through her entries with interest. It starts with her as a gawky, coltish fourteen-year-old on one platform; by sixteen she’s on another, then another, leaving behind her avatars like old skins. With each move she’s more assured, more graceful, more adult. But it feels … like a false wall. Like she posts what she’s expectedto post.

It’s baffling. I can’t get a handle on the real girl. At all.

She doesn’t do drama. Not even during her first romantic breakup; she just reports it and adds a teardrop emoji and moves on; by the next day, different subjects, all superficial. Her selfies are almost always alone, and she has a professional’s eye for it. By seventeen her makeup is perfect, her hair glossy, her clothes on point. Most teens these days have a … persona, I suppose is the best word for it; who they are on camera is not who they are off. But Elisa is so image-conscious she never has an unguarded moment. Not a single snapshot of laughter or fun that isn’t completely stage-managed.

June 24 is the day she drops off the face of the earth. The same day my husband was caught and jailed, but a year earlier. A toxic anniversary date, but it also marks the birth of who I am now. What I’ve survived. I wonder if Elisa has, as well. All the records say no; her social media accounts are frozen, her bank account hasn’t been touched. No credit cards or phone use. Nothing. No one moves through life without leaving a trail in the modern age, unless they know how to disappear and have the knowledge and dedication to do it. It’s hard as hell to break old habits and cut ties. Something as simple as visiting a favorite restaurant or calling family can destroy years of work changing your identity … and you need specialists. New papers aren’t easy to get, legally or illegally. I know. I’ve done it several times, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat if I needed my family to vanish again.

But Elisa? Seems unlikely. Unless Elisa is someone that none of her public records indicate.

Something’s wrong about this.

It’s not my business, I tell myself that … but it feels like it is. Someone’s made it my business with that prank call. Cruel, not so much toward me as toward the girl’s mother. The last thing she must have wanted was to drag it up again, to relieve the waking nightmare. Someone used me to do that. I don’t like it, and it makes me feel restless and oddly unfinished.

I tell myself to just stop. Even in my head, it doesn’t sound convincing.

* * *

It’s two days later when I get the knock on my door. It’s afternoon; I’m home working on some background checks for my boss. Tedious, but it pays the bills, and every once in a while you run across a truly surprising set of skeletons rattling around in corporate closets.

I’m not expecting anyone, and visitors are few and far between here at Stillhouse Lake. We’re not on speaking terms with a lot of our neighbors.

So I make a stop at the gun safe under the couch to retrieve a sidearm before I check the security feed.

It’s two people waiting out there. If they’re dangerous, they’re concealing it well. A youngish couple of women in long-sleeved shirts and jeans; one’s of Latin heritage, the other white and pale and bound to get a sunburn before too long out on the water. I don’t know them, but after a few seconds I disarm the alarm and open the door enough to say, “Can I help you?”

They both smile. “Thanks for opening the door,” the Latin young lady says, and pushes some curling dark brown hair behind one ear. “We came in for the day, you know, for the lake, but we’re having a little trouble with our truck, and … well, not like there’s any garage around here, unless you know of one.”

“You’re right, there’s not anything close,” I tell her. “I’d call roadside assistance. Sorry.” I start to close the door. The paler young woman looks distressed enough that it stops me. She glances at her friend, then moves forward a step.

“Mrs. Royal?” she says. “Please don’t do that. We don’t want any trouble.” There’s something different in her eyes, and I immediately go on the defensive.

I let the gun in my hand slip into view, though I don’t point it. “Neither do I,” I say. “And my name isn’t Mrs. Royal.”

“Gina Proctor, we know,” the second woman says hastily. “We’re not armed. We just—we need to talk to you. Please.”

“No,” I say, decisively, and shut the door. I click all the locks and wait there watching the video feed to see what they’ll do. They stand there for a moment, clearly at a loss, and then the Latina pulls out her phone and makes a call that lasts about a minute. The two confer. They walk away, but only as far as the picnic table set up about fifty feet away, where they take a seat. One pulls out paper and a pen and starts writing.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the white woman walks back up the drive and slips the note in the door. She walks away without knocking, and the two of them disappear down the drive. I move to the window to get a better view of the road and see there’s a red Ford truck parked down there; the two women climb in, and it takes off around the lake, heading for the exit. I can’t see if they actually take it or not.

I retrieve the note from the door but don’t read it immediately; I consider not reading it at all, but I shove it in my pocket and head for my office. After I’ve downloaded the video of the two and put it in a FOR REVIEW folder on my desktop, I finally unfold the paper.

Our apologies, it reads, we shouldn’t have taken that approach with you, Ms. Proctor. We want to talk with you about a missing woman named Elisa Rahm. It’s urgent that we speak with you, or we’re afraid that things may get out of control. Someone used your name to get Elisa’s disappearance in the public eye again, and there’s a whole firestorm online trying to connect her to you, specifically. The Lost Angels forum is claiming that just because Melvin Royal wasn’t available to abduct Elisa, you had ample opportunity, and they’re counting on connecting you to her.

The thing is, we have information that could help … but we need your assurances that you will leave the Elisa case alone. Completely alone.

There’s no signature, only a phone number. I realize with a sinking feeling that they’re right; if the Lost Angels website has decided to make Elisa Rahm’s disappearance years ago a holy war against me, specifically, it might be very difficult, if not impossible, to prove my innocence. I was scrutinized as Melvin’s accomplice, back in the day, but not a minute-by-minute timeline for every single year we were married. I was the one responsible for the shopping, the errands, the kids. I’d have time that was unaccounted for, inevitably.

The Lost Angels are one of the most prominent sources of harassment for me. And I need to ensure that this hate-tornado is stopped before it rips apart my life, Sam’s life, the lives of the kids. I feel like a fragile little stick figure in the face of an oncoming storm.

But this isn’t a decision I want to make alone. So I wait.

Family huddle time.

* * *

The discussion goes exactly how I expect it to go. The kids, for sound reasons of their own, are reluctant to see me dig into this kind of thing again, but they’re even more wary of being targeted by trolls. “I wish you’d never taken that call in the first place,” Connor says. He’s rocking a little bit in his chair, an easily spotted sign of internal pressure. “But I guess you have to do something about it now. Don’t you?”

“Let me take a look first,” Sam intervenes. He’s making dinner in the kitchen, and Lanny is helping him by chopping salad fixings. Say what you will, my daughter knows her way around a knife. It frightens me a little how proficient she’s gotten, but I keep telling myself that at the very least she has a calling as a chef. “I still have some access into the Lost Angels, and a couple of decent relationships with the less radical of them. I can find out what they’re doing and planning.”

Maybe. I stare at him for a few seconds, and I know he can see the doubt and the worry. Sam’s relationship with the Lost Angels—at their core, the families of my ex-husband’s victims—is fraught, at best. He used to be one of them; his sister was Melvin’s last victim. He used to be a lot of things, and most of them weren’t very good when it came to me and the kids. He’s changed, I know that, but any time he even brushes the edges of the black hole of pain and fury that is the Lost Angels, I worry he’ll be drawn back in and crushed.

He takes my silence for assent as he gets dinner out and served around. It’s stir fry tonight, which we all usually love, but the kids pick at their food while Sam makes an effort to show he’s not worried by shoveling it in. I can tell he’s not really tasting it. I nibble on snow peas and spicy chicken—it deserves better than my half-hearted efforts—and nearly choke when Lanny says, “So, did Dad kill this girl and hide her somewhere or what? I mean, he could have, right? It’s what he did practically full time.” She sounds tough, but I hear the uncertainty beneath that.

“No,” I say. “The FBI and state police timelines definitely show that he was out of town when Elisa Rahm went missing; it’s verified multiple ways.” What I don’t tell her is that while he was on that business trip, he was attending seminars during the day, hunting at night. There’s a verified victim of his in St. Louis, linked by surveillance video and DNA, not to mention his other signatures. “Elisa went missing in Kansas City. The problem is that if they decide to link her to me, I don’t have nearly the alibi that Melvin did. I spent too much time at home with you guys, or driving around, or otherwise going places where surveillance video was long ago erased. It’d be difficult, if not impossible, for me to fight that kind of accusation.”

“But they can’t arrest you,” Connor says. “Can they?” It’s his long-standing anxiety. He took my original arrest and trial as Melvin’s accomplice hard, and even after my acquittal, he tenses up any time he thinks I might be taken away again. So do I, to be honest.

“No, sweetie. They can’t.” I beat Lanny to the punch because her reassurance wouldn’t be as kind to him. Brothers and sisters. Sometimes the dynamic is just brutal. “Best thing I can do is get to the bottom of this thing, fast, so that we can disrupt the whole storm before it gets going. Okay? Agreed?”

Lanny nods and takes a real bite of food. Connor slowly stirs his chopsticks through his bowl, but finally nods. Sam’s already in, I can tell before he says yes.

I finish my food, despite the anxiety rolling in my stomach, and head for the office to make the phone call. Before I do, I run the phone number through a list of automated searches, trying to turn up basic info on who it is I’m dealing with; unless it’s a burner phone, I’ll get something. Even if it is a throwaway, I’ll be able to garner a crumb or two.

What I get is a surprising result: the number shows up as registered to a Linda Hernandez, and when I search for her name plus the number, I get a good list of hits. Linda Hernandez is a fairly well-known women’s advocate, specializing in legislative lobbying and grass-roots organization. Her picture matches that of the woman who came to my door.

I dial the number and get a “Digame,” in response, a standard Mexican-language telephone greeting.

I don’t waste time. “Hello, Linda, this is Gwen Proctor calling.” I can tell by the silence that stretches on a few seconds she’s surprised by the use of her name. Good. I need her off balance. She doorstepped me. “I’d like to talk about Elisa Rahm.”

“Don’t want the blame laid at your doorstep, do you?” She sounds a little sharp, a little on the offense. I understand that. “Okay. Fine.”

“According to the note, you and your friend seemed to have a vested interested in Elisa’s disappearance not being solved. I’d like to know why.”

“Just like that,” she says. “Like I’m supposed to trust you.”

“Well, to be fair, I showed you some trust. I didn’t shoot you when you came to my doorstep under false pretenses. Given my history and the fact I get a lot of death threats, I think that was pretty giving of me.”

“You pulled a gun on us! We were unarmed!”

“I couldn’t know that,” I say calmly. “I don’t know you or your friend. But I do know that I have to always be ready to defend myself and my kids. Sorry, but that’s the world I live in. I wish that wasn’t the case, believe me. I’d like to invite strangers in for tea and sympathy. But that’s never going to happen.”

She sighs, not in surrender but what sounds like sheer frustration. “Okay. Whatever. Moving on. We really, really need you to not be making this Elisa Rahm mess worse. Trust me, please. It’s important.”

I let that sit for a few seconds, then say, “Because Elisa’s disappearance isn’t what it looks like to her family. Am I right?” It’s her turn to adopt the silent approach, and it lasts so long I can tell she’s startled. “I know who you are, Linda. And what you do. You’re an activist, an organizer, and you care passionately about women’s causes. I fully support all of that; I couldn’t be happier that people like you are out there fighting the good fight. I’ve worked with women who were in trouble, some who needed help to get out of their dangerous situations. Is that what we’re talking about here?” Nothing I’d turned up on Elisa Rahm suggested she was in an abusive relationship, but often that information is the deepest and darkest of secrets.

“I can’t divulge the details,” Linda says. “You understand what I’m talking about.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d find something you can tell me to convince me why I should shoulder the burden of an even greater firestorm coming at me—me and my family. I understand you have to protect someone who came to you out of desperation; I’ve done it. But you need to make me a partner in this, or things are going to get very, very messy. And I will defend myself, and my family. If that means dragging what really happened to Elisa Rahm out into the light … then that will be on you.”

I can tell she hates this with every fiber of her being, because the mutinous rage is barely restrained when she finally replies. “You’re being used, don’t you know that? Whoever got you involved in the first place meant this to happen. They count on you to do what they haven’t been able to manage in all these years of trying.”

“Yeah, I know that,” I tell her. “But from my perspective, why I’m suddenly up to my neck in alligators doesn’t really matter all that much. I need to start punching gators and climbing out.”

“You’re doing exactly what they want!”

“As opposed to exactly what you want. Look, give me a middle option and I’ll take it. I don’t want to screw up whatever you have going, especially if it puts someone innocent at risk. But—”

“Conversation’s over,” Linda says, and hangs up.

I disconnect on my end and sit back slowly, staring at the phone. That … didn’t go at all the way I expected. Whatever Linda fears, it’s big. Nasty. And I feel a horrible darkness in the corners of the room start to form.

Exactly who is Elisa Rahm? And if she’s running, what is she running from?

Or to?

* * *

It all goes quiet for a long, tense few days. I hear nothing more from the Rahm family, nothing from Linda Hernandez and her companion. Sam confirms there’s chatter on the Lost Angels website and intense, renewed interest in the case, but the trolls that infest that private message board have gotten very, very good at hiding their intentions. I have the strong, unpleasant feeling that I won’t know things are wrong until they’re already very wrong.

But I don’t expect it to happen the way it does.

The day passes normally enough; I do work, I worry, I collect my kids from school instead of letting them ride the bus, out of an abundance of caution. I cook dinner. I have it ready and waiting when Sam’s late; he usually isn’t, but sometimes his construction jobs run long.

But we eat, and he’s still not home.

I text him. No answer. I call and get voicemail.

And the razorwire ball of anxiety that’s been spinning in my stomach starts cutting in, deep. I wait an hour, in case he’s just away from his phone, or charging it up on the way home.

But I already know that’s just a fantasy.

I call Javier Esparza, one of our best friends; I would call Kezia Claremont, but Kez is on duty, and I try not to complicate our friendship with intruding on her job. Javier’s already closed up the gun store and range he owns, so he’s the best option. And, thank God, he answers on the first call. “Javi,” I say. “I know I owe you a million already, but—”

“Stop,” he says. “Sam’s here.”

I don’t answer for a second, because I absolutely don’t expect to hear that. I struggle to reframe the situation. “Okay,” I say. “Uh, at the range, or—”

“My place,” he says. “Get here. Now.” He hangs up without an explanation. That is really, really not like him. And why would Sam be there? Not answering his phone? None of this makes sense. Something’s happening, something’s happening right now.

Oh God. I can’t leave the kids alone. I can’t take them with me into the unknown. If I call Kezia, she’ll look at it as a law enforcement issue, and I can’t take that chance right now; bringing cops into this could be even more disastrous when I don’t know what’s going on.

I take them to our nearest neighbors, who live in the giant, overdone modernist house. They’re fairly new at Stillhouse Lake, but they’ve been hospitable to us, and I did background checks on both parents and their two kids. I apologize for the imposition but tell them I have a medical emergency, and they’re gracious enough to include Lanny and Connor in a movie night already underway. That’s as safe as I can make them, for now.

I drive fast for Javier’s cabin in the woods, about equidistant between Stillhouse Lake and the outskirts of Norton.

There’s no sign of Boot, Javier’s dog, out in the yard, but I hear him barking out back—deep, angry barks like he’s well aware something’s wrong. Someone, I think, has shut him up in the shed at the back.

I park, get my secondary gun out of the built-in safe in the Jeep, and secure it in the small of my back. My Sig is in a shoulder holster under my leather jacket. Last-ditch knife secured in a small sheath at my ankle. Strapped for war, and heading into achingly friendly territory.

I unlatch the gate and head through to the front door. Whatever’s coming, I need to face it head on.

Javier answers the door, and I read the tension in his face simply because I know him, not because it would be obvious to anyone else. There’s something about the narrowness of his eyes, the way he holds his jaw. He says, “Inside, Gwen. Sorry.”

It’s the sorry that scares me.

I step inside, and there’s a woman standing behind him. She’s got short platinum-blond hair and is wearing a dark turtleneck, cargo pants, and that’s all I have time to take in before I spot the gun she’s holding on Javier. She’s standing at a prudent distance, far enough she can shoot before he makes any clever moves, and he’s experienced enough to wait for a chance.

Maybe I’m that chance. Her attention immediately shifts to me, and finally, belatedly, I recognize her. “Elisa Rahm?”

She smiles, and it’s a slow melting of her lips into a curve that feels very wrong indeed. “Not anymore,” she says. “You. Sit down.”

I don’t move. “Where’s Sam, Javi?”

“Out back,” he says. “He’s not hurt bad. Sorry, Gwen.” He’s incredibly angry, I realize; this woman got the drop on him, forced him to lure Sam here just like he lured me.

“That’s enough,” the woman says, and gestures very slightly with her gun—not a big movement that might give one of us an opening. “Inside and shut the door. Weapons out and on the table, and don’t be stupid, I am very fast and accurate. Your friend gets the first bullet. You get the second, Gina Royal.” She uses my old name with a special kind of relish. Her eyes are shining in the lamplight. She’s enjoying this.

I surrender the weapon under my arm, but she has me take off my jacket and turn. I hear dry, mocking clicks of her tongue. “Really,” she says. “Now that’s just stupid. Two fingers, take it out and put it on the table with the other one. Anything else?”

“No,” I say, and comply with her orders.

“Pull up the legs on your pants. Left one first.” She’s noticed I’m right handed. She’s observant. Dammit. I don’t have much of a choice, so I do it, and get that tongue-click again. “You’re boring me, Mrs. Royal. Take it off. On the table.”

I unhook the sheath and lay it down, and turn, hands still up. She looks pleased. Excited. “Sit down, Gina. You’ll notice I put some zip-ties out. Secure yourself to the chair.”

I don’t want to, but she hasn’t moved that gun far from Javier’s back the entire time, and we all know it. I exchange a fast look with Javi, who looks like he’s aching for a chance to act, and sit. I secure my left wrist to the wooden arm of the chair first, then look to the woman. “I need help,” I tell her. “I can’t do my right.”

“Use your teeth,” she says. She sounds almost high on this whole situation. It’s incredibly creepy. “Stay where you are, Mr. Esparza.”

I hate it, but I struggle the zip-tie into place and fasten it with a pull of my teeth. I leave it a little slack and hope the sleeve of my shirt will conceal that. I’m sweating now, and the muscles in my back are clenched and shaking. The more helpless I become, the more fear tries to take hold. I can’t let it. I have to stay focused. I’ve just gambled that Javier wouldn’t have cooperated this far unless he had some plan, some idea of a plan.

“Where are your children, Mrs. Royal?” the woman asks me. “A little young to be the rescue squad, aren’t they?”

“With friends,” I tell her. “I won’t tell you where.”

Her finely plucked eyebrows quirk, and so does the corner of her mouth. “Well, that’s a challenge, but I can leave that for later.”

“What do you want?” It practically bursts out of me, and I wish it hadn’t. I wish I hadn’t betrayed my frustration. But there it is.

“You,” she says. “Because to be honest, you’re the one person I’m genuinely worried about these days. We have so much in common, you know. We’re both killers at heart. We both had to go on the run, change who we are, stay ahead of all the haters. I admire you, I really do. But there’s nobody who can hunt you down like someone who is you, and I can’t afford that. I have so much more work to be done.”

“You really are Elisa,” I say. “My God.”

“Was,” she says. “I had to disappear if I wanted to become what I really am. Like you. That meant shedding the fam and shredding everything I was. But it was so worth it.” She laughs, low in her throat. “They covered it up, you know.”

“Covered what up?”

“Oh, the times I acted out. My younger brother, he’s still got the scars. We buried half a dozen family pets, too. They just couldn’t accept who I was.”

The realization hits me in my guts first, like a fist clenching. The second wave is emotion: pure, cold horror. I’ve miscalculated everything.

I’m not dealing with a woman who, like me, was an innocent victim, someone forced to flee and change because of external threats.

I’m dealing with the threat itself.

Elisa is a psychopath. And her parents did cover that up, no doubt about it; the shame of dealing with a truly disordered child causes many families to close ranks, deny the problem, ignore the risks. They were likely relieved when she vanished, at least at first, but I have the feeling her mother is the deepest in denial, the one who never believed her daughter was a lost cause.

“Who called to get me to look into you?” I ask her. She shrugs, just a bare suggestion of movement.

“Probably that damn bastard Kyle set it up. He’s the brother of one of my, ah, projects. He really, really wants to find me. He’s got a wife. She probably pretended to be my mom. Anyway, once I heard you were looking into me, I knew that couldn’t happen.”

“And Linda Fernandez?”

She does that low laugh again. It’s barely humor at all. More mockery. “She fell for my story. She’s the one who set up my escape.” Her voice changes into a tremble, and she’s frighteningly good at mimicry. “I have to get away, my dad’s been molesting me for years, I’m terrified he’s going to kill me. She bought every bit of it. I didn’t think she’d show up to try to warn you off of me, though. I guess I’d better remove her too. Just for loose ends.”

I swallow hard, and taste bitter metal. She’s not like my ex-husband, but there’s some strange inner core of malice that seems so familiar. So dangerous. “How many people have you killed?”

“I don’t keep count,” she says.

“Liar. You all do.”

That takes a little of the shine from her smile. “Six,” she says. “I try not to be greedy. That’s how you get caught. But of course nobody’s really paying much attention to me. Women don’t kill. Right, Gina?”

“Some do,” I reply. “Monsters come in all forms. So what’s your thing, Elisa? You said projects. You’re a planner. A stalker. Is it the kill for you, or the suffering? I’m only asking so I know exactly what kind of crazy I’m dealing with.”

She really doesn’t like that. The smile vanishes, and I see the darkness in those eyes. A yawning emptiness, a door into nothing. In that instant, she looks exactly like Melvin Royal. “Careful,” she says. “Once ​I put your friend here down, I’ll take my time with you, the way your husband should have. Then your new man out there, too. I know I shouldn’t, but you just made that choice for me. What kind of stupid—”

She’s angry. I wanted her angry. And then she makes the mistake that Javier was looking for. She shifts her weight, putting her balance on her left outside foot so she can look more directly at me.

He moves so fast I barely see it, a mule kick that snaps directly into Elisa’s right hip, and while he’s doing that he’s also spinning and ducking. She stumbles off balance, and her wild shot at him goes wide. I yank hard at the zip ties on my wrists out of sheer reaction and feel the wild burn of pain, but it’s quickly drowned in a tide of adrenaline. Javier spins low and lunches, gets her around the waist, and tackles her backward hard into the wall behind her. The impact rattles the room, and she sags in reaction, but she’s still got the gun. She brings the pommel down hard on his skull but he hangs on, and she struggles to get the barrel down to fire.

I ignore the pain in my wrists and surge to my feet, taking the chair with me. It’s heavy, study, but I lean forward to balance it, and shout.

Javier realizes his danger and drags a fist upward, hitting her squarely in the right side; it’s a solid hit, and it stuns the nerves and causes her hand to spasm.

The gun falls, spins, bounces away from me under furniture. But even if it had landed at my feet I couldn’t have done shit with it. Javier’s head is bleeding, but he’s grappling for her now, and however dangerous and crazy Elisa Rahm is, I have to believe he’s got this.

Until she reaches down and drags a lethal hunting knife from a sheath concealed in her cargo pants.

“Get clear!” I shout to him, and he doesn’t question me, he just lets go and moves back. We freeze like that for a second—Javier bleeding and breathing hard, but upright and ready. Elisa with her knife held in a ready position like she’s utterly comfortable with the weapon. Me, absurdly welded to a chair that I can barely keep balanced.

I use it.

I step in. Elisa grins and lunges for me; I’m a soft, easy target, and she goes for my chest. Good.

I turn, and the chair leg slams into her elbow so hard that I hear the crack of bone. My eyes are still on her, and I see the blood drain from her face even before the knowledge of her shattered joint hits her. Her arm drops, and her hand loses control of the knife. I kick it to Javier, who scoops it up, and if she looked comfortable, he looks professional.

I don’t wait to see what she’ll do next. I rush her, head-butting her squarely in her guts, and she lets out a breathless scream as her broken arm slams the wall. She slides down like a broken doll. I collapse on top of her, knees on her thighs, and jam the chair arms into her shoulders to pin her there. Her eyes are still open, staring right into mine. I bare my teeth. I don’t know what she sees but I hope it’s the truth of who and what I am. Not Mrs. Gina Royal. Not a fucking monster. Not a murderer.

But I am a survivor, and I will survive her, too.

Elisa whispers something I don’t catch it; my brain is on fire, and right at that moment Javier cuts the zip tie on my left side, then my right, and I have other things to think about. I fasten both hands around Elisa’s right arm and squeeze, and she makes a sound like air escaping a balloon at pressure. Doesn’t scream, though.

“Stay still,” I order her. “Javi?”

“On it,” he says. He’s wiping blood impatiently out of his eyes and his cell phone is already in his hands. He’s dialing 911, and he hands me the knife as the call completes. I put it under her chin and press carefully. Just enough to let her know the fight’s over. Not enough to draw more than a paper cut’s worth of blood.

She doesn’t say anything else. She’s not smiling. She’s shut down now, and the empty glow in her eyes makes me shudder deep inside.

She’s killed at least six people. Maybe more; psychopaths like her enjoy lying. It’s just another game to her. She’s never given me the name she goes under now, but I don’t care. Let the police sort it out.

It takes a long fifteen minutes for the Norton police to arrive; Kezia arrives with them, and she immediately takes control of Elisa and handcuffs her, then subjects her to the most though search I’ve ever seen, angry sweeps of hands that tell me how much Kez wants to choke her. Kez keeps glancing at Javier and the blood still dripping from his head, but all she says to him is, “You good?” And when he nods, she puts her complete focus back on her prisoner.

Javier disappears as Kez and an extra patrolman escort Elisa out, no doubt to put her in the rear of a patrol car where they can lock her down. We’re in for a wearying hour or two of questions, but I can actually breathe now. I realize my wrists are bleeding from the fight with the zip ties, but it’s surface damage. Stings, but minor.

I draw in my breath in horror and lock eyes with Javier. “Sam!” I say, and we’re both moving fast, ignoring the cop who tries to stop us. We race around the side of the cabin to the shed at the back, which is secured by a padlock. Boot is still barking furiously, and he’s dug a hole underneath the dirt, enough to stick his head out. He gives me a wild look, but calms as he sees Javier, who drops down to put a soothing hand on him.

“Easy man,” Javier says. “It’s okay. We’re okay.” He hands me the shed keys. My fingers are trembling as I try to put the key in the lock, but I make it on the third attempt and fumble the padlock off as I sweep both doors open. Boot ducks and shoots out into Javier’s embrace, licking him frantically. I plunge into the darkness and fumble for the overhead light.

I click it on and find Sam lying on the ground. He’s gasping for air. He’s managed to rub the tape off his mouth, and he looks terrible; I wince at the outsize swelling on his cheek, and the black eye that’s formed. But he’s alive.

I had to surrender the knife, but I attack the ropes binding him; the knots are elaborate, and I tear fingernails getting them loose enough to yank them down from his raw wrists, then do the same for his ankles. He makes a choked noise when I do, and I realize that she’s run a thinner cord from that knot up; it’s around his throat, and cutting in deep. Dammit.I yell for Javier, and he’s there in a second, rummaging through the tools and coming back with a pair of garden shears. He cuts that cord, and I get the noose away from Sam’s throat.

God, I want to hurt that woman, so much worse than she’s already been hurt.

“Ambulance is one the way,” Javier says. “Jesus, He could have died.” I expect that was her intention, and I hate her more deeply than I’ve hated anyone in a while. We cut the ankle restraints, and I take Sam in my arms and just feeling him breathing. He’s alive. We’re alive.

We stay that way until the paramedic comes to check him out.

* * *

The next time I talk to Linda Hernandez, she calls me, and the second I answer, she’s apologizing. Profusely. I cut her off. “No,” I tell her. “You were played by a psychopath, and there’s no way you could have known the truth from where you were standing. I’m just glad she was confident enough of your loyalty that she didn’t come back for you. She could have. Any time. And you would have been easy for her.”

Linda pauses, and I hear her swallow as she takes in what I’ve said. “I saw her,” she says quietly. “A couple of times. She just … dropped in to tell me everything was fine. Do you think …”

“Do I think she was stalking you? Maybe. Maybe just checking in to make sure you weren’t a weak link. Either way, you were lucky. Look, I’m not mad. I appreciate the work you do for women in trouble, and I support you every step of the way. This was just a fluke. Don’t let it scare you off.”

She laughs shakily. “Well, I admit, I had a moment or two of thinking maybe I wasn’t good at this. My friend Lyra says hello, and sorry. We really had this so wrong.”

“We all did,” I say. “Especially her mother.”

“Still does,” Linda replies, and there’s more of a sober tone now. “You saw the interview on the news, right?”

I did. It was a full-throated, willful defense of her daughter, denying that Elisa had done anything wrong, ever, and throwing the blame wildly on anyone in the way. Including me, when a reporter brought me up. Par for the course. I’m not sweating that. Kezia’s already told me that bodies are surfacing, now that they’re tracing Elisa’s serial-killer existence. She doesn’t tell me anything else, and I don’t ask.

The Lost Angels are leaving me be, at least for now.

Home feels like home. But it still feels even more fragile, especially when I look at Sam and see his healing wounds. Remember that cord around his neck. He was collateral damage to Elisa, just a thing to play with while she waited for me.

We could so easily have lost what we have. I could have lost him.

I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat eluding a nightmare, and suddenly I realize what Elisa whispered to me when I had the knife at her throat.

I saw you.

I’d wanted her to.

But I sincerely wonder exactly who I showed her.​