She’d taken his advice to heart. Back then, her first few weeks online, she had been a prude, in the sense of camgirl standards. Had mostly flirted, done soft play, lots of tease work. But she’d grown sexually, had found her confidence, her footing. Found out what she liked and didn’t. Got a voice and used it. And there, from his seat, he’d watched it all, saw her blossom into the Internet superstar that she is today.

Their relationship had taken a business turn three months in, when he could no longer sit quietly by and see her personal information so easily accessible. He reached out, set her up a website and secured her domain. Moved her hosting into a private server. Set up mail forwarding and ghost cell phones. Buried Deanna Madden so deep behind the JessReilly19 alias that no one would ever connect the two names. Sat back, patted himself on the back, and slept well at night, knowing that his sweet little cam princess was protected.

Then, Statesboro happened. Annie happened. And he saw a different side of his vixen. He’d protected her, hidden her, covered for her, dug, researched, and enabled her. Broke a hundred laws and endangered himself. And he’d thought it was over; then it began again. Worse this time. Much, much worse. They’d barely made it through together. And he’d learned exactly how dark her pink persona really was. How much she was capable of. And God, if he didn’t love her. For the dark, for the light. For the innocence that still existed behind her insanity. For her fight, through it all, to be good.

He pulls out the large wooden box, setting it on the table before him and reaching for the note. Opens it up and runs his fingers over the paper, her handwriting. The first time he’s seen her handwriting. It is messy and awkward, as if she is out of practice in writing it. Beautiful in its imperfection, as all of her is. He closes the note and lines the card up with the box. Cracks open the box and folds back the lid. Sits back and stares at the lineup. Counts the knives, considers the guns, and rereads the note from Deanna. Closes his eyes and wonders if, one last time, he’ll protect her.

A stupid question. He’ll protect her to his death. He’s failed once. He never will again.

CHAPTER 52

Present

THERE IS SOMETHING creepy about having this girl behind you. And that is the thing that was pushing this whole movement. The crawl across her skin when she was with this girl. Detective Brenda Boles knew killers. And now, walking down the hall, with the soft squish of the girl behind her, she knew.

They get on the elevator, a group of four, the girl moving to the far side of the car and pushing herself against the wall, as if they are toxic and she needs space. She had wondered if the girl would come outside, could see the mental ping-pong game that had gone on behind those intelligent eyes when she’d posed the question. Simon and Chelsea Evans had both stated that the girl didn’t like to leave the apartment. The girl herself had said she “didn’t get out much.” And no one in Jeremy’s world has ever met her. Yet… she has a car. And, from the DMV records, not just any one, but one worth being driven. The elevator stops, on the bottom floor, and she steps back. Gestures for Deanna Madden to go ahead, which the girl reluctantly does. Brenda smiles to herself and steps off behind her, David rounding the corner in the lead and pushing on the exit door. It’ll be interesting to see David’s reaction to the car. She hasn’t shared what she found on the DMV, saved up this tidbit just to spice up the warrant search, should it get boring.

“Which one’s yours?” David stops outside the building, a chain-link fence to their right, enclosing, in halfhearted fashion, the square piece of concrete that is the parking lot. Before them, a menagerie of cars, from rusted Toyotas to tricked-out Caddies, to… through the sea of crap, a midnight-blue Jaguar F-Type convertible. Deanna raises her arm slowly, pointing, the look on her face that of a five-year-old who is forced to share her toy. “The blue one,” she mumbles.

David looks. Pauses. His head whips to Brenda, and his eyebrows raise, Chelsea shifting behind her on the concrete. She’s done the math. Three years of his salary sits before them, two cars over, a fat cat in the middle of starvation. How, in the seven months since her purchase, this car hadn’t gotten jacked was beyond her. Hell, her Galant had been robbed twice. Maybe that was the issue. This thing was too hot for the boys to touch and her Galant… well… wasn’t. Or maybe the little girl with the big eyes had earned her spot in this neighborhood.

David and Chelsea walk forward; she stays in place. Cars aren’t really her thing. The girl beside her, that is.

“Is he going to find anything in there?”

The girl turns her head and considers her. Then shrugs, smiles. “Depends on what he’s looking for.”

Brenda looks forward, the trunk quietly opening, David moving around its back. Well. That was a new response.

“You know he’ll die.” The words are a test, a pull at one of her seams to see the reaction. David will kill her, doing this out of the station, without Miranda rights read.

The girl turns her head and meets Brenda’s eyes. Looks, for the second time in the last fifteen minutes, off. Confused. And… for the second time, Brenda herself feels off-kilter. She watches the close of the girl’s lips, the movement of her throat when she swallows, the hesitation that is pushed through. Finally, her lips open and an unexpected word comes out.

“Who?”

Best I am aware, everyone I have killed is in the ground. Gone. No chance of them popping up their heads and having tea. There is no wondering if they’ll die, it’s done. I was there for the final wheeze of their lungs, for the falter of life in their eyes. I stand in the parking lot of the Mulholland Oaks complex and, for the first time, wonder if this is all a mistake. Could it be that this isn’t about me? Isn’t about my victims?

When Brenda responds, the name floating through the air like a bad scent, I inhale it. Cough on its poison. Reach out and grab for solidity, something to hold me up. Her arm comes out, I ignore it. Reach, stumble, reach, stand. I am standing, I can do this. I look over at her face and smile. I don’t know why I’m smiling, but I’m smiling as widely as I can and the smile is keeping me sane, keeping the scream in my stomach where it belongs, and I don’t know what to do because the name she just spoke isn’t right, can’t be right, it’s not Marcus or Ralph or Momma, it is pure and beautiful and will live to be a thousand. No, Jeremy Pacer will not die and I will cut out your vocal cords and wear them as a necklace so you never ever have to worry about misspeaking and saying those words again. No, Jeremy Pacer will not die, because he is far away and someplace safe and I know this because he is mad at me because of something I did and mad people don’t die, they get drunk with their friends and bitch about their girlfriends and kiss strangers like Chelsea. No, Jeremy Pacer will not die, because I love him and I’ve never loved anyone except for Momma and Daddy and Trent and Summer and they are all dead and life is not that cruel. No, Jeremy Pacer will not die, because he broke my nose a few nights ago and I don’t know why and I ripped the cardboard off the window and woke up on the floor and have been haunted by police and ohmygodwhathaveIdone.