Bad News
Author: Amy Cross
Date: 2019-05-29 20:46:26+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Fiction
Description: A missing girl. A man with a past. And a reporter who'll do anything to uncover the truth. When she's fired from her job at a TV station, Maggie Carter sets out to prove that she's got what it takes. Determined to be as devious, deceptive and duplicitious as her most successful colleagues, she heads to the small town of Ridge Falls on a one-woman mission to discover the truth about the disappearance of 15-year-old Kimmy Duchette. But Ridge Falls hides dark secrets. Kimmy isn't the first girl to go missing in the area, and soon Maggie is drawn to the man who was suspected of killing another gir
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services LLC - Kdp Print Us

Copyright 2019 Amy Cross

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

Kindle edition

First published: May 2019

A missing girl.

A man with a past.

And a reporter who'll do anything to uncover the truth.

When she's fired from her job at a TV station, Maggie Carter sets out to prove that she's got what it takes. Determined to be as devious, deceptive and duplicitious as her most successful colleagues, she heads to the small town of Ridge Falls on a one-woman mission to discover the truth about the disappearance of 15-year-old Kimmy Duchette.

But Ridge Falls hides dark secrets. Kimmy isn't the first girl to go missing in the area, and soon Maggie is drawn to the man who was suspected of killing another girl ten years earlier. Is Thomas Roper a murderer who got away with his first crime, or is he an innocent man who fell victim to rumors and innuendo? And did news coverage of the previous case prevent it ever being solved?

Bad News is a horror story about a horrifying disappearance, a town living in fear, and one reporter's determination to discover the truth and make a name for herself. But how far is Maggie really willing to go, and what will she find when she reaches the dark heart of a terrifying local tragedy?

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Epilogue

Bad News

Prologue

Suddenly I hear a faint snapping sound over my shoulder.

I spin around, still holding the knife up. All I see is the dimly-lit house in the distance, and there are no murderous, silhouetted figures, but I'm certain I just heard someone stepping on a twig.

So I run.

I turn and I race out through the dark forest, struggling on my injured leg, half-slamming into tree after tree, almost falling as the ground regularly dips and then rises beneath my feet. The sound of my own breath, and the sound of my steps against the forest floor, are all I hear as I rush out into the great darkness. I'm running so fast, I almost trip over my own feet, and finally I thud straight into a tree with such force that I almost fall backward and hit the ground.

Almost.

Steadying myself for a moment, as I struggle for gulps of air, I look over my shoulder. There's no sign of anyone, but then again someone could be rushing right for me and I wouldn't necessarily know until it was too late.

What if he has night-vision goggles?

I turn to run again, but my right leg almost buckles as I feel a burst of pain crackling up through my thigh.

Reaching down, I immediately feel blood on the side of my pants, and I realize that the injury to my leg must be worse than I'd guessed. Still, there's no time to stop and patch myself up, so I start limping out once more into the darkness.

Suddenly, hearing a rustling sound, I turn and look back again. And this time, I see someone running this way, just about visible against the distant glow of the farmhouse. Somehow, I recognize him immediately.

I turn and start running again, pushing through the pain. I know I'm making a lot of noise, but I can't help that as I race between the trees. I barely even manage to keep hold of the knife, but somehow I keep going until finally I hit another tree.

I look back, but now there's no sign of him.

Desperately trying to catch my breath, I glance all around. The pain in my leg is intense now, throbbing wildly, and for a moment I feel as if I'm just going to collapse here. I guess, if I passed out, he might not find me.

And then, just as I feel myself starting to weaken, I hear a rustling sound.

I turn, and I'm just about able to make out the sight of a figure rushing this way. In an instant, I can tell that it's him, so I force myself to keep going. I race out between the trees, stumbling slightly on my injured leg, and I somehow find the strength to run and run and run. I manage to keep going, until suddenly the ground seems to disappear beneath my feet. I let out a shocked gasp as I fall, and then I slam into the mud and roll down a steep slope that eventually levels out and sends me crashing into another tree, and I can't help myself.

I scream.

Chapter One

One year earlier

“Fake news,” I say as I continue to clean under my fingernail with a pen lid. “I didn't touch your candy, Terrance. I don't know where it went, but if I had to hazard a guess I'd say you probably ate it while you were drunk.”

“I think I know when I've eaten my candy,” he replies gruffly from the passenger seat. “It went missing. Someone took it.”

Sighing, I look out the window and see that there's been no movement on the steps of the Sheriff's office. It's almost 10pm and the promised statement is about two hours overdue. A lonely streetlight picks out the steps at the front of the office, but there's no sign of movement and when I glance at the building's only lit window I don't see anyone inside. If I didn't know better, I'd be starting to think that Sheriff Aiden Malone might've skipped out the back door and avoided us entirely on his way home. Then again, he'd still have to come around through the front gate, unless he decided to scale the fence at the rear. He can't be that desperate to avoid answering a few questions.

Can he?

“Did you take it, Daryl?” Terrance says suddenly, and I hear the seat creak under his weight as he turns to look round to the back seat. “Just 'fess up if you did. I won't even be mad.”

“I didn't touch your candy,” Daryl says, sounding even more bored than I am. “I don't even eat that junk.”

“Come on,” I whisper under my breath, still watching the main door that leads into the Sheriff's office. “Don't make me go in there and force a statement out of you.”

“Someone ate it,” Terrance continues. “It has to have been one of you two.”

This is taking forever. What's so hard about writing up a few lines and giving them out to the media? It's not as if anyone expects them to have made a major breakthrough in the case. In the few days since I arrived in this godforsaken nowheresville, it's become abundantly clear to me that Sheriff Malone and his people are completely out of their depth. I guess this is the biggest case they've ever had to deal with, and they're probably used to only having to deal with their buddies from the local paper. Too bad for them that we've been sent down from the big city to come poke around and see what's going on. I swear, I can smell the resentment in the air when I walk these streets.

Malone and his buddies are probably searching online for “press release template”.

“I bet you just ate it and forgot,” Daryl says. “Did you check your beard for crumbs?”

“There!” I shout, and I've got the driver's door open even before the solitary figure has made it out of the Sheriff's office and over to the top of the steps. “Camera! Sound! Let's go!”

I wipe some sandwich crumbs from my top as I hurry across the empty road, and then I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. A moment later I hear one of the car's other doors slam, then another, which means Terrance and Daryl are already lagging behind. I swear, with a half-decent crew I'd have already toppled Rolinda Derringham as the station's top reporter and I'd be the one presenting the evening news broadcast. As it is, I have to make do with a pair of idiots who wouldn't know actual news if it bit them on their respective, flabby asses. And as I get to the sidewalk in front of the building and stop right in front of Sheriff Malone, I already know it'll be at least ten, maybe fifteen seconds before the guys join us. Maybe I can leverage that fact. Maybe I'll seem less threatening.

“Is that statement ready now?” I ask, just as I manage to set my phone on to record.

“Ms. Carter,” Malone says with a heavy sigh, “I thought maybe you'd called it quits for the night.”

“You promised us a statement at eight o'clock,” I point out. “What's the latest on the investigation?”

“I said I'd try to get a statement out at eight,” he replies, “but that it might not be ready until tomorrow morning.”

“I don't recall that wording at all,” I tell him. “You said eight o'clock tonight.”

“There's no news,” he continues. “Nothing I can share with you guys, anyway.”

“Have you found anything significant in the forest?”

“If we had, I wouldn't be at liberty to tell you.”

“Are you any closer to finding out who kidnapped Kimmy Duchette?”

“No arrests have been made, but we're following up every lead that we have and I'm confident that we're making real progress. Now if you don't mind, I have an early start tomorrow so I'd really like to get home now.”

He turns to walk away, just as Terrance finally arrives with the camera. A moment later, Daryl catches up with a microphone, which he quickly shoves toward me. I grab his wrist and turn the microphone so that it's pointed toward Sheriff Malone.

“Isn't this overkill?” he asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“A little girl is missing,” I remind him, “and a lot of people are wondering whether your department is capable of conducting a thorough investigation.”

“Who's wondering that?” he asks.

“A lot of people.”

“Such as?”

“People who are saying that your investigation isn't going anywhere.”

“Who's saying that?”

“That doesn't matter. It's all around town. It's a week since Kimmy went missing, and five days since traces of blood were found in the forest. You should have someone by now, or you should be calling in help from other agencies. Is it true that you turned down an offer of help from -”

“I'm not doing this right now,” he says, waving a hand at me dismissively and then turning to walk away. “I have a wife and son at home, Ms. Carter, and I don't intend to spend the rest of my evening out here talking to you. I'll be back here in the morning, and I've got a funny feeling that you will too. You're not my priority, though. My priorities are finding Kimmy safe and well, and catching anyone who might be involved in her disappearance. Good evening to you, Ms. Carter. Take care.”

“That's not good enough!” I call after him, but I already know there's no point chasing him down. Sighing, I turn to find that Terrance and Daryl are behind me. “Did you get all that?” I ask.

“Of course,” Terrance replies, still looking through the camera's viewfinder. “Most of it, anyway. Definitely the last part.”

“That asshole thinks he can just float along at his own glacial pace,” I mutter, watching as Malone disappears around the far corner. “Meanwhile a girl is missing, almost certainly dead, and no-one's actually doing anything. Coming to this hellhole of a town is like going back in time thirty years. They're living in their own little bubble.”

“So are we heading home tomorrow?” Daryl asks, with a hint of hope in his voice.

I turn to him.

“It seems like we've got as much of a story as we can,” he continues, “and we can always come back later if there are any big developments. There's just doesn't seem to be much point hanging around all day every day, waiting for someone to hand us a press release. We're not really getting anywhere, are we? Frankly, we're doing about as well as the police.”

“It's not a competition,” Terrance adds.

“Say who?” I ask. “It's all because of the stupid -”

I stop myself just in time. On the way down here to Ridge Falls, I was convinced that this story would be huge, that we were going to be in the right place at the right time to capture all the developments in the search for Kimmy Duchette. Now here we are, a few days later, and all we've got are a few quotes from Sheriff Slow-Ass. Last night we were the broadcast's fifth story, tonight we'll be no higher than eighth. At this rate, by tomorrow we'll be getting bumped if the sports news overruns. Meanwhile, Rolinda Derringham gets all the big stories. I'm sure she'll have won a few awards while we've been away.

“Maybe we should get back to the motel,” Terrance says. “I don't know about you guys, but I'm tired and hungry, and I get cranky when I'm tired and hungry.”

“You guys can take the van,” I reply, turning to them. “I think I'm gonna walk.”

“You? Walk?” Daryl furrows his brow. “Since when did you walk anywhere?”

“Since I needed some fresh air,” I say, taking a step back. “I just want to clear my head and figure out where we go from here. Maybe you're right, maybe this story isn't going anywhere.”

As they head back to the van, I'm left standing alone outside the shuttered Sheriff's office. I want to scream, but I manage to hold it all in and I watch as Terrance and Daryl drive away.

“Check the local property records!” I call after them. “Check anything we haven't already checked!”

I know they heard me, but they don't reply and soon the truck is taking a right turn and I watch as it goes out of sight.

It's a good three miles to the motel, and I hate walking at the best of times, but I really need to be alone. Besides, the motel doesn't even have a minibar, let alone an actual bar, and as I turn and starting walking along the street I realize that I desperately need a drink. Whiskey makes other people drunk, but it sobers me up and makes me feel more like myself.

A few minutes later, I reach the old-fashioned bar opposite the gas station. I'm exhausted, but I head inside to the bright electric light, and then I make my way to the bar.

“Whiskey, please,” I tell the woman who comes over to greet me. “No ice. Just whiskey.”

I feel like such a cliché, but the truth is, I really need to be alone right now.

I wait as the waitress gets my drink. Spotting my reflection in the mirror behind the bottles, I see that I look like death. I'm exhausted, my hair is a mess, and I look more like forty-seven than thirty-seven. In fact, I think there are even rings under my eyes, although after tilting my head a few different directions I just about manage to convince myself that the rings are just an illusion caused by the lighting in this joint. After paying for my whiskey, I turn and head over to find a booth, which shouldn't be too difficult seeing as how there's only one other customer in the whole place.

And then I stop as I spot the one other customer, and I see that it's Sheriff Aiden Malone eating a huge strawberry sundae. As soon as he sees me looking at him, he freezes.

Chapter Two

“I don't want to talk about this right now,” Malone says as he dips his spoon back into the sundae. “Thank you for asking before you sat down, by the way.”

“I thought you were going home to your wife and kids?” I reply.

“I stopped off here to get something to eat.”

“Is that your dinner? Isn't your wife waiting patiently in the kitchen with home-made pie?”

“Is that your dinner?” he replies, glancing at my whiskey.

“I had a burger earlier,” I tell him, “but nice try. Now come on, we're off the record here, you can tell me what's going on. You can't be as incompetent as you seem, so spill. Who are you eyeing for Kimmy Duchette's kidnap and murder?”

“I told you earlier, I -”

“And now we're off the record,” I remind him. “Anything you tell me will not leave this bar.”

“I doubt anything's ever off the record with you,” he replies. “No offense.”

“None taken. But here's the thing, I work in the TV news business and at some stage the Kimmy Duchette story is going to get a lot more attention. Probably when the body's found. Twenty years ago, a missing girl was big news. These days you really need a body if you want to hit the nationals.”

“We don't know that she's -”

“Come on, of course she's dead,” I continue. “Let's cut all the hogwash about hope and about there being a chance of finding her alive. You and I both know that this is going to end up being a murder investigation. You just need to pull your act together and actually find the body.”

“You don't mince your words, do you?”

“Things can get out of control. The media loves to create villains, and you might end up in that role.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Work with me, and I can make sure that you come across in a sympathetic light.”

He sighs, and I realize that I'm in danger of losing him here.

“What happens if it turns out that you missed a chance to save Kimmy?” I ask. “You'll be vilified. You might have noticed, people online have time on their hands, and they like to criticize. Whereas if you work with us and let us get a little deeper into your investigation, we can do certain things to make you seem good. We can even make you seem a like a hero, if that's what you want.”

“You can't be serious.”

“I'm just telling you how the world works, Sheriff Malone,” I continue. “You're lucky, we're the only ones really covering this story at the moment, but others will come. Do you really want to be left alone to deal with a pack of voracious reporters? If you think I'm bad, imagine a hundred of me outside your office!”

“That's a truly chilling thought,” he deadpans.

“Not to mention,” I continue, “the reporters are only the first wave. After that, there'll come something even more horrific.”

“And what's that?”

I lean closer to him, for maximum impact.

“Bloggers,” I whisper. “If you think people like me are bad, wait until you get bloggers swarming all over your pretty little town. They'll be so horrific, they'll make me seem like Walter Cronkite.”

“And you want to protect me from all of this, do you?”

“It's a quid pro quo kind of deal,” I tell him. “I get all the exclusives in this case, and you get the most favorable press coverage that's possible. And who knows? We might even be able to help you with your investigation.”

“You might, huh?”

He eats another spoonful of strawberry sundae.

“Do you have any leads at all?” I ask. “Come on, you must, you're not an idiot. You might try to project the image of a small-town hick, but you're smarter than that. I can see it in your eyes.”

“The image of a what?” he replies.

“That was a compliment.”

“You've lost me.”

“Am I talking too fast?”

“Gee,” he replies, “my little town brain can't keep up.”

“Who kidnapped Kimmy?” I continue. “Those patches of blood in the forest can't be the only thing you've found. Do you have a sense of which way she was taken after she was last seen at that bus stop? I know someone claims to have seen her walking into the forest with a man, but didn't you get a good description? What kind of clothes was he wearing? Did he seem to be coercing Kimmy, or did it look like she was going with him voluntarily? Do you have any evidence to suggest that there was a struggle? What about weapons? What about fibers, was there anything mixed in with the blood?”

I wait, but he merely stares at me.

“Now it's your turn to talk,” I tell him.

Again I wait, and again he just stares.

“Are you trying to be cool?” I ask. “It's not working.”

“I don't give a damn what you think,” he replies. “Can you get that into your head? And I don't need you coming down here and telling me how the world works.”

“I was only -”

“I'm looking for a missing girl,” he adds, cutting me off, and now he sounds a little angry, “and, yes, there's a good chance that she's dead. This is not some reality TV mess for you to dramatize on your crappy news network. This is someone's daughter, someone's friend, and the longer she stays missing the harder it is for people to come to terms with the possibilities. I'm conducting an investigation that -”

“A murder investigation, right?” I reply. “You're -”

“I'm talking here!” he snaps. “I'm conducting an investigation that has multiple avenues, and I really don't give a crap if that doesn't work for your schedule. I have a lot of leads, and sometimes that means that I don't have time to write a nice shiny press report to hand out at eight on the dot each evening. And before you ask, I'm not going to tell you anything about these leads, because my priority is to safeguard the investigation. I don't give a damn about you and your needs.”

“Freedom of the press -”

“This has nothing to do with freedom of the press,” he adds. “This is about my freedom to conduct an investigation without being hampered by people like you.”

With that, he takes another mouthful of dessert.

“I've never seen anyone eat strawberry sundae this way before,” I tell him after a few seconds. “You're such an angry chewer.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

I open my mouth to tell him that it's just a joke, but somehow the words don't come out. I guess it was kind of flippant, and I can probably do better.

“You don't matter here,” he continues after a moment. “I don't give a damn about your show, and I don't give a damn about your ratings or about your ego-driven urge to get the latest scoop. When I have something to tell you, Ms. Carter, then I'll let you know. Otherwise, stay out of my way.”

“Maggie,” I reply.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name. It's Maggie.”

“Why do I need to know that?”

“I was just...”

My voice trails off, and I can't help thinking that I might have misjudged this situation just a little. In lieu of saying something, I take a sip of my whiskey and then I decide to just down the whole thing. I just need to not look like an asshole here, but I can't think of anything to say that's likely to make the situation any better. And then, just as I'm in danger of making some asinine quip about sundaes, the waitress comes over and collects Malone's empty dessert glass.

“Everything okay here?” she asks.

“It's fine,” he tells her, while keeping his eyes fixed firmly on me. “I was just about to head home.”

“Sorry to hear about you and Jessie,” the waitress says as she turns and walks away. “That must be rough on you, Aiden. I'm sure you can work it out, though. Just hang on in there and I bet she'll take you back before you know it.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Carter,” he says as he gets to his feet and puts his hat back in place. “Have a nice journey back to the city when you leave.”

I almost tell him that I'm sticking around for a while longer, but instead I hold back. Looking down at my whiskey glass, I listen to the sound of Malone's footsteps getting further away and then I hear the door opening and closing. I glance out the window, and I'm just about able to make out the sight of him walking away across the parking lot. All things considered, that was probably my second or third worst ever attempt at being diplomatic. Sometimes I wonder whether I'm quite as good at diplomacy as I used to think.

“Hey,” I say, turning to the waitress as I realize that I don't quite fancy the walk back to the motel just yet. “Can I get one more of these?”

Chapter Three

As soon as I push open the door to my motel room, I hear something scraping against the floor. Looking down, I spot some sheets of paper that have been tucked under the door, and I pick them up as I kick the door shut and head to the bed.

“Great,” I mutter as I see that Terrance and Daryl have printed out a list of all land-holders in the local area. Not that this is going to be much use, of course, but at least they were doing something tonight rather than getting paid to sit around eating and drinking.

After I've taken a quick look at the names, I head through to the bathroom and brush my teeth to get rid of the whiskey taste. Then I change into my pajamas and drink a glass of water, before wandering back to the bed and sitting down. I almost grab my phone to check the news, but then I realize that I'll only get angry and depressed, so I take the print-out and take a look at the next couple of pages, looking at name after meaningless name.

When I got into the news business, I thought I was going to make a difference. I wanted to be an investigative reporter, I wanted to focus on political or corporate corruption and really help to make the world a better place. Sure, I knew I'd have to spend some time wading through crime stories and all the really popular stuff, but I figured that eventually I'd manage to get onto the serious stuff. Maybe I was hopelessly naive, but I genuinely believed that journalism was some kind of higher calling. Now it's clear that the whole thing is a crock of -

Suddenly I see the name Thomas Roper on the print-out, and two words slip from my mouth as I sit bolt upright on the bed.

“Holy crap!”

***

“Maybe it's a coincidence,” Terrance says, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “Can we talk about this in the morning?”

“There's no way this is a coincidence,” I reply, storming past him and entering his room, only to find that it stinks of potato chips and farts. “A girl goes missing, she's most likely been murdered,” I point out, “and guess who happens to own a house just outside town? Or a farm, or whatever the hell that property actually is. A slaughterhouse, for all we know. And it all belongs to the man who killed Esmee Waters ten years ago.”

“He was never convicted of anything, was he?”

“So? He did it.”

“He was never even arrested. It was all just talk. They never even found Esmee's body.”

“Bingo. Isn't this starting to seem a little familiar? Obviously the guy's really good at burying corpses! He's had practice!”

I wait for his next brilliant attempt to tell me that I'm wrong, but instead he takes the print-outs from my hands and glances down the list. He's mumbling to himself as he reads, as if he has to say each name out loud.

“A decade ago,” I continue, “a fifteen-year-old girl named Esmee Waters vanished from outside her home in a a town about twenty miles from here, and she was never seen again. The police were convinced that a local man, Thomas Roper, was responsible, but they could never pin it on him. There was a whole big media hoop-la about it, the case even made the national headlines. Eventually the trail went cold, and I guess Roper figured he'd gotten away with it and so he carried on with his life. Now here we are, ten years later, and a fifteen-year-old girl named Kimmy Duchette has gone missing in practically the same area.”

“Wouldn't he have changed his name, though?” Terrance asks. “Or moved away? I mean, the guy was pretty notorious for a while.”

“He was a complete loner. It's not like he has any friends to alienate.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“We have to look into this!”

“Your breath smells like whiskey.”

“There's a story here,” I tell him. “I don't know exactly what the story is, not yet, but I have a sense for these things and I'm telling you that there's a story. Coincidences this big are never just coincidences.”

“I admit that this is all kinda odd,” he replies cautiously, clearly picking his words with great care, “but coincidences do happen. And I keep coming back to the simple fact that this Roper guy was never charged. In fact, if I remember right, his record was – and remains – spotless. He'd never even been given a citation for bad driving. He was just questioned over and over about that girl's disappearance, and the media dug through his private life like raccoons going through a trashcan. If that man was guilty, someone would've found something.”

“Everyone knew that he was guilty, though,” I point out.

“Did they really? Everyone? Then why is he still out and about?”

“Because he was clever. Because he slipped through the net. Obviously he couldn't help himself, though. Obviously he finally broke down and struck again.” I pause for a moment, and my mind is racing. “He's probably spent the past ten years living in fear, worried that justice would finally catch up to him. But his urges were growing. Throbbing. Finally, he couldn't help himself. He figured that he could take the risk. He knew it was dangerous, but maybe that was part of the thrill. So he began to hunt again. He probably went out, day after day, night after night, scouring the local area for a vulnerable girl. Eventually he found Kimmy. Maybe he tracked her for a while, maybe he watched her through her bedroom window. Maybe he had night-vision goggles! And notebooks about her, with doodles! And finally he couldn't hold back, he burst out from the shadows and took her back to his place, and he did awful, terrible things to her. Really, truly grotesque things!” I pause again. “Or something like that.”

“You scare me sometimes,” he replies.

“Thank you.”

“And you think the police here don't know about him?”

“Of course they do. That's why that Malone guy was being so secretive. The last thing he needs is for the media to make this connection, they'd have a field day. I should have been suspicious from the start, when he was so keen for us to leave. He must know that Roper is at it again, but he doesn't have any proof yet. So he wants to keep us away until he's ready to make his move. He knows he can't afford to screw this up. He can't let this monster walk away from a second crime. This is typical small-town bullshit!”

“So maybe we should respect that and, I dunno, not screw it up for him?”

“This is a huge scoop!”

“We're reporters,” he points out, “not cops.”

“So?”

“So we're supposed to report on the news, not try to make it.”

“Whatever,” I reply. “Reporters and cops are basically the same thing, except we have a little more freedom to go after the bad guys. Reporters are just cops without rules.”

“That's not quite how it works,” he replies, “and the legal department would never approve you running a story based on what you've got so far. Which, in case you hadn't noticed, is basically nothing. Roper could sue us into oblivion. If you want to report this link, you need way more than just a few coincidences. Maggie, no-one's going to let you go on the air with a bunch of assumptions and possibilities.”

“So what's your suggestion?” I ask. “Do you think we should just not bother looking into it at all?”

“I think you have to trust this Malone guy,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck as he stands with the door still open. “Can we please talk about this in the morning? I'm exhausted and I need to sleep.”

“We're sitting on a huge story,” I reply, “and you want to sleep?”

“Desperately, yes.” He pauses, before sighing. “I'm not going to get to, though, am I?”

I pause for a moment. My mind is racing, and I know I need to come up with a plan. Finally I realize exactly what we should do next.

“Get Daryl,” I say firmly.

“Why?”

“Wake him up.”

“Why would -” He hesitates, staring at me, and finally I see a flicker of realization on his face. “No.”

“We're going to -”

“No!” he says again. “Absolutely not. I know what you're thinking and we're not doing it. No, Maggie. I meant it this time. No means no. We're not doing this.”

“Oh, yes we are,” I reply, before placing a hand on his shoulder. “I'm gonna go get three coffees from the posher vending machine in reception, because I'm nice like that. Meanwhile, you go wake Daryl up. We meet at the van in fifteen minutes. Now move!”

Chapter Four

The van's headlights pick out a rough dirt road ahead of us, with thin, sick-looking trees on either side. It's a little past midnight now and, as we bump along through the cold air, I look at the darkness beyond the trees and I swear I feel as if we're out in the middle of nowhere.

“There,” I say, suddenly spotting a very faint, very dim light up ahead.

“This is seriously creepy,” Daryl says from the driver's seat. “Who the hell wants to live so far away from the rest of civilization?”

“A man with something to hide,” I point out, squinting slightly in an attempt to see the light a little better. “A man who wants to get on with things, without people being able to see what he's doing. And without them being able to hear what he's doing.”

“Or a man whose name was dragged through the mud,” Terrance suggests, “and who eventually had to move to a different state and try to start a new life. That kind of thing has got to screw you up.”

“The darkness is his friend,” I continue.

“Come again?”

“He probably goes out into the forest, late at night, with night-vision goggles. He hunts people.”

“That's a bit of a stretch,” he replies. “And why are you so obsessed with night-vision goggles? You're always talking about them, but I've never in my life met a single person who owned a pair.”

“So we're not actually going to go to his house, are we?” Daryl asks. “That's not the plan, is it?”

“Just keep driving.”

“But if -”

“Keep driving,” I tell him, as the van bumps over a particularly large pothole. “I've got this covered. I just want to scope the place out and see the whites of this guy's eyes.”

“You scare me sometimes,” Daryl says under his breath. “You really scare me, Maggie. And I'm not just saying that to try to get on your good side, either. You scare me in a very deep, honest way that goes to my very core.”

“Just bring us to a stop by that gate,” I tell him, as a wooden fence emerges from the gloom, picked out by the van's headlights. “That looks like the way onto his property, right?” A moment later I spot a large 'Keep Out' sign next to the gate. “Perfect,” I add. “That's the way in.”

“Most people see a sign like that and stay away,” Daryl points out. “You might want to consider that option.”

“Stop the van, and stop being a smartass. You don't have the necessary sense of humor.”

Sighing, he brings the van to a stop, and I immediately open the door and jump out into the cold night air. My feet land on the hard, dry ground, which is at least a step up from the mud I was expecting, but I've got to admit that it's freezing out here and I really wish I'd brought a jacket. I could borrow one from one of the guys, although after a moment I realize that maybe shivering would be a good compliment to the act I'm about to put on. It can't hurt to make myself look as pathetic as possible.

“Are you really going to do this?” Daryl asks, before turning to Terrance. “She's really going to do this. She's getting worse.”

“You guys remember the plan, right?” I ask.

“Sure do,” Daryl says. “Wait until he murders you, and then head back to town and report your gruesome death.”

“You'll be missed,” Terrance says dourly. “In some ways. We'll definitely notice that you're gone.”

“He's not going to murder anyone tonight,” I tell them both. “Come on, the guy killed Esmee Waters ten years ago and now he's blatantly kidnapped Kimmy Duchette Whatever else he might be, he's certainly not dumb.” I turn and look toward the farmhouse, and I can just about make out a single electric light on what looks like some kind of long, low porch. “He already knows we're here,” I continue. “We're being watched right now.”

“Or he's fast asleep in front of the TV,” Terrance suggests, “like a normal guy.”

“Wait here,” I add, slamming the van's door shut before heading over to the gate and fumbling for a moment before I manage to get it open. Even the wood is icy cold. “Fun fact,” I mutter under my breath, “I happen to hate the countryside.”

That, at least, is true. The countryside means dirt, and dirt means having to get clean at some point. If I'm already clean, why go through all the bother of letting myself get dirty? It's not as if I enjoy fields full of flowers or bright vistas and cute animals.

Once I'm through the gate, I start making my way along a dark path that winds its way up toward the farmhouse. My footsteps seem so loud right now, crunching against the dirt, and I can't help looking around to make sure that there's nobody nearby. To be honest, this plan seemed simple enough when I was back in the warmth of the van; out here, shivering and alone, I'm starting to feel that maybe there actually is a teeny tiny element of risk involved in what I'm doing. I don't think that Thomas Roper is some kind of unbridled maniac who snatches women as soon as he sees them, but I have to admit that it's a possibility. Then again, they say that fortune favors the bold, right?

Wait, what if he really does have night-vision goggles? Glancing around at the darkness, I imagine myself picked out in fuzzy green and white light. I'd be a sitting duck out here, at Roper's mercy. I look the other way, and of course I can't help imagining night-vision goggles zooming in on my worried face.

Then again, I guess there's no point worry about that right now. Either he has night-vision goggles or he doesn't.

Stopping suddenly, I realize that maybe I need to ham this performance up a little. And dumb it down at the same time.

I look around, and then slowly I get down onto my knees. This feels really dumb, but I guess we all have to suffer sometimes for our art, so I carefully settle onto my front and wait a moment until I feel cold mud soaking through the front of my clothes. I wipe some onto my face as well, for good measure, and then I get to my feet.

Yeah, I must look pretty pathetic right now.

Reaching the steps at the front of the farmhouse, I take one last look around and then I take a deep breath. I need to play this cool and come across just right, so I let my mind settle for a moment before stepping forward. And in that moment, my right foot catches against the bottom step and I trip, almost falling forward.

I mutter a few curses under my breath, before regathering my composure and then making my way up onto the porch. I start rubbing my arms with my hands for warmth. If anyone's watching me right now, they must think I look like real easy pickings.

Glancing back the way I came, I see the van parked down by the side of the road with its headlights still blaring.

When I look along the porch, I see large, dark windows. There's absolutely no sign of life, other than the electric light that's buzzing slightly as moths crawl and flitter all around its edges. I can see a few faint shadows on the inside of the light's casing. I guess some of the moths got in there, and now they can't get out again. I wonder if they're suffering, or if maybe they're dying in ecstasy. Poor little suckers.

Taking another deep breath, I look the other way, and that's when I spot the door. So far it's a very ordinary-looking door, with no blood-stained hand-prints or scraps of torn human flesh caught on the handle, but I suppose even a murderous psycho can clean up after himself.

Okay, here goes. No point delaying.

I head over to the door. As I do so, a wooden board creaks and shifts slightly beneath my left foot. So far so good. I pause for a moment, and then I knock hard on the door, hard enough that I reckon anyone inside this farmhouse should have no trouble hearing. Then, realizing that maybe I'm standing a little too close to the door, I take a step back and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

After about a minute or so, with no sign of life coming from inside the house, I step forward and knock again. Then, stepping back, I look along the porch again.

Sighing, I take a moment to ruffle my hair, making it look a little more unkempt.

There are several empty chairs dotted around the place, and a few old metal buckets. Squinting, I try to see further along the porch, and I think I can just about make out some rakes and other gardening equipment propped against the wall. Nothing too murdery so far. Looking the other way, I see a few more wooden chairs, along with a bench pushed against one of the windows. There are some flower-boxes at the far end, and a few hanging baskets, and more tools have been left out, this time spread across some kind of blanket on the wooden boards. To be honest, it looks more like the home of a kindly gardener than the lair of a child-murdering monster.

Realizing that it's been at least another minute since my second knock, I turn back and look at the door. There hasn't been so much as a click or a creak from the other side.

What if this Roper guy isn't in tonight?

What if he's out stalking his way the forest?

What if he's out kidnapping a new victim?

Figuring I might as well try one more time, I knock on the door again. And this time, as I wait, I start wondering whether it might be worth sneaking around and checking out the rear of the house. I know that might be a very dumb idea, but I think I spotted some outhouses and I'd really like to get an idea of the layout of this property. I might even find something, too; I might stumble across a clue, or even the place where he stores and chops up his victims. As the seconds pass, I tell myself that a little snooping trip around the back would be a very bad idea, and that only a fool would do such a thing. I also know, deep down, that I won't be able to stop myself.

Finally, I turn to go down the steps and around the house.

“Can I help you?”

Startled, I let out a brief cry and spin around, bumping my hip into the railing in the process. Gasping at the pain, I reach down and put a hand on my hip, and then I look along the porch and see a dark, silhouetted figure sitting in one of the farthest chairs.

He was not there a moment ago.

Was he?

I swear I'd have seen him.

I mean...

No.

Wait.

He can't have been there, can he?

I guess it's kinda dark.

“I'm sorry if I scared you,” he continues calmly. “This is private property, though. I don't know if you noticed, but there's a sign telling people to keep out. That sign is there for a reason.”

“I...”

For a moment, I'm genuinely not sure what to say. My hip really hurts, and I'm kind of wondering how this guy managed to sneak into that chair without me noticing. Then again, it's pitch-black up here and I guess it's possible he was there the whole time, watching me. I don't know which explanation feels creepier.

“My friends and I are lost,” I say finally, as I remember the cover story I hastily assembled on the drive here. “There's really not any cellphone coverage out here, but we're trying to get to town.” I turn and point at the van, and then I glance back at the guy in the chair. “Those are my friends over there,” I continue, quite keen to make him see that I'm not completely alone. “I think we just took a wrong turn. I also fell in some mud, as you might have noticed. It's very cold.”

“You sure did,” the guy replies. “This road doesn't lead anywhere. You need to turn around and go back to the crossroads, and then take a left. You'll hit town inside of an hour.”

“Left?” I say, trying to sound surprised. “Right, that was our mistake. My friend's an idiot, he couldn't read a map if his life depended on it.”

I wait for the guy to say something, but now he's simply staring at me. I really can't make out any of his features, but from his silhouette alone I can tell that he's a big, hulking guy with broad shoulders. I remember seeing a few photos of Thomas Roper, and he had the same physique. This guy also has a very deep, gravelly voice, which in my mind's eye fits perfectly with the images I remember of Roper when he was being hounded by the press ten years ago.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asks.

“No,” I reply, “that's... I guess that's it.”

I swallow hard, and I'm surprised to realize that my throat feels really dry. I'm not exactly the superstitious type, but I almost feel as if Roper is giving off a kind of creepy-guy aura.

“Then maybe you could be getting along,” the guy says. “As the sign is designed to suggest, I don't particularly like receiving visitors. Besides, I don't have anything to offer you, so your best bet is to head into town. And now, at least, you know the way.”

“We do,” I reply, feeling as if I'm about to walk away from this encounter with nothing to show for it. “Thanks, then. You've been very helpful.”

“Goodnight, M'am.”

M'am? I've never been called M'am before.

“Goodnight,” I murmur.

I pause, before starting to make my way down the steps. My heart is racing and my mind is rushing with thoughts and possibilities, but the one thing I know for certain is that I have to get something out of this trip out here tonight. And as I reach the bottom of the steps, I realize that I don't even know that I've found the right person.

“Are you Thomas Roper?” I ask suddenly, turning back to look up at him.

As soon as those words have left my lips, I know that I've made a huge mistake. How could I have been so stupid as to admit that I know this guy's identity? I've just blown my cover story in an instant, and I can't think of a way to recover. I hope he doesn't have any meat-hooks handy.

I wait, but the guy simply remains in his chair.

“Goodnight, M'am,” he says again, finally, sounding just as calm as before.

“Goodnight,” I stammer, my voice sounding pretty frail, and then I turn and hurry away along the path. “Sir.”

By the time I reach the gate, I'm shaking worse than ever. I don't know whether it's a little colder now, or whether I'm shaking from fear, but my hands are trembling as I open, step through, and then refasten the gate. And when I look back at the farmhouse, I realize I can no longer see any sign of a figure sitting on the porch. I guess he might still be there, sunk into the shadows somewhere, but I really don't see him at all. I guess maybe he's watching from somewhere, though, to make sure that we get off his property.

For one crazy, mixed-up second, I actually consider reviving my plan to sneak around the rear of the farmhouse and take a look at those outhouses. Then, realizing that I'd be basically asking to get murdered, I turn and hurry back to the van.

“Well?” Daryl asks as I climb back inside. “What happened? And why are you covered in mud?”

Chapter Five

“No, we're making real progress,” I say as I continue to towel my hair dry in the motel room. “There's a story here and I just need a couple more days to really dig into it.”

“You've been there long enough already, Carter,” Culhoun says over my cellphone's tinny little speaker. “That story you filed last night was basically just treading water. Have you managed to get anywhere with the parents of the missing kid?”

“Not as such.”

“Have you tried?”

“Sure, but -”

“I want face-to-face interview with them, filmed for our website, by the end of the day.”

“The missing girl -”

“I don't care about the missing girl,” he replies, cutting me off. “You're focusing on the wrong thing here, Maggie. Forget the girl, focus on the family. Focus on the people around her, the people who'll look good when we show them crying on TV. The dead girl is always the MacGuffin in a case like this, because even we can't actually show the corpse when it shows up. The real meat is the family. Get me interviews with the family.”

“I'll give it another go,” I tell him. “But if you read my email about Thomas Roper, you have to realize that there's something going on here. I only found out about Roper last night, but I'm going to spend the next day digging into his -”

“You're going to spend the next day getting your ass back here,” he replies, interrupting me.

“With all due respect -”

“Or are you going to get me something I can run with? You're lagging, Carter. Derringham's already scored our five most popular stories for the past month. She's on a roll and she's leaving you in the dust. I know it's a difficult situation, but you need to put a little pressure on the Duchette family. Everyone loves a good video of sobbing parents, and it'll help get the story out there more. It's a win-win for everyone. For us, for the kid's parents, for the cops, and for our advertisers.”

I bite my lip for a moment, restraining myself from telling Culhoun that he's got this all backwards. It's easy enough for him to sit in an office and tell me to go poking around at the house of the Duchette family, but they already seem very anti-media and frankly I don't think I blame them. I can't imagine how awful things are for them right now. The last thing they need is for someone like me to show up on their doorstep.

“So am I getting my video?” Culhoun asks. “Or are you coming back to the office tomorrow?”

“You're... getting your video,” I reply finally, with a heavy sense of dread in my chest. I lick my dry lips. “I'll see what I can do. No, I mean... I'll do it.”

“You know what I want, Carter,” he replies, and now I can hear someone else talking to him in the background. “Okay, I've got to go. You're not an idiot. You know how this works. Now get on with it.”

The line goes dead, and I'm left standing all alone in my room. It's 5am and there's no point going to bed, so I wander over to the desk in front of the mirror and I take a seat. As soon as I spot my reflection, I feel a flicker of revulsion at the thought of what I have to do tomorrow. Then again, I really do have to do it, so I guess I might as well start practicing.

“Hey there,” I say out loud, forcing my most convincing smile, “I'm sorry to disturb you at such a terrible time, but my name is Maggie Carter and I have an idea for how to maybe get more people involved in your daughter's case.”

No, that's not quite right.

“Hey,” I say again, more somberly this time, “I'm so sorry to disturb you in your hour of distress, but I want to help. My name is Maggie Carter and I'm begging you to give me a few minutes of your time.”

No.

Too pathetic.

“Hey,” I say for a third time, “my name is Maggie Carter and I think I can help you get your daughter back. I know the police are doing what they can, but they have their limits. You need to get the word out, and you need to keep Kimmy's case alive in the public eye. And that's where I come in.”

Chapter Six

The doorbell rings and I step back to wait. Looking over my shoulder, I watch as a paperboy cycles along the pretty, sunny morning street. It's 9am and suburbia is slowly waking up. This place actually looks pretty sweet, although if I lived here I think I'd end up dying of boredom.

Suddenly there's a clicking sound, and I turn just as the front door is opened a crack, revealing a nervous-looking woman on the other side.

“Hey,” I say with a smile, “I'm sorry to disturb you, but -”

“What do you want?” she asks.

“My name is -”

“I know who you are. I remember you coming here the other day, but I already told you that we don't want to talk to you.”

“Mrs. Duchette,” I continue, trying to be diplomatic, “I completely understand your aversion to the media, but I want to start by assuring you that I'm not like any other reporters who might have come to your door over the past few weeks. I simply want to help, and to give you a way of telling your story as you wait for news about your daughter.”

I wait, but her expression hasn't changed; she's still looking at me as if I'm the enemy.

“I'm not like other reporters who might've contacted you,” I explain, repeating myself a little as I try to get the message across. “I know people in my profession haven't exactly got the best reputations right now, but I genuinely want to do whatever I can to help you get closure for what's happened to your daughter.”

Again, I wait.

Again, she simply stares at me.

“Mrs. Duchette,” I add, “I -”

“Just hold on a moment,” she says suddenly, before shutting the door. “I'll be back in a moment!”

“Mrs. Duchette -”

“I have something for you,” she says. “Just hold your horses, okay?”

Figuring that this is at least some form of progress, I take a deep breath and resolve to wait. Turning, I look around at the pretty garden, and for a few seconds I try to imagine myself living in a place like this. The lawn is impeccably mowed, the plants all look bright and healthy, and there are garden ornaments in several spots. Could I ever really survive in this kind of environment? Could I bring myself to care about fuchsias and geraniums and... pansies? I honestly don't think that I have any of that stuff in me, but I guess maybe I'm the one who's missing out. Why do I feel so much more at home in a tiny apartment in the city?

I just need this break. I need to get an exclusive with Mrs. Duchette, and then I can make Culhoun happy. And a happy Culhoun is a generous Culhoun, so I'll get some other stories and I might even begin to catch up to Rolinda Derringham. A girl can hope, right?

Better still, I might get to stay here for a while longer and really get to the bottom of Kimmy Duchette's disappearance. I know Culhoun has masses of experience, but I think he's wrong when he says that the missing girl is a MacGuffin. I think that's just what people say when they've given up on the big story. I think I can actually do Sheriff Malone's job for him and find the girl. I think I can break this story wide open. There's a Pulitzer here, if I get my crap together.

Hearing footsteps coming back toward the other side of the glass, I turn just as the door opens.

“Hey,” I say with a smile, “I -”

Before I can finish, I'm hit in the face by a blast of cold coffee.

“What the -”

“Bitch,” Mrs. Duchette spits back at me.

“I beg your -”

“You want to help me?” she continues, her voice filled with spite. “How about you start by going off to wherever you came from, and then slitting your wrists open? Because that's all that people like you are worth. You're human trash, feeding on the pain and suffering of everyday people.”

“No, I -”

“And it's all for money,” she adds, opening the door wider. “You want to use my daughter's disappearance to sell more adverts on your station, or to get more hits on your website. You're nothing but bottom-feeding scum and you're lucky my husband isn't home or he'd probably have gone to get his gun by now. You should just go home and commit suicide, and save the rest of us from your lies and your greed. And don't even think about knocking on this door again. If you do, I... Well, I might just go get that gun myself.”

“I'm not -”

“Get out of here!” she screams, tossing the coffee mug in my face.

I let out a gasp as the mug hits my nose, and I turn away. The mug falls down and smashes. Before I can say anything, Mrs. Duchette slams the door shut, leaving me standing alone on the step.

“I was only trying to help,” I stammer, somewhat unnecessarily, before turning and making my way back along the garden path. “That's all,” I continue under my breath, as much to persuade myself. “I just want to help. I'm here to help.”

***

“So, Sheriff Malone,” I say as I run across the street and catch up with him outside his building, “when were you gonna mention that Thomas Roper lives in the area?”

He stops, but he doesn't turn and look at me. Instead, I hear him sigh.

“Good morning, Ms. Carter,” he says finally. “If you've come looking for a press statement, I'm afraid you won't -”

“The perpetrator of a heinous crime is living just a few miles away,” I continue, interrupting him, “and that hasn't come up at all?”

He turns to me.

“How long did you think you could keep it under wraps?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. “How stupid do you think the rest of us are?”

“What's that smell?” he asks.

“Answer the question.”

“Not telling the media,” he replies cautiously, “is not the same thing as keeping it secret. And as I'm sure you'll be careful to remember, Mr. Roper is the alleged perpetrator of a crime. He was never convicted of anything.”

“Because of technicalities,” I point out.

“Do you think I'm stupid?” he asks. “Of course I'm aware of Mr. Roper's presence in the local area, and of course I took that into consideration when Kimmy Duchette went missing. But in case you're not aware of how these cases work, I actually need to have evidence before I can accuse somebody of involvement in a crime, and I can assure you that there is nothing to link Mr. Roper to Kimmy's disappearance.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I tell him. “For starters, he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who has many alibis. It's hard to have an alibi if you don't have any friends.”

“You smell like coffee.”

He leans closer and sniffs me.

“Weak, stale coffee,” he adds.

“Focus on Thomas Roper,” I say firmly.

“What do you want me to say? Do you want a quote for your next insipid news report? I watched your station's broadcast last night, by the way, and I didn't see anything from you. Did you get bumped for that story about a pig that can count to ten?” He looks past me for a moment. “Your colleagues appear to be waiting for you, Ms. Carter,” he adds. “I also happen to know that the three of you checked out of your motel rooms this morning. Does this mean we'll be losing the pleasure of your company?”

“Don't think I won't keep an eye on this story,” I say firmly.

“I'll try to temper my natural optimism. And nice work earlier, by the way. I hear you went and tormented the Duchette family at their home. Or at least, you tried to. I'm going to guess that maybe that's why you smell so bad. Mrs. Duchette has taken to throwing things at reporters.”

“I get it,” I tell him, “you don't want anything to rock the peace and quiet here in your nice little town. You want to sweep the nasty things under the rug and pretend they don't exist. The problem is, something nasty has happened here in Ridge Falls, and no amount of cover-up is going to hide that fact. A girl is missing, presumed dead, and whatever happened to her might well happen again. Sooner or later, you have to face that possibility.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” he replies, before tipping his hat at me. “Enjoy your ride home, Ms. Carter.” He hesitates, and it's clear that he has something else to say. “It's so easy for you,” he adds finally.

“Come again?”

“It's so easy for you,” he continues. “You can do anything. Say anything. Your only rule is that you have to get a story. Whereas I have to make sure that justice is done. And that's not always easy, and it's not always neat. And it's not a form of entertainment.”

With that, he heads up the steps and into the building. I have half a mind to run after him and explain exactly why he's an asshole, but I stop myself as I realize that he wouldn't even listen. He's so stuck in his ways, he's not even open to criticism, and I'd probably just make him get all puffed-up and defensive. Some people really don't want to admit when they're wrong.

Turning, I head across the street, back toward the van. And as I walk, I'm filled with a sensation that I don't feel so very often. With a sensation that makes me want to scream. With a sensation that almost physically hurts.

I'm going home without the story.

Chapter Seven

“Reporter of the year! Can you believe it? Rolinda, you're a star!”

Everyone cheers at the far end of the office, which is somewhat grating since I'm down here still working at my desk. I went over earlier to congratulate Rolinda Derringham on her success, but I'm too busy to join the part. I don't know about everyone else, but I still have deadlines that I need to meet this afternoon, and this story about possible contamination at a local sewage treatment plant won't write itself.

It's one year since I came back from Ridge Falls, and it's fair to say that in that time my career trajectory hasn't exactly been stellar.

“Hey, are you coming to the bar later?” Daryl asks, filled with excitement as he emerges from the bathroom and stops at my desk. “We're having a bit of a party to celebrate Rolinda's big news.”

“I'll try to make it,” I tell him, still focusing on the screen as I type. “It depends what time I get out of here.”

And whether I find something more interesting to do instead. After all, I might happen upon some wet paint that need watching.

“I can't believe she won for that interview with Sonia Beauchanel,” he continues. “I mean, in some ways I get it, I know people were interested to hear how a reality star's ass-plumping surgery could give her a brain tumor, but that story really went viral. Did you hear that on the first day alone, the story was trending on Twitter and Facebook? And the webpage is now the most-viewed in the channel's history! It got picked up for international rights in over thirty territories. Thirty! How is that even possible?”

“It's great,” I say through gritted teeth. “Maybe people will be equally excited by my story about poop bacteria.” I glance at Rolinda. “Does no-one even care about that time she disguised herself as a priest and broke into a monastery to get photos of a dying man? There are still rumors that she unplugged one of the machines because it was getting in the way of a perfect shot. Or what about the time she got someone to hack into an eleven-year-old's web-cam just because she wanted to get some news about some stupid album? Or the time she pretended to have cancer so she could join a support group and eavesdrop on a film star's confessions? I mean, even by the usual standards of our profession, Rolinda Derringham's morals are in the gutter. Worse, they're in the sewer.”

I continue to type for a moment, but I'm very much aware that Daryl is watching me. I want to tell him to buzz off, but I know I already seem like a killjoy so I keep on typing in the hope that eventually he'll realize he needs to leave me alone. Sometimes, particularly lately, I feel as if I'm turning into the office grouch.

“It'll be you next year,” he says suddenly.

“What'll be me next year?”

“Winning that award.”

I roll my eyes.

“I mean it, Maggie,” he continues. “You've just got to keep chipping away, and eventually good things'll happen. I believe in you.”

“And I used to believe in the tooth fairy,” I mutter. “Didn't do me a whole lot of good. I'll tell you one thing, though. If the only way to get Derringham's career is to lie and cheat and steal, then I'm not so sure I want it. I mean, sure, I have my ways of getting a story, but I also have limits. I'm not going to sell my soul.”

“Yes, you are,” Daryl replies, “in a heartbeat. Your problem is that you always get caught doing dodgy things. Part of that's down to luck, but part of it's because you don't really put your back into the work. You have a sense of shame, Maggie. Not much of one, but it's in there and it's holding you back. You need to become more like Rolinda. You need to be merciless.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I murmur.

“Carter!”

Turning, I see that my boss – the great, the magnificent Jerome Culhoun – is waving at me from the door to his office. And as is always the case with Mr. Culhoun, he looks red-faced and puffy and furious.

“I need a word!” he yells. “You got a minute?”

“Maybe I won a prize too,” I say with a sigh as I save my work and get to my feet.

“What prize do you think you might have won?” Daryl asks keenly.

“Maybe one for irony,” I say as I slip past him and head over to Culhoun's office, “or sarcasm. Or bad hair.”

***

“Entertainment news?” I say, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Just entertainment news?”

“I realize it's a big pivot,” he replies, “but we think we can pull it off. Our big entertainment stories, like the one that just won Rolinda her latest award, are easily competing with the main national sites. If we can leverage that success and replicate it across the entire organization, we have a shot of being one of the top twenty entertainment sites in the country! Within two years!”

“How exciting,” I reply flatly. “So we're not going to be reporting on actual news anymore?”

“We're responding to what people want.”

“Which is asinine crap about wannabe celebrities getting infections in their buttocks?”

“I believe that was a brain tumor. And anyway, our social media numbers went through the -”

“Okay, I get it,” I say, trying not to seem too flustered. “We're having a makeover. I'm sure it'll work out fine and everyone'll make heaps of money. The advertisers must be quaking in their boots. Now I assume you called me in here to tell me about my terribly exciting role in this brave new world. What am I going to be covering? Boobs? Butts? Babies?”

“I've thought long and hard about how you'll fit into the new model, Maggie.”

“It's going to be boobs, isn't it?”

“I've got the perfect thing for you.”

“I'd rather do boobs than babies,” I tell him. “Boobs don't scream. Although if they did, I guess that might be cool.” I can't help but furrow my brow. “Actually, that's a story I wouldn't mind writing.”

“This is going to push your career up to a whole new level.”

“I'm not doing butts, though. I'd prefer boobs, but then I'd rather take babies over butts. This conversation is really weird, isn't it?”

“You can thank me later for this.”

“Just tell me!” I snap, managing to feign some excitement. After all, I know people like enthusiasm. I might even be able to pretend that I want to be a team-player. “What's my exciting future?”

He takes a deep breath.

“Maggie,” he says finally, “I'm letting you go.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to say something that actually makes sense. Or to give me the punchline to this very sick, very poorly-thought-out joke.

“Go where?” I ask finally. “Is this your way of saying I have to move to Los Angeles?”

“It's my way of saying that I'm letting you go.”

I tilt my head slightly.

“You're fired,” he adds finally.

“What do you mean, fired?” I ask after a few more seconds have passed. “Jerry, that makes it sound like you're getting rid of me.”

“You'd be wasted here. You're an investigative journalist, you deserve to cover bigger, more important stories. You're a future star.”

“I'm also a human being who likes to eat and pay her rent,” I reply, struggling to hold down the growing sense of panic that's rippling through my gut. “What's this joke all about, Jerry? What are you actually wanting me to do? Because I will do butts, if that's what it takes. I will be your butt reporter, I'll do nothing but butts, every day. I have no standards, not really. I'll do anything.”

“Fly, Maggie. Be free.”

“Fly?”

“Spread your wings.”

“I don't have wings, Jerry,” I say firmly. “That's nonsense.”

“You need to fly.”

“Fly where?”

“To an organization that can give you what you want,” he continues. “I know you're not happy here. I remember when you arrived, you had all these dreams, and they've gone unfulfilled. At your age, there's not a lot of time left to become who you want to become.”

“At my age?” I can't help furrowing my brow. “I'm only thirty.”

“You'll thank me for this one day,” he adds. “I don't want you to sit here, taking the safe option all the time, never daring to risk it all and go for glory. You need to be out there. You need to be hungry.”

“I don't want to be actually hungry, Jerry,” I say firmly. “I want to be able to afford food.”

“You'll be fine.”

I wait, but now he's simply smiling at me as if he expects me to bow down and grovel in gratitude. I'm starting to think that maybe, just maybe, he's serious.

“Would you like me to beg?” I ask finally. “I can beg.”

He shakes his head.

“I need a job,” I add, leaning forward in my chair. “I need to work. I'll do anything, but I'm begging you, you have to keep me on.”

“I'm freeing you, Maggie.”

“Bullshit!”

“Also, you're our lowest-ranked reporter,” he says, “in terms of both live rating and social media mentions. You're actually ranked even below that dog that sometimes helps with the weather forecasts.”

“I -”

Stopping suddenly, I realize that this is truly the end. Jerry's sugar-coating things and trying to do this as nicely as possible, but the fact is he's firing me and there's no way I'm going to be able to get him to reverse the decision. I thought I had no dignity, but actually – as I get to my feet – I realize that I've managed to scrape some together from somewhere.

“I score lower than Sunny the Weather Dog?”

He nods.

“Seriously?”

He nods.

I pause for a moment.

“When's my last day?” I ask finally.

“You can just go ahead and clean out your desk now,” he replies. “That'll give you more time to go find the job of your dreams.”

“Sure,” I reply, before heading to the door. My knees are trembling slightly and I'm a little scared that I might burst into tears, but as I open the door I turn back to Jerry for a moment. “Just so you know,” I continue, “I'd have been the best butt reporter in the world. I'd have really thrown my all into it.”

Once I'm back at my desk, I look through the drawers and realize I don't really have much here that I need to take home. I never got into the desk-decoration habit, so there's really only the laptop that I always lugged to and from the office each day. As the celebrations continue at the far end of the office, I slide my laptop quickly into my bag and then I double-check that I haven't left anything behind before slipping quietly out through the back door.

Chapter Eight

“I've always had a lifelong passion for the arts,” I say confidently as I stare into the mirror, “and I think that working as a features editor on a magazine about drapes would really...”

My voice trails off for a moment.

Damn it. If I can't sound convincing here in my own bathroom, talking to myself, how am I ever going to win over the bosses of Drapes of the Hot New Future? I have one interview lined up for this week so far, and not so many other leads to fall back on, so somehow I need to make myself sound like I really care about drapes. Turning to look at the window, I see my own bathroom drapes – thin, gray fabric – hanging limply as rain continues to tap against the glass from outside, and I try to think of something enthusiastic that I can say.

“Minimal,” I mutter, “and tone-free, and...”

Sighing, I head back through to the kitchen and grab my phone. Figuring that I need to do some more research, I open the web browser, only to see that I have a bunch of new news alerts. I really should start reading about drapes again, but the thought is soul-destroying so instead I bring up the alerts and start scrolling down through them. It's all just the usual crap, and my eyes kind of glaze over as I see the same old stories flashing past. I'm just killing a few seconds before the inevitable drape-fest.

And then I spot a headline that grabs my attention, and I scroll back to take another look.

“One year on,” I read aloud, “parents of missing Kimmy Duchette left with no answers.”

I click through to read the article, and I'm immediately presented with a photo of a rather anxious-looking Sheriff Aiden Malone.

Man, he looks tired.

I lean closer to the screen.

Is he dying his hair?

“One year after their daughter disappeared,” I read, “the parents of fifteen-year-old Kimmy Duchette are still searching for answers. But with local law enforcement having confirmed that there have been no new developments in the case, Karen and Greg Duchette face the prospect of never finding out what really happened to their daughter.”

I scroll down a little further and find a photo of Kimmy. Smiling at the camera, she looks like the kind of girl who had it all. She's pretty, blue-eyed, blonde-haired, she even has a few friends who – apart from their shoulders – have been cropped out of the shot. According to the caption, this photo was taken just a few weeks before Kimmy disappeared. As I look into her eyes, I see no hint of the horror to come. I see only a happy, carefree young girl who was enjoying life.

“Investigators held a press conference on Tuesday,” I continue to read, “in which they confirmed that while the search for Kimmy is ongoing, no new leads have been uncovered. They asked members of the public to think back to the day when Kimmy disappeared last year, and to come forward if they remembering seeing or hearing anything that was unusual. Meanwhile, a fresh search of the local forest was recently undertaken, with dogs being brought in to check once again for any clue as to Kimmy's whereabouts. For now, it's as if the missing girl simply vanished into thin air.”

Next, there's a photo of a forest, presumably one just outside that crumby little town.

Scrolling down further, I read a few more paragraphs before getting to the end of the article. It's mostly waffle, and the overall gist is that there have been absolutely no developments in the case since I was down there last year. I'm sure Sheriff Malone is a good guy and that he did everything in his power to move the case on, but the fact remains that absolutely nothing seems to have happened. Kimmy Duchette has vanished and nobody has been able to find her.

Suddenly I hear Skype ringing on my laptop, and I hurry over to the table. Sure enough, the people from Drapes of the Future are calling to interview me.

I quickly fix my hair (as best I can) and then I sit down and tap to answer the call.

“Hey,” the man on the other end of the line says, flashing a broad smile, “you must be Maggie. I'm so excited to interview you about this wonderful opportunity.”

“Absolutely,” I reply, with a fixed grin that I feel has to be over-the-top. “I'm so looking forward to talking with you today!”

***

“Stupid bloody drapes,” I mutter as I finish washing my hands in the bathroom. “I can't believe I actually pretended to care about something so stupid.”

The rain is getting stronger and stronger outside, and the light here in the bathroom is really gloomy. I cast a quick glance at my reflection before heading back through to the kitchen, where my laptop is still open following the disastrous interview. Sure, the guy said he'd get back to me and let me know his decision, but by that point I already knew that there was no way I'd be getting the job. I know a miserable, failed interview when I sit through one.

I turn to go to the cupboard, but then Skype rings again and I see that Mom's trying to get in touch. The second-to-last thing I need right now is a chat with her, but the absolute last thing I need is to have one hanging over my head and to receive a barrage of messages asking why I haven't picked up.

Sighing, I decide to bite the bullet, and I answer the call.

“So how are you doing?” she asks immediately. “Have you got a new job lined up yet?”

“Um, not exactly,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant about the whole thing as I head out of shot and grab some cookies from the cupboard. “I've got several leads, though.”

“What about that wallpaper magazine?”

“It was drapes,” I remind her, “and I don't think I'll be pursuing that particular lead.”

“You should be working in news,” she continues huffily. “That's what you're good at. Why don't you apply to more news jobs?”

“There aren't exactly ads running for reporters,” I tell her as I sit down at the table and wait for her to tell me that I look tired. “I think I might be out of the news business for a while.”

“Call CNN. Or NBC. Or Fox. See if they've got something for you.”

“It doesn't work like that.”

“Send them your resume.”

“Yeah, right. I'm sure I'd get a call immediately.”

“Maybe I should call them for you,” she says. “I'll tell them how good you are.”

“Do not do that, Mom,” I say firmly. “Ever.”

“You won't change the world by writing for lifestyle magazines, Maggie.”

“I think I might have grown up now,” I reply, as I feel a sense of deflation. “The whole news industry's completely screwed up and I can't play all the right games. I just want to be left alone to report on serious stories, but that's not how it works. I can't keep being this naive idealist, Mom. It's time I started living in the real world.” I stuff a cookie into my mouth. “The dream is dead.”

“Don't speak with your mouth full.”

I finish chewing, and then I swallow the chunk of cookie like a good girl.

“Sorry, Mom.”

“I just don't want you to give up,” she continues.

“I'm not giving up,” I tell her, even though I know she might have a point. “I'm being realistic. And instead of continuing to bang my head against a brick wall, I'm going to reinvent myself for the actual market that's out there. I'm tired of fighting.” I pause, as I realize that I'm going round and round in circles. “When I got into this business,” I add finally, “it was because I wanted to change the world. I need to remember that feeling.”

Chapter Nine

He reaches out and grabs me, pulling me back into the darkness. Spinning around, I finally see his face, or rather I see where his face should be. He has no eyes, though, and no nose or mouth. His face is just an endless void, and we both scream as he pulls me inside.

Rolling onto my front, I reach out and dig my fingertips into the rough wooden floor, and then I start trying to haul myself forward. As soon as I do that, however, I let out a cry of pain as I feel a blade slicing into my back, cutting between my shoulder-blades.

“Do you think you're getting out of here?” a voice hisses in the darkness behind me. “No-one's looking for you, you dumb bitch. No-one remembers you. I can do whatever I want to you, and no-one'll even hear you scream. They've moved on, they've forgotten about you. And now it's time for you to feel real, excruciating pain.”

Before I can react, I feel the blade slicing into my back. I try to pull away, but suddenly I find that I can't feel my arms and legs.

“There goes your spinal column,” the voice snarls. “I can't wait to get started on the rest of you now.”

“No!” I gasp, sitting up suddenly and then feeling a rush of relief as I realize it was just another nightmare.

Still out of breath, I lean back against the wall and try to pull my crap together. I had that same dream again, the one where I'm being pursued by someone through the shadows. He always catches me in the end, I always turn and see his face, and I always end up getting sucked into whatever nothingness he contains. Now my heart is pounding and I'm soaked with sweat, and after a moment I clamber out of bed and make my way out to the hallway. I always struggle to get back to sleep when I've had the nightmare.

And I'm absolutely drenched in sweat.

Reaching the kitchen, I don't bother to switch the light on as I go over to the sink and fetch myself a glass of water. Then, still feeling out of sorts, I grab my phone from the side and bring up the web browser, figuring that maybe I can research some sleep aids. Before I can type anything in, however, I find that the page from earlier is still open, showing the sad news story about Kimmy Duchette's disappearance. The page quickly reloads, and sure enough the photo of Kimmy appears.

Happy.

Smiling.

Missing.

This isn't right. This kid isn't going to get found, not with the way the investigation is going so far. No disrespect to Sheriff Malone, but it's clear that he's not going to get the job done. After all, Thomas Roper has already managed to slip out of one noose, and obviously he's good at making sure that he's not caught. I guess that's just the way the world works. Bad people do bad things, and they don't always get caught. News broadcasts reassure members of the public from time to time, showing them that sometimes there's justice, but in many other cases nothing actually gets done. The world is a dark and cruel place.

For a moment, I hear Karen Duchette's words echoing through my head:

“You want to help me? How about you start by going off to wherever you came from, and then slitting your wrists open? Because that's all that people like you are worth. You're human trash, feeding on the pain and suffering of everyday people.”

Maybe she had a point.

I'm about to bring up a search page to search for those sleep aids, but somehow I can't quite bring myself to get rid of the photo of Kimmy Duchette. Slowly, a sense of determination is rising up through my chest, and I can already feel myself starting to come up with a ridiculous plan.

No, I can't do this.

Well, maybe I can.

No.

I can't even afford to do this.

Unless I use my savings.

Even then, I wouldn't be able to help anyone.

But you might.

You never know.

And if I don't try, I'll always wonder whether maybe I could have made a difference.

If I'm getting out of the news game, then I figure I have to take one last shot. I have to roll up my sleeves, focus every fiber in my body, and get my hands dirty. I have to put my nose to the grindstone. Sure, I've failed plenty of times in the past, but I'm pretty sure that I have what it takes. Maybe, if I go back to that wretched little town, I can prove that people like Thomas Roper eventually pay for their crimes. I'm not quite ready to give up. Not yet.

I'm going back to Ridge Falls, and I'm going to finish what I started last year. I'm going to break this story. Even if it's the last thing I do as a journalist, I'm going to find out what really happened to Kimmy Duchette. And if I have to be more like Rolinda Derringham in order to do that, then so be it.”

Chapter Ten

For some reason, I remembered Ridge Falls being a faded, rundown little town filled with miserable people. I remembered it seeming faintly stale but at the same time quite smug. I remembered it feeling like the kind of place where nothing important ever happens. But do you know what? I was wrong.

It's even worse than all that.

Stepping out of my car, I look along the dusty main street and see that just a couple of other souls have ventured out on this warm morning. It's just over a year since I was here with Daryl and Terrance, but the decline is marked. Or am I just letting my cynicism and prejudice cloud my view? As I slam my car door shut, I remind myself of the rules we learned in Journalism 101. For all I know, this town is thriving and I just happened to have arrived at a quiet moment. I need to be objective about this place if I'm going to get to the bottom of what really happened to Kimmy Duchette. I need to see it as more than a cliché, because young girls don't go missing in towns where there's nothing untoward hidden beneath the surface.

I turn and take a step toward the kerb, but then I feel something soft under my right foot. Looking down, I immediately let out a gasp and step back as I see a dead rat on the ground.

“Objective,” I mutter. “Stay objective.”

I lift my left foot, only to find that some kind of rat goo is stuck to the sole. I take a moment to try wiping the goo on the grass, but I'm starting to think that this might be a job for a proper brush.

“Gross,” I say with a sigh, as I look around and finally spot a bar not too far away. “Really gross.”

***

“Thanks for that,” I say to Teresa, the girl behind the counter, as I make my way back through from the washroom. “You guys are life-savers.”

“Here's your coffee,” she replies, sliding a mug of weak-looking liquid toward me. “I'm always telling Bernie to watch out for rats. They're just everywhere lately.”

“I live in the city,” I tell her. “Believe me, I've seen my fair share of rats. I even shared my apartment with one for a while. I was almost sad when he stopped scurrying in at night and going through my garbage.” I take a moment to stir my coffee, while I try to work out exactly how I should phrase this next question. “So how are things going in Ridge Falls these days?” I manage finally. “Any news?”

“Just the same old, same old,” she says with a slight smile.

“Huh. Yeah, I guess not much happens round here.”

“We get by.”

She goes over to clean some pots, and I realize that I need to step it up a little. This girl works in a bar, so she really should have her finger on the pulse of the town. I refuse to believe that she doesn't overhear all sorts of gossip.

“Hey,” I say after a moment, “I know this might sound crazy, but I feel like the name Ridge Falls rings a bell. Has this place been in the news at all over the past year or so?”

She murmurs something, but I don't quite make out any distinct words.

“Sorry,” I continue, “it's just that it's bugging me now. I'd check my phone, but I don't have much coverage out here. I just feel like I've heard of Ridge Falls.”

“So are you just passing through?” she asks, sounding a little evasive.

“Actually, I'm stopping for a day or two.” I pause, as I start to realize that she's going to be a tough nut to crack. “It's on the tip of my tongue. I swear, Ridge Falls has been in the news for something and -”

“Okay, yeah, it was,” she says suddenly, turning to me with a dour expression. She glances toward the door, as if she's worried that we might be overheard, and then she turns back to me. “It's just not something we like to talk about.”

“I get that,” I reply, before pausing again. These little pauses are tactical, they're my way of (hopefully) seeming friendly and open, and thoughtful too. “I just -”

“Robbie Richards had no right to share those photos,” she continues, “and as far as I'm concerned, his friends are a bunch of... of... What's the word for a monkey?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Apes! That's what they are! They're a bunch of apes!” She storms back over to join me at the counter, and she seems really angry now. “I sent those tasteful, artistic images to Robbie because I thought he'd appreciate them while he was out of town, and then he went and shared them with his friends, and then one of them decided to tag me in them online! I mean, can you imagine that? I so nearly moved, like that week, I so nearly packed up all my things and left town.” She slams a fist against the counter-top. “But those things follow you, don't they? You can't get rid of them, once they're online, they're there forever.”

“Well, I think maybe -”

“So I started doing videos,” she continues, again looking toward the door for a moment, “because I figured, if that stuff's going to be out there, I might as well be making money from it, right? Then these people started emailing me about panties, like my panties, and at first I thought they were insane but then they made these offers of money, and I figured it was all a joke, but then they actually paid the money, including shipping, and I suddenly got scared because what if I didn't send the panties and then I got into trouble? So, you know, I did the responsible thing and I sent them and...”

She checks the door yet again, before leaning closer and lowering her voice.

“You're the first out-of-towner to ask me about it,” she whispers, “but that's cool, I understand how these things work. I know people are still talking about the photos, and you know what? Now I don't even care anymore. Because I'm making five figures a month from my videos and my panties, and they don't know about that, so I figure I've got one up on all of them. And I'm not even ashamed. But kudos to you for tracking me down, I don't know how you did that, but I'm not offering you a discount. This is a business, and if you want the merchandise, you have to pay.” She glares at me, as if she's trying to stare me down. “Obviously you wouldn't have to pay shipping, though,” she adds finally. “Just 'cause... Well, for obvious reasons.”

Staring back at her, it takes me a moment to figure out what she's been talking about. After a few seconds, I realize that actually I don't think I want to know.

“I was thinking,” I say cautiously, “more about the missing girl. Kimmy Duchette.”

“Oh.” She hesitates, before shrugging. “No idea.”

She turns away and gets back to cleaning the pots.

“So there haven't been any developments, then?” I ask. “No gossip around town?”

“I dunno.” She doesn't seem remotely interested. “Maybe. I dunno, people talk a lot in here, but I don't really listen. I kinda filter it all out, you know?”

“Yeah, sure,” I mutter, as I start to realize that this bar isn't going to be the hub of all things social in Ridge Falls information. “Well, thanks for the coffee. Could I be a pain and get it in a take-away cup after all? Sorry, I just have some things to do.”

She grabs a disposable cup and transfers my coffee, managing to splash a fair amount on the counter in the process.

“Thanks again,” I say as I turn to leave.

“You know, that girl's mother came in one day,” Teresa adds suddenly.

I turn to her.

“Karen, her name is,” she continues, and now she's repeatedly twisting a strand of hair around her left index finger, while staring into the distance. “I see her around quite a lot. To be honest, I try not to look at her so much.”

“You do?”

“Just because of how she looks. She always seems so sad.”

“Well, her daughter's been missing for a year,” I point out. “I guess that'd make anyone sad.”

“Mmm.” She stares into space for a moment longer.

“I'm sure I'll be back some time,” I tell her, “so -”

“She only came in one time,” she continues, interrupting me. She almost seems to be talking to herself. “Only one time when I've been working here, anyway. I was kinda shocked, 'cause she walks past every day but she only actually came in one time. She ordered a coffee and a sandwich, and she sat over there, in that booth.” She turns and looks toward the rear of the bar. “It was like she was trying to hide. I wondered why she came in at all, but I didn't ask her that. I didn't want to be rude. After a while, I realized that maybe she was just trying to be normal. You know? Just doing things that normal people do.”

“I guess,” I reply cautiously, not really seeing where this story is going.

“She didn't say anything,” she adds. “Well, she told me what she wanted, but that's all. It's not like I'm a mind-reader. But after that, she didn't say anything until she thanked me and left. I didn't want to say anything either, so I just got on with things. But I remember after a while I felt weird, like really weird, like itchy weird.” She pauses again, still staring at the far-off booth. “I didn't look at Mrs. Duchette for the longest time,” she continues, “but then when I eventually did, I realized what was wrong. It was her sadness. It was just... there. With her. Like I could almost see it, dripping all over the seats and sprayed against the wall and splattered on the table. Just sadness. Like a physical thing that you could see and touch. Sadness everywhere.”

I stare at her. After a moment, I realize my mouth is hanging slightly open, so I fix that.

“Once she'd left,” she continues, “I did something a little weird. I went over and I, like, tried to find it.”

“You tried to find what?” I ask.

“The sadness. So I could see it. But it wasn't there. I guess she'd taken it all with her when she left. I even looked under the table, but there was nothing there.”

“Really?” I reply, before swallowing hard. “What exactly did you expect to -”

Before I can finish, I spot a familiar figure walking past the bar's window. Shocked by the sight of Sheriff Malone, and not quite ready to bump into him yet, I duck down out of sight, almost spilling my coffee in the process.

“I still don't like that booth anymore,” Teresa continues. “I've scrubbed it and scrubbed it, but something's still there. I've tried every product I can get my hands on, but Mrs. Duchette left something behind that day, like some part of her sadness stayed behind like... Well, like a stain. Other people sit there just fine, so I guess they don't notice. Maybe you had to see it happen. And I did see it happen, so I know it's there. And I'll tell you something. I don't mind delivering orders to that booth. I don't like it, but I'm willing to do it. But I wouldn't sit there myself. Not if you paid me all the tea in China. Not even if I liked tea.”

She pauses, still lost in her thoughts for a moment, before turning to me. It takes a moment, but finally her brow furrows.

“So,” she says finally, “like... Why are you hiding under that table?”

Chapter Eleven

Stepping out of the bar, with my coffee cup warming my hands, I glance around in case Sheriff Malone is still around. I'm certain he didn't see me a few minutes ago,and I'm still not quite ready to have him see that I'm back. Assuming that he even remembers me, of course. I know I'll have to speak to him eventually, but right now I kinda want to stay under the radar.

Once I'm sure that the coast is clear, I head across the street. Ahead is the hardware store, which I know is where Kimmy used to work on Saturdays and Sundays. I tried talking to the owner last year, but he – like everyone else around here – preferred to keep his thoughts to himself. I don't blame him. After all, the disappearance must have still felt so raw. I'm hoping that this time, now that a year is passed, I might be able to get a little more out of him.

***

“Kimmy was a great girl,” Ken says as he leads me along one of the aisles, carrying a cardboard box full of... something. “She used to do Saturdays, twelve until closing. Everyone knew her. She was real popular with the customers.”

“How did she start working for you?” I ask.

“Well, I used to go to school with her grandfather,” he explains. “Old Tom Duchette, Greg's father, and I were on some sports teams together. Not that I really know the family, not anymore, but it was enough that I sorta saw a little of Tom in the girl. And seeing as Tom and I got on, God bless his soul, I wanted to do something to help the kid. And boy, was I soon glad that I did.”

“She was good at her job, huh?”

“Good?” He chuckles as he sets the box down, and then he takes out some packets of clips and starts putting them on display. “She livened the place up no end. She was professional, of course, but she also had a way of talking with the customers. She put them at ease. And do you know what? I think that helped her to sell a few extra things, here and there. Not that she was on commission, but it always helps if someone can increase turnover. To be honest, I liked the kid.”

He glances at me.

“Why did you say you're here, again?” he adds.

“I knew Kimmy,” I reply, before instantly feeling bad about lying. Normally I'd just keep on going, but this time I realize that maybe I should try a different approach. “I mean, I didn't know her personally,” I add, “but I followed her disappearance last year, and I can't quite get her out of my head. I just...”

My voice trails off.

Why is telling the truth so much harder than lying?

“I know the feeling,” Ken says after a moment. “I didn't know her all that well, but I like to think that we were... acquaintances. And I'm telling you, to this day, I still expect to see her at lunchtime on a Saturday. It's like I can't quite get used to the fact that she isn't here. I catch myself glancing at the door, expecting her to walk in and tell me that the whole disappearance was a misunderstanding. I know that won't happen, of course. I'm a realistic man, I know how these cases usually end. But, damn it, I cannot get the idea out of my head. I cannot stop looking at that door.” He looks now, staring past me. “I cannot stop expecting her on a Saturday.”

“Do you...”

Again, my voice trails off. I don't want to be pushy, but at the same time I need answers.

“What do you think happened to her?” I ask finally.

He turns to me, and for a moment I worry that I've been too direct. Too insensitive.

“I don't like to think about it,” he says. “Sometimes I think she was acting a little weird, the last few weeks. Like something was on her mind. Other times, I think I'm just reading too much into it. Like I told you, she brightened the place up, but sometimes I wonder whether she was only doing that to compensate for something she felt inside. I'm no psychologist, but I guess it's possible that she was hiding something.”

“Maybe she was worrying about something,” I suggest, hoping to prompt him some more.

“It was just in little moments,” he explains. “I'd see her daydreaming, like her mind was miles away. And I'd ask if she was okay, and she'd snap out of it and she'd be fine again. For a while. But then it'd happen again.”

“Could it have been a boy?”

He shrugs, before placing the last packet of clips on a hook.

“Her family weren't aware of anything like that,” I point out. “As far as they were concerned, she just came to work and then went home. They said she didn't have time to be meeting anyone.”

“That may well be the case.”

“Then what did -”

“Maybe she wanted to meet someone,” he adds, “and she couldn't. Or she didn't. Or she wondered why she didn't have someone to meet, if that makes sense. Sometimes I felt like she was a little lonely.”

“In what way?”

“She never really seemed to have any friends. She told me she sometimes went out to the little waterfall, the one just outside town. But she wasn't meeting anyone. It was almost on her way home. She told me she just liked to stare at the water. To be honest, later, that's when I started wondering about whether -”

He hesitates.

“Never mind,” he mutters.

“Never mind about what?”

“There was a sadness about her sometimes,” he explains. “Something real deep down. I saw it in her eyes. Her mother's got it too, but Kimmy had it in spades. And, God forgive me, sometimes I think of her standing at the top of that waterfall, staring down at the rocks like she said she did, and I can't help wondering about what might have happened.” He pauses. “I know they searched the river, though. I know that, so it can't have happened that way. And she was sad, but she wasn't that sad. She wouldn't have...”

He pauses, and then he shakes his head.

“No,” he adds. “No, she wouldn't. Not Kimmy. She was too... right about things. Too sure. She knew she was sad, but she also had plans to go out into the world and get happier.”

“What kind of plans?” I ask.

“No idea. But she wasn't going to sit around in Ridge Falls for her whole life, that's for sure. That girl would have made it somewhere, if she'd had the chance. If she'd lived long enough.”

“Maybe she still can,” I reply, although I must admit that I'm surprised by the note of optimism in my own voice. “She might,” I add. “It's possible.”

He murmurs something, before turning and heading back toward the counter. And I've got to admit that, deep down, I already know how desperate that last comment sounded. Kimmy Duchette didn't have the means to run away from home, and she sounds like a level-headed girl who kept her feet on the ground. I was fifteen once, and I remember how crazy the world seemed, but I never once contemplated throwing my whole life away and just vanishing into the distance. Maybe Kimmy did exactly that, but I'm not quite ready to assume that just yet.

Something happened to her. Something took her away. Or rather, someone did.

Chapter Twelve

Sitting alone in my motel room, cross-legged on the bed, I finally set the papers down. I've been going over everything I have on this case, and I'm starting to realize that the whole thing is pretty threadbare. It's as if the disappearance of Kimmy Duchette has become something of a non-issue, at least for the media. There don't even seem to be any bloggers covering the case, which is unusual.

I need to figure out my angle for this story. I'd assumed that the angle would be Kimmy herself, but girls go missing every day in this country. If you're a teenager and you vanish, that's not enough to automatically hit the front pages. Maybe it should be, but in these harsher times we need our news stories to have a little more kick. If I'm going to turn this situation into a killer front page story, and a big career boost, then I need something that'll grab the attention of the public.

Sighing, I glance at the window, and at that moment I spot the colorful neon lights outside the bar across the road. I swore I wasn't going to drink tonight, but...

***

As I make my way into the bar near the motel, I'm surprised to find that the place is almost empty. It's eight in the evening and I'd kinda assumed that locals would be flocking here, but even the pool table has been left abandoned. So much for the idea of a heaving social scene. I head to the bar and order a beer, and then I glance around.

Suddenly, to my surprise, I see Sheriff Aiden Malone sitting by himself at the bar's far end, partway through a strawberry sundae. He's seen me, and he doesn't look too impressed.

***

“Is it really so difficult to believe,” I continue, unable to keep from betraying slight frustration, “that I came back here because I want to find out what happened to Kimmy Duchette?”

“I'm sure an exclusive like that would be worth some money,” he mutters, stirring his sundae but showing no sign of being about to eat another spoonful. “You might even get onto the front page. Assuming it's a slow news day, that is.”

“I'm not that desperate.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Actually, I got fired,” I reply. “So who's desperate now, huh?”

I take another, long swig of beer. As I do so, I suddenly realize that my previous comeback wasn't exactly stellar. In fact, I think I might have made myself look pretty bad. I set my glass back down, but I still haven't quite figured out how to recover. Malone's right to be skeptical, but I need to get him on my side. I hate myself for thinking this, but a single question is filling my thoughts right now.

In this situation, what would Rolinda Derringham do? Actually, I think I know exactly how she'd approach this situation. She'd try to seduce Malone, and then while he was sleeping she'd try to sneak through his papers and his phone. I've heard plenty of stories about the things she's willing to do in the name of getting the story, but I'm not quite willing to go that far. I still have some scruples.

Besides, Rolinda's a certified man-eater.

“So you got fired from the news business, huh?” Malone says finally. “Well, maybe there's some hope for you yet.”

“That's the thing about the media,” I reply, irritated by yet another little jab at my morality, “when you don't perform, you get shown the door. Unlike local police departments, where you can marinate yourself in incompetence until eventually you float up to the top job.”

“Which of us is supposed to come out badly in that analogy?” he asks.

Damn, that was catty of me. I should apologize.

“Where's your investigation at right now?” I ask, preferring to get onto hard facts. “You've had a year since we last spoke. Surely, even for you, that's enough time to look at a few leads.”

He sighs, before glancing around to check that no-one's listening, and then he turns back to me. Still, for a moment, he seems reluctant to say anything.

“Between you and me, Ms. Carter -”

“Maggie, please,” I say, correcting him.

“Between you and me, Ms. Carter,” he continues, “it's as if Kimmy Duchette simply vanished into thin air. There, that's the honest truth for you. You can even run it as an exclusive, if you want. I'm keeping all the possibilities open, because frankly I don't have a way of discounting any of them. She could have been kidnapped, yes. She could also have run away from home. Or she could have had an accident, and we just haven't managed to find her body for some reason. She could -”

“What about Thomas Roper?” I ask.

He sighs again.

“You have one lead,” I point out. “In the absence of anything else, wouldn't it be wise to at least consider the possibility that he's involved?”

“Gee,” he mutters, “I never thought of that.”

“Well?”

“Well, I went and spoke to him, as it happens,” he explains. “I drove out to his place and I sat down with him, and I asked him a few questions. It was all very informal and very civilized.”

“Did you get a warrant to search his farm?”

“No, but -”

“Because you couldn't be bothered?”

“Because he volunteered to let me take a look around,” he replies. “I checked every inch of Mr. Roper's property and I found nothing amiss.”

“So he's good at hiding things. He wouldn't have offered otherwise.”

“I spent an afternoon up there,” he continues. “That farm is a pretty big place, but I'm not an idiot. I checked it all out, and I didn't find so much as a blade of grass that seemed out of place.”

“How convenient,” I mutter.

“Focusing on Roper would be a waste of our already limited resources,” he replies. “Believe it or not, Ms. Carter, we're pretty stretched out here and we have to manage our time.” He sighs. “Okay, that sounded bad, but you have to get the point. I'm doing everything I can, to find Kimmy Duchette. I'm not ignoring possible leads, I'm not being lazy, and I'm not letting go of the case. I'm just trying to deal with a situation in which there are no clues. There's nothing to suggest what happened to Kimmy.”

“Except some blood in the forest.”

“That wasn't Kimmy's blood in the forest,” he replies.

“Everyone was saying that she -”

“Don't listen to gossip!” he snaps, and he's clearly getting angry now. “Sure, we found some blood out there. Not a lot, just a small amount. We never managed to identify its source, but based on some other tests we're almost completely certain that it was not from Kimmy Duchette. Believe it or not, other people go out into that forest, and it's not hugely uncommon for someone to get a few cuts here and there. The amount of blood we found was minuscule. It was probably just from someone who went out hunting and caught their hand on a knife, something like that.”

I pause for a moment, as I begin to realize that he's serious.

“So you really don't have any leads?” I ask plaintively. “Nothing at all?”

He shakes his head, and then he eats another spoonful of his dessert.

“People don't just vanish like that,” I say after a moment.

“Evidently, they do.”

“No, they can't,” I tell him. “It's not possible, not in the modern world. If Kimmy had run away from home, you'd have picked up a trace of that somewhere in her life. What about her bank records? What about her cellphone? Her computer? Did you check her email and social media accounts?”

“Gee, what's a computer?” he asks, rolling his eyes. “Yes, Ms. Carter, it did occur to us to check all of those things.”

“And?”

“If we'd found anything, don't you think I'd have mentioned it by now?”

“So she didn't run away,” I point out, “which means she was taken. By force.” He sighs. “It's the only likely outcome here,” I continue. “What's wrong? Do you not want to admit that something like that could happen in your lovely little town? Well, I've got news for you. Ridge Falls isn't that lovely! In fact, it's kind of a dump! And if you ignore something like this, then it won't go away. It'll happen again. It happened with Esmee Waters, and now it's happening with Kimmy Duchette. And it'll happen again, and again, until people like you are willing to stare into the darkness that's at the heart of this place.”

He rolls his eyes and gets to his feet.

“Where are you going?” I snap. “You haven't finished your ice cream!”

“I'm not hungry anymore!” he replies firmly. “I don't have time to sit around here in a bar all evening. I've got -”

“Your perfect family to get home to?”

“You don't know everything, Ms. Carter,” he continues, “so please... bear that in mind. You can't just come swooping in here, solving things like some kind of superhero. We don't need that. Now, if you don't mind, I really am out of here. Enjoy spending the rest of your evening alone in a bar, M'am.”

With that, he turns to walk out.

“I don't think so!” I reply, hurrying after him and just about managing to beat him to the door. “Excuse me, but I have somewhere to be as well.”

“Another bar?”

“As if.”

I squeeze past and step outside. I can see the motel opposite, but I don't want to let this Malone asshole see that I'm simply going back to my room, so I stop for a moment and try to figure out where I could go instead. There's always the bar in the center of town, so I figure I might as well go and get a night-cap.

“Which way are you going?” Malone asks.

“This way,” I reply firmly, nodding toward town.

“Great,” he says, “because I'm going the other way.”

“See you around, then,” I reply, taking a step back. “Maybe.”

He hesitates, before nodding slightly and turning to walk away.

I open my mouth to yell at him, to tell him that he shouldn't ignore offers of help, but then I figure that there's no point. He seems pretty closed-minded, so I turn and start walking in the opposite direction. I know I shouldn't have let Malone get under my skin so quickly, but I feel as if he's standing in the way of this case getting resolved. Kimmy Duchette is out there somewhere, and so is whoever took her.

Reaching the intersection, I realize that maybe I should just go back to my room and get some more work done. I look over my shoulder to make sure that Malone's out of sight, and then I scramble across a grass verge before scurrying across the road. Sure, there's a part of me that desperately wants a drink, but there's a stronger part of me that wants to find a lead that Malone missed. So as I reach the other side of the road and clamber through a surprisingly thick bush, I'm filled with the determination to put that SOB in his place.

I try to sort my hair out as I march toward the motel, and then I reach into my pocket for my key as I reach the door to room number 109.

And then I stop suddenly, startled by the sight of Sheriff Malone opening the door to room 110. And – once again – he doesn't exactly look pleased to see me.

Chapter Thirteen

“I'm just living here for a little while,” Malone says, as we sit on our adjacent little porches behind our rooms, overlooking the road, “so that my wife and I can... work through some things.”

“She threw you out, huh?”

“Not at all. We just... figured that we needed some time apart.”

“And that's why you were in the bar, eating ice cream?”

“It was a sundae and... Yes. That's why I was in the bar, eating ice cream.”

I pause for a moment, watching the darkness all around us, and then I turn and peer at Malone again.

“I saw you there last year too,” I remind him.

“Yes, and -”

“Have you been living in the motel for a year now?”

“Of course not,” he replies, as if it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. He sniffs. “Just a month here, then a month there.”

“Right,” I say, slightly surprised by this revelation. “So things are going real well at home, obviously.” As soon as I've said those words, I wince and turn to him. “I'm sorry,” I add, “that was really not a good thing to say to you. I didn't mean to be rude.”

“You weren't rude,” he mutters. “You're right. It's... not ideal.”

We sit in silence for a couple of minutes, each sipping from the bottles of beer that Malone apparently had stashed in his room. I was reluctant to accept one, but then I realize that this might be a good chance to try to be a slightly nicer person. Also, I was desperate for a cold drink.

“You're right,” Malone says finally. “This whole investigation has been a failure, from start to finish.”

“Don't be so tough on yourself,” I reply. “You're doing the best you can, with limited resources.”

“What kind of asshole told you that?” he asks, turning to me and raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Isn't it what you said to me, a while back?”

He mutters something to himself, and it's clear that he's not happy.

“If there are no leads, there are no leads,” I tell him, before taking another sip of beer. “You need to find them before you can use them.”

“But they're out there somewhere,” he replies, “they have to be. You were right earlier, no-one disappears without a trace, not in the twenty-first century. We're missing something.” He pauses, still watching the darkness. “She's out there somewhere,” he adds finally. “Alive or dead, she's out there. It's my job to find her, and a year later I've still failed.”

I open my mouth to tell him that he's being too hard on himself, but then I hesitate for a few seconds. I mean, I don't want to be mean, but technically he has failed. Sure, he hasn't exactly been given a truckload of help, but I still find it hard to believe that he hasn't found a single useful clue. And I know that if I try to make him feel better, he'll just realize that I'm patronizing him.

“There's always Thomas Roper, then,” I say eventually. “If he -”

“Thomas Roper didn't take Kimmy,” he replies, cutting me off. “I talked to the man.”

“Then what about the other girl, ten years ago? What about Esmee Waters?”

“There's nothing to suggest that he was involved with that, either.”

“Esmee lived in Rydell, right? That's not too far from here. And if you look at a map, Roper lives almost bang in the middle between the two towns.”

“That's not proof, and you know it.”

“But it's something,” I continue, “and that's better than the huge pile of nothings you're dealing with right now. Why not at least try to establish whether or not the two cases are linked? Forget about Roper for a moment, have you been in touch with the police in Rydell?”

“Of course I have.”

“And are there any similarities in the cases?”

“No,” he replies. “Apart from the fact that they're unsolved. And the fact that Esmee Waters also seemed to vanish without a trace. They never had any leads there, either.”

“I don't believe in that kind of coincidence,” I tell him.

I wait, but he seems uncertain.

“Give me one day,” I say finally.

“One day for what?”

“To help you,” I continue. He sighs, but I decide to ignore him. “I get it, you don't like me. And you don't like my profession. My former profession, whatever. But I might actually be able to help, if you at least give me a shot. It's not like one day is going to kill you. How about you take me to a few of the key sites? I've already been, of course, but it's possible that going with you might trigger something.”

He finishes his bottle and gets to his feet, before turning and heading toward his door.

“Please?” I continue. “I've come all this way, and I want to help. I want to prove that sometimes people like me can actually help.”

“I'm turning in,” he replies. “Can I get you another beer before I do?”

“I...” I watch him for a moment, and then I sigh. “No,” I say, “I think I want to take another look at the papers. I might see something I've missed.”

“Good luck with that,” he says, and then he starts to slide the door shut, only to stop at the last moment. He pauses, and then he turns to me. “Meet me out front at seven in the morning,” he says finally. “If you're late, I'll go without you.”

“I won't be late,” I tell him.

“It's just for one day.”

“That's all I want.”

“And it's mainly to shut you up.”

“That's fine by me,” I reply. “Well, you know what I mean.”

“And it's to show you that we're opposites.” He jabs his own chest. “I'm a cop. I'm a good guy.”

“Absolutely.”

“And you're a news... person. Bad guy.”

“We're both trying to find the truth,” I point out, bristling at his bluntness. “We're not really that different.”

“But I'm doing it to help people,” he says. “You do it to make money.” He pauses. “Are you sure you don't want another beer?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” He mumbles something to himself, and then he shuts the door and I hear the lock click into place.

Getting up, head back into my own room. As I do so, however, I suddenly hear the sound of another bottle of beer being opened on the other side of Malone's door. For a moment I think of him all alone in there, drinking without any company, miles away from his family. I guess I could knock on the door and offer to have one more drink with him, just to keep him from getting too lonely, but at the same time he seems like a pretty solitary kind of guy. Plus, I don't want to risk annoying him too much tonight. After all, he could easily cancel his meeting with me tomorrow.

Besides, he's still an asshole. I didn't particularly like being described as the 'bad guy' just then. It's not as if the police business is filled with angels. Muttering to myself about the unfairness of it all, I sit at the desk and open my laptop, and then I start going over the rough draft of my story about the disappearance of Kimmy Duchette. The story that's going to put me back on the map.

Chapter Fourteen

“I still don't see why we had to use your car,” Malone mutters the following morning, as I drive us along the road that leads out of town. “This thing is a death trap.”

“It's perfectly roadworthy,” I reply, before glancing at him and smiling. He's a little too tall for my slightly cramped car, so he's having to sit hunched. “Stop complaining.”

Before he can reply, there's a distant rumble of thunder, and I turn just in time to see the first few spots of rain starting to fall against the windshield. Ordinarily I'd be all for turning back, but on this occasion I'm not going to give Malone the satisfaction. I just hope that the hole in my right sneaker doesn't become a problem. If we have to go far out into the forest after we leave the car, I might end up with trench-foot.

Thunder rumbles again, and the sky ahead is pretty gray.

***

“You're the one who wanted to come out here!” Malone shouts a short while later, struggling to be heard over the sound of rain pouring down all around us. “Not much to see, is there?”

Huddled under my umbrella, I look out across the forest, and I have to admit that he has a point. I don't really know what I was expecting. I certainly didn't think that there'd be some massive, obvious clue that everyone else had missed. At the same time, I guess I was hoping for some inspiration. Instead, all I see is rain crashing down between the trees, and...

Nope, that's it.

Oh, except for my right foot, which is completely soaked thanks to that pesky hole. And then, as I'm about to turn away, I spot something moving beneath a pile of dead leaves.

I step closer and crouch down, and then I use a damp stick to knock some of the leaves out of the way.

“Gross,” I whisper, as I see that I've found some kind of dead animal. It's about the size of a dog, and most of the fur has rotted away to reveal maggots crawling through the ribs. There are a few patches of meat left on the bone, although after a moment I notice the dead, partially-eaten eyes on the head, and the half-open mouth with two rows of sharp teeth exposed.

I've never really been this close to death before. Not in the natural world.

“Over here,” Malone calls out suddenly, from somewhere out in the distance.

I stare at the dead animal for a moment longer, and then I turn and hurry after Malone.

“There's some kind of dead thing back there,” I tell him.

“I don't doubt it.”

“Shouldn't we do something?”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Shouldn't we move it?”

“You can't be serious,” he replies. “Things die out here all the time. They just rot down into the soil.”

“Like Kimmy Duchette?” I suggest. “And the other girl, Esmee Waters?”

“It was here that we found the blood,” he explains, stopping and reaching out to tap a tree. “Not a lot, but enough for us to notice. We ran it through the system and didn't find anything.”

“What system did you use?” I ask.

“Well, our system. And a national one. The blood didn't come from anyone who had a record.”

“But -”

“And to answer your next question,” he adds, “no, we don't have Thomas Roper's blood on file. And we have no reason to ask him to provide a sample.”

“What about those ancestry sites?” I ask.

Immediately, I can tell that he has no idea what I'm talking about.

“You know,” I continue, “those sites where you can submit your DNA and find out where your ancestors come from. Sometimes you can figure out a link through those.”

“I've never heard of that,” he replies.

“You should look into it,” I tell him.

“Thanks for the tip,” he says, although it's clear that he's not particularly interested. “Listen, we searched this area extensively a year ago. There's nothing here. And even if we'd somehow managed to miss something, there were storms over the winter that would have washed it away.”

Looking around, I can't help but realize that he's right. There really isn't anything to be gained from being out here, and I guess I'm just getting a little desperate. And then, just as I'm about to say that we should head back to the car, I notice another noise that I can just about hear over the sound of the rain. There's a rushing sound, like a raging river, but I don't see any sign of a river. I turn and look the other way, and for a moment I feel as if I'm losing my mind, as if there's the ghost of a river running right through this patch of land.

“What is that?” I ask finally.

“What's what?”

“That sound.” I listen for a few more seconds. “Like... running water.”

“You can hear that from here?” he replies. “I can't, not over the rain. But we're only about half a mile from the falls.”

I turn to him. “What falls?”

“Well, you might have noticed the name of the town,” he continues. “Ridge Falls? There's a small waterfall that -”

“I want to see it,” I tell him.

“Why?”

“Why not?” I shrug. “I might as well get a feel for the area. Which way is it?”

“It's pouring out here,” he points out.

“Exactly. We're already wet, so what difference does it make?”

“If -”

“Which way?”

He hesitates, and then finally he nods to indicate that the waterfall is apparently behind me.

Smiling, I turn and start trudging through the soaked forest. There's so much muddy water in my right sneaker now, I can feel the cold between my toes, and I'm starting to worry that trench-foot might actually be a danger. Still, I'm determined to at least figure out the area.

Sure enough, after just a few minutes I start to hear a much louder rushing sound, and finally I find myself approaching a river that seems to cut straight through the forest. Stopping at the edge, I Look down and see that the water is running pretty fast, coursing between some nasty-looking jagged rocks. I turn to check that Malone is still keeping up with me, and then I follow the river until I finally reach the waterfall.

Taking care on the wet rocks, I clamber as close to the edge as I dare, and then I look down and see more rocks about fifty feet below. This is the first waterfall I've ever seen in real life, and for a moment I'm mesmerized by the sight of the water crashing down. I watch for a few more seconds, and then I turn to see that Malone has finally arrived.

“Before you ask,” he says, “yes, we checked the river. I'm pretty sure that Kimmy didn't fall in and drown, and that she didn't go over the edge of this thing. It was the first place we looked.”

“I never realized how much... stuff there is out here,” I tell him.

“Stuff?”

“The forest. The river. The waterfall. When I was here last year, I didn't really appreciate just how much land there is surrounding the town. How much space there is, that someone could disappear in.” I pause, realizing that I probably sound like a moron. “I guess,” I add finally, “I'm starting to understand how someone could vanish and maybe never be found.”

“It doesn't happen often,” he replies.

“But it happened to Kimmy Duchette,” I point out, suddenly very much aware of how different this place is to the city. “She really could be anywhere, couldn't she?”

Maybe she just rotted away, into the ground beneath our feet, and now she's lost forever.

Chapter Fifteen

“These are all the files we have on the Duchette case,” Malone says as he sets a pile of folders and notebooks on his desk. “I can't let you take them out of this room, but I can not notice while you're looking through them here.”

“There's a lot,” I point out, still drying my hair with the towel that he brought through for me. “Have you guys never thought to digitize all this stuff?”

“We're still a little old-fashioned in some ways,” he replies. “We have a system and it works. The guy who comes after me can modernize it all. I just hope that...”

He pauses for a moment.

“You hope what?” I ask.

“This stuff can't get into the media,” he says, sounding worried. “I guess what I mean is that I'm trusting you here, Maggie. Please, don't take photos of anything. Don't even tell anyone that you were in here. Letting you into my office is a sign of desperation. Please don't take advantage of that.”

“I would never do that,” I tell him, and I mean that.

100%.

Unless there's something really juicy, in which case I might need to have a rethink.

Suddenly the door behind Malone opens, and one of his deputies stops in the doorway as soon as he sees me.

“It's okay, Mark,” Malone says, turning to him, “Maggie's just... a friend.”

“Right,” he replies, clearly a little shocked. “Um, anyway, I just wondered whether you wanted a coffee while I'm out.”

“Sure, Mark,” Malone replies. “I'll have my usual.”

The deputy turns to go.

“And get one for Maggie, too,” Malone adds, before glancing at me. “If you'd like one.”

“Sure,” I reply, slightly taken aback by what seems like a genuine moment of generosity. I guess he's starting to trust me. “I'll take it black, please. No sugar. Thanks.”

The deputy hesitates for a moment, and then he leaves.

“I'm not going to regret letting you in here, am I?” Malone asks me. “Everything in those files is confidential, and I can't let it get into the public domain.”

“Of course,” I reply.

“I really shouldn't be doing this,” he adds. “I could lose my job and -”

“I won't leak anything,” I tell him yet again. He's really laboring his point. “Seriously, I don't even have a job right now, so I have no-one to leak it to. But I wouldn't anyway. I wouldn't do that to you.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, before coming over to the desk and starting to look through some of the files. “Most of this is pretty routine paperwork,” he explains, “and I'm really not sure that you're going to find anything of interest. I got it all out mainly so that you'd see how little we've got to work with. There are interview transcripts, and I can pull out the tapes if you want. Nobody saw anything, though, and all you're going to find is a whole series of nothings.”

“It's still good to get my head around the case,” I tell him.

“And is that really all you want?” he asks, before setting a couple of files in front of me and then taking a step back. “Are you really, truly just here because you want to help find Kimmy?”

“Is it so hard to believe that someone like me would care?” I ask.

“I guess I'm just used to seeing people like you as...” He pauses.

“The enemy?” I suggest.

“Yeah, basically. I guess there's still a part of me that expects to see all this stuff splashed on some website in the next day or two. Along with a story about how the incompetent local police didn't manage to crack the case. Maybe a picture of me, and some quotes about how I failed the town.”

“That's really what you think I'm going to do?”

“It's a concern.”

“Then I look forward to proving you wrong,” I tell him. “Not all of us are monsters. Just most of us.”

“I guess you could say the same about my profession,” he replies.

“So let's get on with this,” I say. “How about we take half the stack each, and we go through and make sure that nothing was missed. I know I must sound like a broken record, but I still find it hard to believe that there's not one thing in all these files that doesn't hint at what happened to Kimmy Duchette. Even if it's just a line, just a word, there has to be a link. And we just need to find it.”

He's right. But, as we focus on the paperwork, I can't help feeling a little restless. I've basically managed to talk my way into seeing confidential police documents. I should be – inwardly – jumping for joy. In that case, why do I feel so bad?

***

Eight hours – and several coffees – later, optimism is a little harder to conjure up. We've made a good dent in the files, but so far I've found nothing that even hints at a clue. Every so often I glance over at Malone, and it's pretty obvious that he's faring no better. Are we still expecting a breakthrough, or are we both just going through the motions so that we can honestly say we did everything that was possible?

Finally I glance at my watch and see that it's a little before 10pm.

“I think I might have to finish this tomorrow,” Malone says with a sigh, as he sets another file down. “My eyes are stinging.”

Agreeing with him, I lay a file flat on the desk and lean back, and I feel a twinge of pain in my spine. At least my wet right foot is almost dry, although I'm sure the sock will feel wet as soon as I stand up again.

“Do you have anything for the 'maybe' pile, at least?” Malone asks.

I turn to him.

I want to say that I have at least some idea of what to do next, but I'm starting to feel as if this whole trip has been a waste of time. Meanwhile, I think I'm about to use my least-favorite word in the whole world. A word that makes me grimace every time I use it. A word that gives me the shivers, the same way that the f-word or the c-word might horrify a Sunday school teacher. A word that I've used maybe half a dozen times in my entire life.

“Sorry.”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time before,” I continue. “I guess I bought into the idea of an incompetent investigator missing obvious clues, not really trying to solve the case. I really bugged you and hounded you last year, and now I'm starting to see how hard your job was at the time. And for that, I'm truly sorry.”

He stares at me for a moment, before shrugging.

“You had every right,” he says, and then he gets to his feet and lets out a faint gasp as he stretches his back. “And you're not the only one. I swear, people round here seem to think that all criminals leave massive clues all over the place. They think it's like Scooby-Doo, and the clues are there if I just open my eyes.”

“You really might not ever find Kimmy, huh?”

He doesn't answer. Instead, he heads over to the door.

“They didn't find the other girl, ten years ago,” he points out. “I spoke on the phone to one of the team who investigated the disappearance of Esmee Waters. I could hear that it haunted him, the idea that she'd gone missing and never been seen since.” He turns to me. “For all we know,” he continues, “the two cases could be completely unrelated, they could just be a big coincidence, but right now I can't shake the worry that maybe you're right. Maybe there's someone out there, someone who took them both.”

Standing, I feel another twinge of pain in my spine as I start making my way around the desk. After just a couple of steps, however, my right sneaker lets out a squelching sound.

“Hole your shoe?” Malone asks.

“It's nothing.”

“Those things look pretty old.”

“Some women have more pairs of shoes than chromosomes,” I mutter, as I take another step and feel more muddy water between my toes. “Others, like me, wear one pair until they wear out. Like, until they literally fall apart. Although, to be honest, I should probably get around to replacing these. Even by my standards, they're looking pretty awful.”

He holds the door open, and I make my way out into the main office. The lights are low, and the computer screens show what I believe to be Windows 98 screen-savers. Nice touch.

“We still have the rest of the files to go through tomorrow,” Malone points out, taking a moment to lock his office door and then leading me across the room, toward the exit at the far end. “We might find something. Stranger things have happened.”

“Stranger things, sure,” I reply as we head out into the cold night air. I turn and watch as he locks the main door. “Miracles are rarer.”

We walk down the steps in silence, making our way toward our vehicles. His truck is parked right next to my battered old car; the only two cars left in the parking lot, and they're heading for the same motel tonight.

I want to say something profound, something uplifting, but as I reach my car and start fishing for my keys, I come up with nothing. It's cold out here, and windy, and I keep feeling spots of rain in the air. I still can't think of anything to say, and at the same time I want this evening to end on a slightly more uplifting, more positive note than a chat about our failure to come up with anything.

“I dream about them,” Malone says suddenly.

I turn to him.

He's staring at the hood of his truck, as if he's lost in his thoughts.

Is he talking to me, or -

“I dream about the missing girls,” he continues finally, “almost every night. Don't worry, I know that's all it is. Dreams. But I still...”

His voice trails off for a moment.

“My little boy is seven,” he adds, and now he looks at me. “If something happened to him, I'd tear the universe apart looking for him. At least, that's what I tell myself. But what if something like this really happened to him? What if he vanished into thin air, like Kimmy and like Esmee Waters? And what if there was nothing, nothing in the whole of existence, that I could do to find him?”

“You don't have to think like that,” I tell him.

“You tell yourself as a parent that you're unstoppable,” he continues. “When it comes to protecting them, I mean. But you're not. You're pretty hopeless, actually. You do your best, but there's a whole vast world out there just waiting to gobble them up. And it's not even very far away. It's on your doorstep, it can even come into your house. And despite all the tough words and the rhetoric and the determination, you're not match for it. It can just take them and you can't do anything. And that's so terrifying, so horrifying, that honestly I can only really accept it for a moment or two at a time.”

“We have tomorrow,” I reply, somewhat awkwardly.

“I've been telling myself that for a whole year now,” he replies, before pausing for a moment, silhouetted against the starless sky. “But, hey, you're right. There has to be something in the files, we just haven't reached the right one yet. You're totally right. We'll find something tomorrow. We'll get there.”

I'm not sure that's exactly what I meant, but I figure it's better to not contradict him.

“Listen,” he adds, “I'm going to stop by and get some dessert before I head back to the motel. It's no big deal, but if you'd like to join me, I'd be happy to tell you what's good and what's not so good on the menu.” He pauses. “Only if you want to.”

“I...”

For a moment, I'm honestly not sure what to say.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say finally. “I'll be right behind you. I'm pretty tired, but I might see you there. If not, I'll be back here first thing in the morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to get going again.”

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed? Did I really just say that?

Malone gets into his truck, and I start once again searching for my keys. The truth is, I already know that I'm going to drop by the bar and get something with Malone, even if desserts have never really been my thing. I don't understand why I didn't just tell him that I'd see him there, but I guess I didn't want to seem too eager. And as he drives out of the lot, I figure I'll give him a head-start for a few minutes and then I'll surprise him by showing up. He probably thinks I'm too gloomy for dessert, anyway.

Maybe I'll surprise him.

Chapter Sixteen

“Damn thing,” I mutter, as I feel more cold water squelching between my toes. I watch the road ahead for a moment, as my headlights pick out the tarmac and the trees on either side, and then I briefly glance down toward my feet.

For a moment, I consider pulling over and just taking the damn sneaker off, but then I realize that I might as well wait until I get to the motel. I was originally going to drive straight to the bar, whereas now I'm taking a detour to the motel so I can quickly change my socks and try to dry my right sneaker a little.

Damn it, by the time I get to the bar, Malone'll be pretty much through with his ice cream. I'm screwing this up, and all because I was too cheap to get new sneakers before I came down to Ridge Falls. And now I'm halfway to the motel and I'm getting this all wrong, and Malone's probably already thinking that I've decided not to join him. I guess I could still change my plan, and stop to take the sock off and then just have my bare foot in the sneaker when I go to the bar.

Why didn't I do that from the start?

Muttering a few curses under my breath, I try to work out what to do now. I'm still barreling along the dark, remote road that leads to the motel, but I really could turn around and just get to the bar as fast as possible. Then again, what if my foot starts to smell?

I watch the road for a moment, before glancing down at my feet and carefully starting to kick the offending sneaker off.

I check the road, then I look down again and remove my other sneaker, so that I can use one foot to get the other sock out of the way. I don't smell anything so far, so maybe this plan is going to work, but I can't quite manage to get a proper grip on the wet sock and I'm worried that my other sock will get soggy in the process so -

Suddenly a bright light flashes against the windshield. I look ahead just in time to see that I've missed the turn of the road, and that another vehicle is racing straight toward me. I manage to turn the wheel, missing a head-on crash by inches, but then my car races straight off the side of the road and down into a ditch, before slamming into something in the darkness and then flipping.

I scream, and then the windshield shatters, spraying me with glass, and then there's a loud crunching sound from above and everything goes black.

Chapter Seventeen

My eyes flicker open, and the first thing I realize is that I'm really, really comfortable. Then I realize that the back of my neck feels really warm, and I start to turn, only to find that I'm flat on my back. Finally, as my vision becomes less blurry, I see bare wooden beams crossing the ceiling high above me.

“What the -”

I sit bolt upright, only to find that I'm on a fur rug in front of a large, roaring open fire. There are no other lights nearby, and when I look around I see that I'm in some kind of big, sparsely-decorated room with bare wooden walls on all sides. There's a sofa just a few feet away, and a table in the distance, and a single door on the far side of the room.

For a moment, I don't dare move. I glance around, still trying to make sense of this madness and to figure out where I am and how I got here. And then, in a flash, I remember the bright lights of an oncoming vehicle, and the brief few seconds of absolute terror as my car ran off the road.

I crashed.

I was paying too much attention to my feet, and I crashed my car.

I relive that moment over and over again, but it always plays out the same. I went crashing off the road, and I think maybe I hit something in a ditch, and then everything went black. I have a strange feeling that I wasn't unconscious for too long, maybe just a few hours, but that feeling could also be wrong. And even as I look down and see that my clothes are scuffed but mostly undamaged, I can't help relieving the crash again and again.

Fine, but that doesn't explain where I am now, because this sure is no hospital.

The fire is crackling loudly as I slowly get to my feet. I'm sore all over, but nothing seems to be broken. After a few seconds I feel my bare feet pressing against something soft, and I look down to see my toes mixed in with the fibers of this huge rug that was under me when I woke. Something about this whole situation feels so surreal, as if I got knocked out in my car and ended up in some kind of lumberjack paradise. I glance around again, half expecting to see a moose head mounted on a nearby wall, but mercifully this place isn't quite that cliched.

In fact, there isn't much here at all. Apart from the sofa and the table, the room is strangely bare. There are no pictures on the walls, and no real signs of life. It's as if I'm in a show-home that somebody forgot to finish decorating.

Somebody who really, really likes bare pine.

I take a few cautious steps forward, and then I stop as a floorboard creaks under my right foot. I have no idea who brought me here after the crash, but I'm already starting to think that most normal people would have taken me to a hospital. I reach down to my pocket, hoping against hope to find my cellphone, but of course it's not there. Was it in my pocket while I was driving, or did I place it on the dash? For a moment, I figure that maybe I left it somewhere, but then I distinctly recall slipping it into my pocket as I climbed into the car.

Which means that, after the crash, someone deliberately took it out.

That's not worrying at all.

That's not horror movie material.

Heading to the nearest window, I realize that it's definitely still dark outside. I can only really see my own reflection, but there don't seem to be any lights out there, so I guess I'm well out of town. I reach down to try opening the window, only to see that it's screwed shut. In fact, as I examine the edges more carefully, I start to realize that someone has really gone all-out to make sure that the window can't be opened.

Again, that's not concerning.

I try the window a few more time, until it starts rattling in its frame and I suddenly worry that I might be making too much noise. I freeze, terrified that some hulking murderer is lurking somewhere nearby, and slowly realizing that now he'll know that I've awake. It's only been a few minutes since my eyes opened, and already I've made a classic dumb horror movie mistake.

I step back, and then I think to turn and look for cameras. I don't see anything so far, but that doesn't mean there couldn't be something hidden away. I pause to consider my options, and then I look at the door and realize that I should at least check to see whether it's locked.

I glance around one more time, and then I make my way over to the door and try the handle. And to my surprise, I find that not only does it turn, but the door actually clicks open to reveal another large, mostly bare room.

I hesitate, wondering whether it's safe to go through, but then I figure that I might as well get the measure of this place. I step into the next room, and then I very carefully shut the door so that it won't make too much noise.

This room, at least, looks as if someone lives here. There's not much furniture, and the bare pine walls are totally bare, but there's a table with a solitary plate, and at the far end of the room there's an open-plan kitchen that has a few items drying on a rack next to the sink. There's no fire in here, so the room is slightly cold as I step past the table and head to the windows, and then as I reach the door I stop again to look around. Is it possible that someone brought me here, set me down on a rug, and then left?

I try the next door handle, and to my surprise it turns and opens. So I step out onto the cold porch and suddenly I realize that I've been here before.

Startled, I turn and see a figure sitting in a nearby chair, watching me from the darker end of the porch.

***

“You could have killed us both,” Thomas Roper says as he sets some mugs on the counter in his kitchen. “Your car's pretty mangled, but in the morning I can go out there with my truck and see if I can pull it out of the ditch. It'll need some work, though.”

“Why did you bring me here?” I ask, still not quite convinced that I haven't stumbled into the start of a horror movie.

“The nearest hospital is a fair distance away,” he replies, “and cellphone coverage is pretty bleak out here. Once I got you home, I realize that you didn't seem to be too badly hurt, so I made sure you were warm and comfortable. I was thinking that maybe you had a concussion, so I was trying to figure out whether or not it'd be safe to move you. And then I heard you moving around.”

I open my mouth to reply, but for a moment I hesitate.

“It's only one in the morning,” he adds. “You were unconscious for an hour at most.”

I swallow hard.

“Where's my phone?” I ask finally.

He turns to me, and then he nods toward the far end of the counter.

“Charging,” he says, just as I spot my phone attached to a wire and a socket. “You're lucky, we use the same model. It kept beeping 'cause the battery was low. It was driving me nuts.”

“Thanks,” I say cautiously.

I guess his explanation makes sense. I head over to check my phone and find that it's well on the way to a full battery, although there's no coverage this far out in the forest. I unlock the home-screen, but I've got no connection at all.

“I don't suppose you have internet here, do you?” I ask, trying to sound pretty casual.

“Sorry.”

“No problem.” I set the phone down, and then I turn to see that he's holding a large carving knife.

“Cheese and crackers?” he asks.

Before I can answer, I see that he's set out various items on a platter nearby. There are several types of cheese, along with some crackers and even some lengths of some kind of sausage.

“Or I can cook up something more substantial, if you're hungry,” he continues. “I have a lot of stuff in the freezer, I could heat up some home-made meat sauce, something like that.”

“No, I'm fine, thank you,” I reply, forcing a smile.

He sets the knife down.

“You're nervous,” he says.

“No, I'm not.”

“It's okay, I understand.” He pauses. “Listen, I was planning to wait until morning to drive you into town, or to a hospital, but we can go now if you prefer. I'd be happy to drop you off anywhere you like.”

“That would be good,” I tell him, perhaps a little too eagerly. I keep imagining Malone waiting at the bar with his ice cream, although I doubt he actually waited all that long.

He probably just thought that I stood him up and went to bed early. It was only a casual arrangement, and he probably think I'm some flighty person who can't keep an appointment. The odds that he's actually looking for me are very, very slim.

“I'll grab my keys,” Roper says, before heading over and grabbing a set from the fruit bowl, and then making his way toward the door that leads out to the porch.

I grab my cellphone and unplug it, and then I start to follow.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, stopping in the doorway and turning to me. He hesitates, and I can already tell that something's wrong. “You know,” he continues, “I just remembered. I need to refill the gas tank before I can drive anywhere, and there's no way I can do that in the middle of the night. I need light. I'm sorry, but we're going to have to wait a little while longer. That's okay with you, isn't it?”

“Sure,” I reply, although every fiber in my being is screaming at me to get out of here. “What difference will a few more hours make?”

Chapter Eighteen

“The farm belonged to my parents,” Roper says as we sit on the porch, with only a single – moth-covered – light to break the darkness, “and when they passed, I took it over. I don't really have to do much, though. I rent out a few of the fields, and that money pretty much pays for everything else.”

“So how far exactly is it to town from here?” I ask, looking out at the pitch-black forest. “In miles.”

“About nine, as the crow flies.”

“That's doable,” I reply. “That'd take, what, three hours to walk?”

“Well, like I said, it's nine as the crow flies.” He pauses for a moment. “The road's pretty twisty, so it's actually at least three times that in practice.”

“Not if you cut through the forest,” I point out.

“Sure, but then you've got to watch out for the river. Plus, I don't know about you, but I don't think I'd much like to be out there at this time of night.”

“There aren't, like, bears or anything, are there?”

“No bears, no,” he says, “but there's just something about the forest, you know? I've lived here all my life, and even I wouldn't want to be wandering around out there. A man could lose his bearings and get lost, maybe stumble into the water, or even over the edge of the waterfall. And that's someone who's experienced. Are you experienced with the great outdoors, Ms. Carter?”

“Not especially,” I reply, as I realize that he probably has a point.

He's not going to murder me.

I keep telling myself to remember those six words, but I'm not sure I quite believe them yet. I mean, what kind of guy can't put gas in his car in the middle of the night? That alone makes very little sense. I don't want to push Roper too much, in case he has some kind of breakdown, but I'm getting weird vibes and I can't help wondering whether a dash through the forest might actually be a good idea.

He's not going to murder me.

Or is he?

“You were here a year ago, weren't you?” he asks suddenly.

I turn to him.

“No,” I lie.

I immediately realize that lying was a mistake. He wasn't really asking; he was letting me know that he remembers.

“Yes, you were. You knocked on my door. I was sitting right here, and you asked for directions.”

“Oh.” I pause for a moment. “Yeah,” I continue finally, “I think maybe I was. Huh, that's a weird coincidence, isn't it? Who'd have believed something like that could happen?”

“You're not from around here.”

“No, I'm not.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“I'm... visiting friends,” I say cautiously.

“That makes sense. You came to see them last year, and then you came again this year. Is that it?”

“That's it.”

“There's a lot going on in these parts at the moment,” he continues. “I don't know whether you heard, but a girl has gone missing. Well, she went missing a year ago, but she still hasn't been found.”

“I think I heard something about that,” I tell him.

“A lot of people have been looking for her,” he explains, “although it seems to me that the trail has run cold. If the police were going to make any breakthroughs, that would have happened by now. Don't you think?”

“You never know,” I reply.

“It's not going to happen,” he says, and it sounds like he's really got the bit between his teeth. “These things get resolved quickly, or they don't get resolved at all. Anyway, it's quite possible that the girl just ran away. If you ask me, the police around here need to focus their resources on cases they can actually solve. That girl, whatever her name was... She's gone.”

“That's one way of looking at it,” I reply, preferring to not argue with a guy who might still turn out to be a psycho. I glance around, but the forest is as dark as ever and dawn's a long time coming. Could I walk back to town? Sure, I could. I could also wander into any number of deadly situations, and then maybe I'd end up joining Kimmy Duchette and Esmee Waters on the list of people who went missing in this part of the world.

“You can sleep, if you want,” Roper tells me.

“No!” I blurt out, turning back to him. “I mean, thank you, but... I'd rather stay awake.”

“Suit yourself.”

I wait, but now he's fallen silent. In this light, I can barely even see his face at all. He's really just a dark silhouette, set against the moths that are crawling all over the electric light a little further back. I guess I should probably say something, but I really don't want to disturb him, and finally I realize that maybe I should excuse myself for a moment.

“I might just use your washroom,” I say, getting to my feet. “I think I saw it earlier.”

“Go for it.”

I slip back into the house and make my way quickly toward the corridor that leads to the bathroom, and then I slow once I'm certain Roper can no longer see me. The guy is really starting to creep me out, and I'm not so sure that I want to sit around for several more hours like this. He'll probably just come up with some other reason why he can't quite drive me into town yet, so I'm going to need a plan pretty damn fast.

As I get to the bathroom door, I see that another door has been left open, leading into a darkened room. I glance over my shoulder, to make sure that Roper isn't following me, and then I take a left turn and peer into the room.

It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, but finally I spot a single camp-bed over in the far corner. And then, as I continue to look around, I realize that there's nothing else in here. This sure seems like a bedroom, but it's not like a home at all. A moment later I spot a couple of mugs on the floor, and a plate. The room also smells kind of musty, and I'm suddenly overcome by the realization that Thomas Roper seems almost to be camping out in his own house.

I step back out into the corridor, and I'm honestly not sure whether to be horrified or just sad. I mean, if Roper isn't some kind of homicidal maniac, he seems to just be this kind of pathetic guy who lives all alone and doesn't really see anyone and barely even has a life.

I shouldn't use the word 'pathetic', I feel bad, but that's basically how this whole set-up feels.

Figuring that I've already taken a suspiciously long time, I make my way into the washroom and flush the toilet, and then I quickly wash my hands before heading back out into the main room. I guess I can maybe try to gently find out a little more about Roper's life, so – as I head onto the porch – I'm already trying to think of a few subtle little questions I can ask.

And then I look over at the chair and see that Roper is gone.

I look around, but I'm all alone on the porch and I suddenly start to worry that maybe he secretly followed me when I was snooping in his house. Either that, or maybe he's gone to fetch an ax or a chainsaw so he can start chopping me up.

“Hello?” I call out tentatively. “Um, hey, where are you?”

I wait.

Silence.

“Is everything okay?” I continue, stepping to the top of the steps and looking out toward the forest, but seeing only trees in the darkness.

Again, I wait.

I swallow hard.

Okay, this is definitely starting to feel really weird. Where did he go? This farm seems pretty big, with several out-buildings dotted around in the darkness, and I'm suddenly very aware that I really don't know what kind of operation Roper has got running here. Squinting slightly, I can just about make out what look like large metal hooks hanging from one of the far walls, and over in the other direction that are several machines – or maybe just parts of machines – covered in what look like chains. Roper sure seems to have a lot of stuff, but so much of it seems old and decrepit. What does he actually do out here, all alone?

Suddenly hearing a bumping sound, I turn and look along the porch. The first thing I see is the chair that Roper was sitting in last year, when I first came here. The chair is empty now, although – as I take a step closer – I can't help thinking that it seems to be moving slightly, as if someone has been sitting in it. Or is that just a trick of the low light? I reach the chair and look down, and then I touch the edge, and it's certainly still now. There's no way someone could have been here and I wouldn't have noticed, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched.

And then, slowly, I realize that I can hear a creaking sound nearby. I look straight ahead and tell myself that I'm wrong, that I can't surrender to my fears, but at the same time I can hear the sound continuing over my shoulder. Finally, unable to hold back for a moment longer, I slowly turn and look the other way along the porch. For a moment, I briefly think that I spot something moving at the far end, as if a figure moved out of sight, but then I spot something moving again and I realize – I think – that it's just a shadow cast by a tree blowing in the breeze.

Just as I've begun to believe that, I hear the creaking sound again, this time coming from the other direction.

I turn to look back into the house, but at that moment I suddenly hear an engine starting somewhere nearby. I turn and look around, worried that what I'm hearing is a chainsaw being revved, but then lights appear from one side of the house and – before I have a chance to panic – a truck comes bumping into view across the rough ground and screeches to a halt right in front of me.

“Get in!” Roper yells as he pushes the passenger-side door open.

I stare at him, confused by this sudden development.

“I said, get in!” he continues, sounding agitated. “You want to go into town, don't you?”

“Sure,” I say, “but I thought -”

“Are you gonna ask questions,” he says, interrupting me, “or are you gonna get in? 'Cause I don't know about you, but I'm tired. I have things to do in the morning, so I'd really like to get some sleep tonight. Come on, get in the truck. I'll drop you off anywhere you like, but let's get moving.”

For a moment, I'm really not sure how to respond.

“It's not a trick question,” he continues. “Get in the truck! Now!”

Chapter Nineteen

“I haven't been along this way in a good long while,” Roper says as he steers the truck into the motel's parking lot. “I don't really have much need to come out much beyond the gas station. Any time I need to go to town, I go to Marlston. It's a little further but, well...”

His voice trails off, and as he brings the truck to a stop I can't help noticing that he's peering through the windshield as if he's a little nervous.

Ever since we left his farm, he's been talking. In fact, he's seemed to be almost compulsively trying to fill the silence, and I can't shake the feeling that he's trying desperately to seem normal. He's been telling me how normal and boring he is, and he's been going into his routine in great detail. And at the same time, I can't shake the feeling that he still hasn't quite told me what he wants to tell me.

I look around and see that the morning sun has finally begun to rise, lightening the gray sky just enough for me to see that nothing and no-one is moving out there. It's almost as if we're staring out at a photo of the world. After a moment I turn back to Roper and see that he's still looking out there, and I can't help watching his face and trying to work out what's going on his his mind. After all, he spent hours telling me that we couldn't leave his farm, and then all of a sudden he was rushing me into the truck.

“So you don't come into town much, huh?” I say finally.

I immediately regret saying anything at all. I feel bad for breaking his spell.

He turns to me, and for a moment he seems a little dazed.

“I don't come round here much,” he says cautiously. “People can be...”

His voice trails off.

This time, I force myself to wait for him to finish.

“People can look at you funny,” he says. “They don't even have to say anything. They just look at you, and you know roughly what they're thinking. You can tell yourself that it doesn't matter, that they're wrong, but after a while you just want to go further out, to somewhere else. When I go into Ridge Falls, people look at me funny. When I go all the way to Marlston, most of them don't do that. So that's where I do my things, even though it costs me a lot more in gas. I go to Marlston once a month, to the store and the library, and that's about it.”

“Why do you think people look at you funny around here?” I ask, pretending that I have no idea about Roper's past, and about the questions surrounding the disappearance of Esmee Waters.

“Well,” he says, “it's because of ideas.”

“Ideas?”

“Ideas that get caught in their heads. Fed by parasites and...”

He hesitates, and now there's a flicker of anger in his eyes.

“People write things,” he continues finally, “and other people read them. Do you know about the media? Do you know how they twist things? News people, they hurt you.”

I wait, but now he's staring at me as if he expects me to agree with him.

“Sure,” I say cautiously. “I get that.”

“You can't ever change it,” he explains. “It's just the way things are. You just have to move past it. I should've moved away from here a long time ago.”

“Why didn't you?” I ask.

“It's complicated.”

“Sure, but -”

“This is my home,” he adds abruptly, cutting me off. “It's been my family's home for generations. Why should I run away from it?”

“That makes sense.”

“It's just complicated,” he continues. “You wouldn't understand.”

“I'm sure I wouldn't.”

“But people from the news,” he adds, “it's mostly their fault. They're the ones who stir things up. They come to places like this and they ruin everything and then they leave. And there's nothing you can do about it, because they know how to do it all within the rules of the law. Everything's alleged or rumored. They just won't leave people alone. They come onto your property, they go through your trash, they ask your neighbors about you. And it doesn't matter that you didn't do what they say you did, no-one cares, because all those questions get squashed together until they sound like their own answers and...”

Again, his voice trails off.

For the first time, I notice that his fists are clenched, as if he's struggling to control his rage. This man has been through a lot.

“You should get out of the truck now,” he adds finally.

“You're angry,” I reply. “I get that. What is it that people -”

“You should get out of the truck,” he says again, before leaning over me and opening the door, then leaning back into his seat. “Now.”

“I can help you,” I continue, trotting out my usual nonsense about how people need to open up to me. “It might help if you get your side of the story out to the world. Let them know what it was like for you, prove to them that you didn't do anything wrong. I know you shouldn't have to lay it all out like that, but it's just the way the world works these days. Try playing the P.R. game for once, and maybe you'll feel... lighter, somehow. As if people aren't constantly accusing you of things behind your back.”

He pauses, as if he's considering the possibility, and then finally he sighs and shakes his head.

“Why not?” I ask.

“I can't.”

“I'm sure it feels impossible, but -”

“I just can't!” he snaps, interrupting me. “Not everyone's like that! Not everyone wants attention! Is that so difficult for you to understand? Now please, get out of here!”

I open my mouth to ask him another question, but suddenly I realize that he seems almost to be warning me to get out, as if he's worried about what might happen if I don't. I hesitate for a moment longer, still trying to think of something to say, and then I clamber out into the cold morning air before turning back to look at him.

He reaches over and pulls the door shut.

Before I have a chance to even try to speak, he puts the truck into reverse and backs the vehicle away. Tires squeal as he swings the truck around, and then he drives away fast.

I stand and watch until he's out of view, and then I wait a little longer until I can no longer hear the sound of his engine as he races away. I guess he's going home, back to that big old farm, and I can't help thinking about him rattling around alone in all those empty rooms. Did he tell me to get out of the truck simply because he wanted to get going, or was I right that it was more for my own safety? There was a moment there, when he sat with his fists clenched, that I really thought he was about to explode. He seems like such a calm man on the surface, but I saw glimpses of something else underneath.

And I guess I didn't really see anything to suggest that he's a murdering monster after all. I mean, sure, he's creepy and a little weird, but is he the kind of guy who'd abduct girls and kill them? I know I shouldn't allow my emotions to cloud my judgment, but I'm having a real hard time picturing Thomas Roper doing anything like that.

A few minutes later, I'm at the desk in my room, furiously typing on my laptop. I need to get down everything I remember from my exclusive night at his farmhouse. I guess a big part of this story is going to be all about Thomas Roper after all.

Chapter Twenty

“No, I didn't get a chance,” I say as the guy in the repair shop writes some more notes on a piece of paper. “This total lunatic just ran me off the road and then drove away. There was nothing I could do to avoid it.”

“I can get out there this morning,” he replies, “but I'll need to see the vehicle before I know what needs doing. We'll bring it back here and take a look, and then I'll call you. Might be this evening, might be tomorrow.”

“I'm guessing this is going to be expensive, huh?”

“It's gonna be what it's gonna be,” he mutters, somewhat unhelpfully. “I really won't be able to give you any more information before I've seen the damage.”

I open my mouth to ask for a ballpark figure, but at that moment I spot a familiar figure crossing the street outside.

“Call me,” I tell the guy in the shop, as I hurry to the door. “I need to get back on the road as soon as I can! And as cheaply as possible!”

***

“I just took an early night,” Malone says as we make our way toward the station. “I saw the light was off in your room, so I figured you did the same.”

“Something like that,” I reply, not really wanting to get into the details right now.

How would he react if I told him that I was at Roper's all night? Would he be horrified? Would he be amazed that I didn't get murdered?

“I figure it'll take us the rest of the morning to go through the remaining files,” he continues. “And after that...”

I wait for him to continue but, as we cross the street, I start to realize that maybe he's hoping for me to jump in with an idea. The problem with that, however, is that I genuinely don't know where we should go from here. Maybe I was a little naive when I came here, maybe I thought I'd uncover a mountain of clues that the incompetent local police had missed; now I'm really starting to understand that Malone's investigation hit a brick wall, and I have to contemplate the possibility that we might not get to the bottom of Kimmy Duchette's disappearance.

I need to shake things up.

“I was at Thomas Roper's house last night,” I blurt out suddenly.

Malone stops at the steps and turns to me.

“It's complicated,” I continue. “I wasn't planning to go out there, but then I kinda bumped into him. Literally. And I figured I should at least see what the guy's about, so... I went to his house.”

“You went inside?” Malone asks, sounding pretty incredulous.

“It's bare in there,” I explain. “He hardly has any furniture. Don't get me wrong, it's a nice place, but it doesn't feel lived-in.”

“Roper is a loner,” Malone replies. “As far as I know, he never speaks to anyone, with the exception of cashiers and clerks.” He pauses, eyeing me with a hint of suspicion. “Don't take this the wrong way,” he adds, “but why would he invite you to go back to his place?”

“You don't think I can be charming?”

“I... think you can be...”

His voice trails off for a moment.

I wait.

“I'm sure you could... to some degree...”

“I can be charming!” I tell him.

“And is that what happened? You charmed your way into his place?”

“As it happens, no,” I reply. “I woke up there.”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“It's a long story,” I add. “Roper helped me, if you really have to know. He turned out to be quite a gentleman.”

“So did you learn anything?” he asks. “You were pretty suspicious of Roper the first time I met you. When you got to his house, did you find anything odd? Bags of chopped-up bodies? Bloodied hooks on the walls?”

“Funny,” I reply. “And no, there was nothing like that. He was actually kinda... nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yeah. Nice.”

“That's it? Just... nice?”

“It's not a crime to be nice,” I point out.

Damn, I hate that word. What does nice really mean, anyway? Safe? Bland? Boring?

“Sure.” He seems a little nonplussed for a moment, before turning and leading me up the steps that lead to the main door. “So I guess he's off your list of suspects, then? Good timing, Maggie. Thomas Roper was, if only due to a process of elimination, the one aspect of this case that we could've still looked into.”

“I'm not saying he's off the list,” I reply, hurrying after him. “I might have been a little wrong with my initial assessment of him, though. He's got a right to be reclusive if he wants. That doesn't make him a bad guy.” He holds the door open for me, and I head inside. “And he had plenty of opportunities to kill me last night. I was even unconscious for a while. What does it say about him, if he didn't kill me?”

“That he has the patience of a saint?”

I turn and scowl at him.

“Maybe you're just not his type,” he adds.

“His type?”

“Kimmy was fifteen when she disappeared. And going further back, Esmee Waters was fifteen too. And you're...” He pauses. “Well, don't take this the wrong way, Maggie, but you're not fifteen.”

“I think if he'd been the murderer, he'd have murdered me,” I tell him. “I'm definitely highly murderable.”

Sighing, I realize that this conversation has gone seriously off the rails. And I'm not sure that murderable is even a word. It definitely should be, though. I'll have to check that later.

“I'm going to go through and get started on the files,” I say, hoping to return things to some semblance of normality.

“I'll fetch some coffee,” he replies, before taking a set of keys from his pocket and handing them to me. “Who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky?”

As one of the deputies comes over to talk to him, I turn and head toward his office. In the back of my mind, I'm already starting to wonder whether I might have to head home tomorrow. Assuming my car can be patched back together, I should really start looking for a new job, and any dreams of swooping into Ridge Falls and miraculously solving this case have begun to feel pretty flimsy. Is that because the case is unsolvable, or is it because I'm not Rolinda Derringham? Would she have made more progress by now?

I unlock the door and step into the office, and I have to admit that my heart sinks a little at the pile of files that we still have to check. Wandering over, I tell myself that there's still a chance of finding something, although I can tell that there's another, deeper voice in my mind that's basically already given up.

No.

No, I'm not giving up until all the avenues have been exhausted. I'm going to nail this story, and I'm going to get that front page. And if this is my last day here, then I'm going to make sure that I use it well. Heading around the desk, I take a seat and grab the first file, and I force myself to ignore all my doubts and to instead focus on the task at hand. Even if we don't find the murderer, there's a story here. There has to be.

Suddenly the door swings open and Malone steps through, and I instantly see from the look on his face that something has happened.

“What's wrong?” I ask. “Are we out of coffee?”

I wait, but he looks utterly horrified.

“Is the coffee machine broken?” I add, but I'm starting to realize that something serious must have happened. After a moment, I get to my feet. “Malone?” I continue. “What's wrong?”

He stares at me for a moment, and it's as if all the color has drained from his face.

“I just got a call,” he says finally. “We found a body.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“You really don't have to be here for this,” Malone says firmly as we hurry down the slope that leads from the side of the road, toward the people who are working ahead in a clearing in the forest. “In fact, it might be better if you -”

“If you don't want me here,” I reply, “then tell me to go. Otherwise I'm coming with you.”

“We searched this area,” he continues, and I can hear the frustration in his voice. “I was here myself with the men. We went over the whole place, we had dogs, there's no way we could have missed anything.”

“Then it was left here later,” I point out. “That's not completely out of the question. Kimmy -”

“We don't know that it's her!” he snaps. “Not yet!”

“Sure. The body, then. Whoever it is. It could have been moved here more recently. There are plenty of possible explanations.” I wait for him to admit that I'm right, but we've almost reached the crime scene now. “We have to keep an open mind,” I remind him. “Don't let anger cloud your thinking.”

He doesn't reply, and as we reach the clearing I stop and stare at the sight of several figures working near a large metal pipe. The figures are wearing light blue hazard suits, so it's pretty clear that they're dealing with something sensitive, and after a moment I see one of them taking a clear plastic bag and placing it on a red mat.

It takes a few seconds before I realize I can see a human hand inside the bag.

I immediately turn away, horrified by the sight, before forcing myself to look. I turn back and see more bags being placed onto the mat, and I finally begin to understand what Malone said earlier. On the way out here to the forest, he muttered something about a body having been found “in parts”, but it's clear that this person has been hacked into scores of small pieces. And then, just as I'm starting to feel nauseous, I see half a face being placed on the mat, with its features having been cut straight down the middle.

Turning away, I feel for a moment as if I'm about to throw up.

“What have we got here?” Malone barks. “Do we have a name yet?”

“It's her,” another voice replies, trembling slightly. “We'll have to have a proper identification later, but it's Kimmy. See for yourself.”

“You don't know that for sure,” Malone replies, “she could be -”

“I knew the girl, Aiden!” the other voice says firmly. “Not well, but I knew her, and I'm telling you... It's Kimmy Duchette.”

With my back still turned to the horrific scene, I hear the crinkling of plastic bags and the thuds of multiple sets of footsteps moving all around the site. I know I'm going to have to turn and look again, but the thought is horrifying, and finally I reach a compromise. I half turn, until I'm looking over at the large pipe that's poking out from the side of a small hill, and then I make my way over to see exactly where the body parts were found.

“It's from one of the old factories,” Malone explains as I join him. A few more bags are still being removed, each containing another part of the corpse. “These things haven't been used for years.”

“And the pieces were found in here?” I ask, trying to focus on proper questions in an attempt to keep myself from screaming. Somehow it helps – a little – to stick to the job.

“About five meters in,” Malone says, turning to me. “It's almost like someone wanted us to find them.”

“And you checked this area?”

“Of course we did!” he snaps.

“And -”

“We checked every inch!” he shouts angrily. “We had men coming through here, over and over! We had dogs! We had thermal imaging cameras! We did everything that was humanly possible!”

“Okay, I get it,” I reply, before watching as the final bag is taken away. “So someone cut her up and put her into bags, and placed them here. I think you're right, I think this was designed to be found. But why would someone want to send us a message, a year after Kimmy went missing? And what is the message?”

“The message,” Malone replies through gritted teeth, “is that there's a maniac on the loose, and he or she apparently doesn't mind if we know. What kind of sick bastard would do this?”

“Someone who's pretty limber,” I point out.

He turns to me.

“How were the bags arranged in the pipe?”

“Neatly. Why does that matter?”

“If they were five meters inside, that suggests someone who was able to climb down there without any worries,” I point out. “Sure, it's doable, but it's not something that just anyone could do. Also, why five? Why not two, or ten?”

“I don't get what you're -”

“Why put them far enough inside that they can just about be seen, but too far for them to be seen easily?”

“They were spotted by a guy named Ed Burroughs,” Malone explains. “He was walking his dog through here, and the dog started trying to climb into the pipe. Ed thought it might be contaminated, so he didn't let his dog inside, but he happened to glance in and he could just about make out the bags.”

“You could hide a body out here,” I reply, “and it'd likely never be found. And if you wanted to make a big demonstration, you could do so many things. Instead, this killer seems to have gone for a kind of halfway house approach. There's no logic to it.”

“This person is a killer!” he says firmly. “How could there be any logic to any of this?”

“There's always logic!” I tell him. “People do things for reasons! This murderer put the bags in that part of the pipe for a reason. Not further in. Not closer to the exit. They were put in that particular spot, and we need to know why, because we need to understand how this person's mind works.”

He sighs and starts to turn away, and then he hesitates. I can tell that he's furious, and that he's not thinking straight. In fact, I can't shake the feeling that he's on the verge of exploding with fury and frustration.

“Aiden?”

Hearing a voice nearby, I turn to see an elderly man coming over to join us.

“Might I have a word?” he adds.

“It's okay,” Malone replies, “Maggie's with me.”

“I've carried out a preliminary examination,” the man explains, “and it's clear that the deceased was dismembered using a sharp blade, maybe an ax. I don't think a machine was used, I think this was someone literally hacking at the pieces. In some cases, multiple cuts had to be made in order to sever the various pieces.” He glances at me for a moment, and then he turns to Malone again. “The pieces only just fit the bags. In some cases, the seals had come open. I think the dismemberment was likely part of the disposal process. There doesn't seem to be anything ritualistic about it. Also, I see no evidence of physical assault, although I'll have to take a closer look once I get her back to my table.”

“What about injuries?” Malone asks. “Can you tell whether she had any injuries before she died?”

“Nothing's apparent,” he says. “There's one other thing, though. Based on the state of the flesh, I have a suspicion that she died quite some time ago, and that she was dismembered and then frozen in these bags.”

“Frozen?” I say, shocked by the suggestion.

“And then left out here to thaw,” he explains. “I'll try to come up with a more specific timeline, but my hunch is that she was most likely killed shortly after she disappeared, and then she was frozen until the killer was ready to dispose of her.”

“Why would anyone do it like that?” I ask. “Why dispose of her now?”

“I'm afraid that's beyond my powers to explain,” he says. “The post mortem is going to take a little longer than usual, Aiden. I'll try to have something for you by the end of the day.”

As he walks away, I turn to Malone and see that he seems completely frozen. I wait for him to say something, but from the look in his eyes it's as if he's gone completely inward, as if he's consumed by his thoughts. Frankly, right now his expression is a little scary.

“What's the next step?” I ask.

I wait, but he doesn't say anything.

“Hey,” I continue, placing a hand on his arm, “what do you -”

“I'll tell you the next step,” he says suddenly, turning to me angrily. “We're going to go and get the bastard who did this. And I think I know exactly where to find him.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“You have no right to be here!” Thomas Roper says as several more officers enter his house. “I haven't done anything wrong!”

“This is just a friendly visit,” Malone mutters, pushing past him on the steps that lead up to the porch. “If you haven't done anything wrong, you've got nothing to worry about. You want to help us find Kimmy Duchette's murderer, don't you?”

He storms inside, leaving me standing at the bottom of the steps.

“They found her?” Roper asks, turning to me. “Where?”

“Out in the forest,” I tell him.

“But where in the forest?” he asks.

“Not too far from here,” I explain. “I don't know how much more I can say.”

“And you're with them? Are you part of the police now?”

Before I can answer, we both hear the sound of breaking glass inside the house.

“What are they doing?” Roper snaps, turning and hurrying inside. “Stop! I haven't done anything! You can't just come in and destroy my home!”

I begin to make my way up the steps, although my foot catches against the bottom step and I almost fall. Cursing my luck, I scramble all the way onto the porch, and then I get into the house just in time to see that Malone and his men are almost taking the place apart. Every drawer, every cupboard, has been pulled open, and one officer even looks to be searching for hidden panels in the walls. Sure, there wasn't much furniture in Roper's house to begin with, but that hasn't stopped Malone's men making a mess.

“You're destroying the place,” I tell Malone as I head over to join him in the kitchen. “Do you have to trash the man's home?”

“You're the one who was so convinced he's responsible,” he replies, not even turning to look at me. “If you'd had your way, we'd have been out here a year ago.”

“And you're the one who told me to hold back,” I remind him. “You said there was no evidence. That hasn't changed, has it?”

“He was implicated in the Esmee Waters disappearance.”

“He really wasn't!” I say firmly. “When you look into it, there was nothing to directly link him to Esmee. That was just the papers getting people riled up!”

“Well, maybe I'm taking a leaf out of their book!” he shouts, finally turning to me. “Maybe the softly-softly approach doesn't get results! Maybe people like me should be more like people like you!” He pauses, and it's clear that he's struggling to contain himself. “Maybe,” he adds finally, “for once, I'm going to do whatever it takes to uncover the truth. Why should reporters be the only ones who get to go for the jugular? I'm sorry, Maggie, but I'm going to do this your way for once.”

***

“I heard they've been out there since dawn,” an old lady mutters a few hours later, in a booth at the bar. “They wouldn't be doing this if they didn't have a reason.”

Sitting at the counter, I force myself to stay quiet. Those two ladies have been gossiping about the police operation ever since I got here, and at least half of everything they've said has been wrong. I just wish they'd find something else to talk about.

“He lives out there all alone, doesn't he?” the other woman replies. “Now, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that, but it makes you wonder. He always seems like a nice enough man whenever I meet him, but you just don't know what's going on with people under the surface, do you?”

“All I know,” the first woman says, “is that Mr. Malone has always been very nice. He wouldn't do anything without good reason. And he's taken all his men up to that farm, which tells you something. I've even heard rumors that they found something in the forest near Mr. Roper's house. I think it's all going to start coming out soon. I hope Mr. Roper comes clean, so that the families can have some kind of closure. He should at least tell them where to find the bodies.”

“Excuse me?” I say finally, turning to them. “Thomas Roper hasn't been charged with anything.”

“Oh, we know that,” one of the ladies replies. “But he's at the station, isn't he? I saw it online, he was taken there hours ago.” She taps at her phone and, for a moment, squints at the screen. “There's no mention of him having been let out yet. They must be really questioning him hard.”

“There's nothing to connect Thomas Roper to the murder of Kimmy Duchette,” I point out. “Try to keep that in mind.”

“Is it definitely a murder, then?” the second woman asks, her eyes widening with shock. “Are the rumors true?”

“Never mind.”

I turn away, just as Teresa comes over and refills my coffee.

“Everyone's talking about it,” she says, lowering her voice as the two old ladies continue to natter in the booth. “About Thomas Roper, I mean. They're saying the police couldn't hold him like this, not unless they had evidence.”

“It's probably best to not jump to conclusions,” I tell her.

“It's just so sad about Kimmy,” she continues. “I mean, everyone knew she had to be dead, but I suppose there was always some hope, wasn't there? Until today.” She leans closer. “I heard she was found hanging naked from a tree, with scratches all over her body, and her eyes had been gouged out along with her tongue. And someone had put her eyes and tongue on the ground nearby and -”

“None of that is true,” I tell her.

“Are you sure?”

“She was found in a -”

I stop myself just in time, and then I realize that the old ladies have fallen silent. I turn and see that they're staring at me, as if they're desperate for more news.

“I'm sure there'll be a press release soon,” I say, before turning back to my coffee. “It's probably best to wait until then. No-one benefits from all this talk. And Thomas Roper remains an innocent man, until and unless he gets convicted of anything.”

“Oh, of course,” one of the ladies says. “We all know that.”

“I just hope he admits where he hid all the bodies,” her friend adds. “For closure, you know? For the families.”

Realizing that this is a hopeless conversation, I take one final swig of my coffee and then I head outside. I feel as if this whole town has begun to over-heat, and Thomas Roper seems to have been tried and convicted in the court of public opinion. Stopping outside the bar, I take a moment to get my head straight, and then I glance along the street and see the police station in the distance.

Right now, Roper is in there, and I doubt Malone is holding back.

Hearing the door open behind me, I turn to see that Teresa has come out of the bar. She stops for a moment to light a cigarette, and then she takes a drag before glancing at me. She pauses for a few seconds, as if she's lost in thought, and then she slowly lowers her cigarette and offers a faint, curious smile.

“I have a knife,” she says finally, “in the back of my underwear.”

“Come again?” I reply.

“For self-defense,” she continues. “I put it there when Kimmy went missing, in case anyone ever tried to abduct me. You know, the funny thing is, I guess I can take it out now, but I think maybe I won't. I think maybe I'll keep it in there, even though I have to be careful how I walk and I basically can't sit down. 'Cause even if Thomas Roper is the killer, there might be other killers around. So I might still need to defend myself one day.”

“You know you can buy, like, stun guns and stuff like that, right?” I ask.

“Oh, sure,” she says, “but I actually kinda like the knife thing. Is that weird?”

I stare at her for a moment.

“Yes,” I say finally. “It's really weird.”

She pauses, and then she smiles again.

Shaking my head, I turn and walk away. There's something seriously wrong with that girl, but I don't have time to figure out what. I guess the madness in Ridge Falls has changed everyone in some way, and to varying degrees. Those changes will linger long after the killer has been brought to justice, and I can't help thinking that – whether or not Thomas Roper turns out to be the culprit – Ridge Falls will be forever touched by the death of Kimmy Duchette.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Several hours later, as I pour myself yet another coffee in a corridor at the station, I hear a door opening nearby and I turn just in time to see Deputy Laird emerging from one of the interview rooms.

“Is he finally done?” I ask.

“I don't think he's gonna be done for a while,” he says cautiously. “It's not going... optimally.”

“What do you mean?”

“The guy won't break,” he explains as he comes over to join me. “He just keeps on insisting that he's innocent.”

“Maybe he is.”

“The boss doesn't think so. And he reckons he's willing to hold Roper for as long as it takes.”

“I don't think he's thinking clearly,” I tell him. “He's letting anger dictate his choices, and that's never good. Maybe Roper is hiding something, and maybe he's not. But either way, this isn't the right approach.”

“Malone's getting desperate,” he replies. “I've never seen him like this, he's getting...” He checks over his shoulder, to make sure that no-one can hear us, and then he turns to me again. “He was banging his fist on the desk earlier. Literally banging. I've seen him angry before, but never like this. Never like he's completely losing his cool. I think it's the whole thing about finding the Duchette girl's body. It's sent him off the deep-end.”

“He probably thinks people are going to blame him,” I suggest.

“And you think they won't?”

“That wouldn't be fair.”

“So? When news of the discovery gets out, people are going to want someone to blame, especially when they hear all the details about the bags. And they're going to wonder why Aiden didn't catch Roper sooner.”

“He's not -”

Before I can finish, there's a sudden loud bumping noise in the distance, quickly followed by raised voices. I glance at Laird, and then at the same moment we both turn and hurry toward the door at the far end of the corridor. Just before we get there, the door swings open and Malone comes stumbling out with two deputies holding his wrists.

“What happened in there?” I ask.

“That smug son-of-a-bitch had it coming!” Malone snaps breathlessly, turning to me. “I swear, I'm going to break him before the end of the day. I'll have his signature on a confession, or I'll have his name on a tombstone!”

“Did you hit him?” I ask. “Seriously?”

He pulls away from the deputies and storms away, heading toward his office. I hesitate for a moment, utterly shocked by what's happening, and then I hurry after him. I feel as if this whole situation is rushing out of control, and I'm starting to worry that Malone might actually be losing his mind. By the time I reach his office, I find that he's pacing about and muttering to himself, and a moment later he turns and pushes all the files and papers off his desk.

“Well, that's helpful,” I point out, stopping in the doorway. “Way to go. Do you have any other useful contributions to make?”

“Don't piss me off right now!” he says firmly.

“Or what? Are you gonna punch me too?”

He turns to me, with a face like thunder.

Not really sure what to say, I pause before stepping into the room and crouching down, and then I start carefully gathering all the files and pieces of paper back together. We had a system worked out, and now everything's all mixed up, and I think it's safe to say that this part of our work is over. As Malone heads to the window and looks out, I set some of the papers back on his desk, and then I grab some more.

“How badly did you hurt Roper?” I ask finally.

“I barely touched him.”

“How barely is barely?”

“Less than he deserves.” He pauses for a moment. “You should have seen the way he was sitting there, Maggie. It was as if he had total confidence that we couldn't touch him. That man killed Kimmy Duchette, and most likely he killed Esmee Waters too, and he thinks he's going to get away with it.” He pauses again. “And the worst part is, he might be right. When Esmee disappeared, a bunch of us got involved in the search. He killed her and now he's going to walk away.”

“You don't know that,” I point out, as I put some more papers onto the desk.

“What am I supposed to say to Esmee's parents?” he continues. “Once word gets out about Kimmy, Mark and Amanda Waters are going to want to know whether we're closer to finding their daughter. Am I supposed to just tell them that there's been no change?”

“Tell them the truth,” I reply. “Tell them that you're working on it.”

“Maybe someone else should work on it,” he suggests. “Maybe I'm not cut out for this.”

I'm about to tell him that he needs to stay strong, when I find a broken photo frame among the papers. Picking it out, I see that the photo shows a smiling woman and a young boy.

“Is this your family?” I ask.

He turns and looks.

“That's my wife and son,” he explains, and now he sounds exhausted. “Back when Esmee went missing, I devoted every second of my time to finding her. I was working over in the next town at the time. We never found a trace of her, but in the process I made my wife feel as if she didn't matter. Then when...”

He pauses, and then he turns away.

“Never mind. It doesn't matter. It's all over now, I'm just waiting for her to send me the papers. She deserves better.”

I set the frame back on the desk, and then I pick up the last of the folders.

“I'm going to have to release Roper soon,” he explains. “Obviously he'll be free to make a complaint about me, and I could well lose my job. The men at the farm didn't find anything, and soon that asshole's going to get lawyers involved. I'm surprised he hasn't already.”

“When I first met you,” I reply, “I was the one pressing for Roper to be investigated, and you were the one resisting. Funny how we've kinda swapped roles, huh?”

He turns to me.

“I've screwed this whole thing up,” he says. “Again.”

“I think you need to go back to Roper and apologize,” I tell him, “and then let him go. I think he's a reasonable man, and there's a chance he might let this go. Unless you broke his nose.”

“I didn't break his nose.”

“Release him,” I continue. “At least for now. If he's guilty, you'll get another chance. And if he's not, you can look for other clues. There's a body in the morgue, and maybe that'll throw something up. I don't know about you, but I refuse to believe that anyone can kidnap two girls and not leave some kind of a trace. We will find something eventually. I absolutely believe that.”

“And what's in it for you?” he asks. “A book deal?”

“I'm just trying to prove that I can do the right thing,” I tell him, feeling a little uncomfortable for a moment. “I'm trying to help.”

He stares at me, almost as if he doesn't believe me, and then he sighs and makes his way past me.

“I'm going to sort out this mess with Roper,” he mutters, “and then I'm going to try to get ahead of the news by visiting the Waters family. Someone needs to fill them in, before the media comes up with all sorts of nonsense.”

“Mind if I tag along?” I ask.

He turns to me.

“At the very least,” I continue, “I can keep you entertained with some witty banter in the car. Wait right here, I just need to grab something.”

I hurry over to grab my jacket. And as I do so, I double-check that I have my digital voice recorder. If I'm going to get a face-to-face with the grieving Waters family, I need to get it all on tape.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“There he goes,” Malone says a short while later, as he drives us away from the station, and as Thomas Roper emerges from the front of the building. “He's a free man again.”

We drive past, and for a moment Roper looks right at me. In that moment, I feel as if he hates me. I also can't help but notice that he seems to be developing something of a black eye, which I guess is the result of the incident during his interview.

“I got some preliminary findings from Walter Crease,” Malone continues, tossing his phone over to me. “Some of the body parts had tiny traces of fabric stuck to them, most likely from the freezing process. He's not sure exactly what they are, but they're the first actual lead we've been given.”

Looking at the screen, I see close-up photos of tiny yellow-red strands attached to sections of skin.

“That seems remarkably sloppy,” I point out.

“They were barely visible to the naked eye.”

“But the killer must have known that the body would be examined,” I continue. “Is it possible that these threads are designed to lead us in the wrong direction?”

“I'm considering all the possibilities right now.”

“Something's still bugging me about the way those body parts were found,” I tell him. “Why offer us these clues now? Sure, it could be someone who just wants to toy with the police, but I'm not buying that. Why wait all this time?” I stare at the screen for a moment. “This doesn't fit with any TV movie I've ever watched.”

***

“Esmee was such a good girl,” Amanda Waters says later in the evening, as we sit in the family's front room. She dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “She even used to ask for extra work at school, to bring home and do in the evenings.”

“That makes her sound weird, but she wasn't,” Mark Waters adds. “She was just... scholarly. She was never happy if she didn't have her nose in a book.”

I adjust my position on the couch, while carefully opening my jacket a little to make sure that the recorder can pick up all the voices.

“She'd be twenty-six now,” Amanda says. “She'd be making decisions about her future. She always said she wanted to be a librarian. That's how much she loved books. Sometimes I even buy her a new book, when I see that one's come out by an author she loved. I keep thinking that maybe one day she'll come back and she'll get to read them all.”

“Why are you really here?” Mark asks. “I don't buy that this is just a casual check-up. Has something happened in the case?”

“As I explained,” Malone replies, “we're investigating the disappearance of a girl named Kimmy -”

“I get that,” Mark says, cutting him off, “but Kimmy Duchette disappeared a year ago. What has specifically happened now to make you come here?”

I glance at Malone. If I were in the Waters' shoes, I wouldn't believe for one second that this visit is a 'casual check-up'. My mind would be racing with all the terrible possibilities, and I'd be half-convinced that a body had been found.

“I know you've been asked these questions before,” Malone says after a moment, “but in the days and weeks leading up to Esmee's disappearance, did her behavior change at all? Was there anything to indicate that maybe she'd become friends with someone new?”

“She didn't have many friends,” Amanda replies. “Apart from her books.”

“And she wouldn't have run off with anyone,” Mark explains. “Someone took her.”

“You're not with the police, are you?” Amanda asks, suddenly turning to me. “Who are you? And why are you here?”

“I'm... working with Sheriff Malone,” I say cautiously, still very keen to avoid mentioning my profession. “I'm an adviser.”

I wait, but she's eyeing me with suspicion.

“We know she's not coming back,” Mark Waters says suddenly. “We're not idiots. Girls like Esmee don't vanish and then come back years later.”

“She will!” Amanda hisses.

“People don't abduct girls and look after them,” Mark continues. “We just want to be able to give her a proper burial. We want her to have some dignity. She should have a proper grave with a proper -”

Before he can finish, his wife gets to her feet and hurries out of the room, and a moment later I realize I can hear her sobbing somewhere far off in the house.

“She knows too,” Mark says. “You have to understand, we just want to be able to bury Esmee. We're not expecting a miracle. We just want to know that, in the end, we found her and gave her a proper place to rest. Until that happens, we're always living in a kind of limbo.”

He falls silent for a moment.

“Did Esmee know that she was adopted?” I ask finally.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Mark replies.

“I just wondered whether there was any tension,” I continue. “Some people don't react well to learning something like that.”

“Esmee knew from an early age,” he explains, and he sounds a little irritated by the question. “Trust me, we managed the situation. It wasn't easy, but we sorted it all out. Now, if you don't mind, I feel like we're going around in circles, and your visit still doesn't make sense. Has there been a development, or not?”

I glance at Malone, and I can see that he's reluctant to tell the truth. At the same time, even a complete fool would be able to see right now that he's holding something back.

“We found the remains of Kimmy Duchette,” he says finally, and I think there might be the first hint of tears in his eyes. “Out in the forest.”

Mark Waters stares at him for a moment, before looking down at his own hands.

Over by the doorway, there's a startled gasp, and I look over just in time to realize that Amanda Waters must be out there somewhere. From the sounds I'm hearing now, it's pretty clear that she's breaking down.

“I need to stress,” Malone continues, “that we have nothing to link Kimmy's disappearance to the disappearance of your daughter. Absolutely nothing.”

“But you think there's a link,” Mark Waters says firmly, as his hands start shaking. “Everyone does. Everyone knows. We're not idiots.”

“We have to consider the possibility.”

I wait for a moment, and then I get to my feet and hurry out into the hallway, where I find Amanda Waters crumpled on the floor. She's sobbing wildly, while covering her face with her hands, so I kneel next to her and try to think of something I can do or say to make any of this better.

Before I have a chance, however, she turns to me and puts her arms around me, and she clings tight to my shoulders as she continues to cry. After just a few seconds, I already start to feel her tears through the material of my shirt.

“We should know more once the full forensic report is in,” Malone is saying in the other room. “That'll be tonight, and then we'll know how best to proceed.”

“How was Kimmy when you found her?” Mark asks. “Was she buried in the forest?”

“I'm sorry,” Malone replies, “but I'm not at liberty to go into those details right now. But I want to emphasize that this really might not be connected in any way to Esmee's disappearance. There's still hope.”

“After eleven years?” Mark says. “Do you think I'm an idiot? That's just not possible. Whatever happened to that Duchette girl, it's the same thing that happened to Esmee. The only difference is that you haven't found Esmee yet. And maybe you never will.”

“It's okay,” I tell Amanda as she starts sobbing again. I know these words are empty, that they're not helping at all, but I have to try. “You can't give up, not yet. You have to keep hoping.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Sitting in the bar, staring down at the two ice creams that I've ordered, I can't help but think about the discovery of Kimmy's body. Whenever I close my eyes, I see those little chunks of meat in their little plastic bags. Even when my eyes are open, it's as if ghosts of those images are dancing in front of me, refusing to let me go.

I check my watch.

22:15.

It's over two hours since Malone dropped me off here. He said he'd be quick, but that he had to go and speak to Mrs. Duchette personally. I offered to go with him, but he insisted that this time he needed to be alone. I said I could just wait in the car, but again he insisted that this was his job. I knew better than to argue with him, so I told him I'd meet him in here. I bought these ice creams, but I wasn't really thinking straight. Now they've mostly melted, and anyway I've realized that no-one wants to eat at a time like this.

I check my watch again.

Still 22:15.

Man, time seems to be moving slowly.

The clock ticks over to 22:16.

I guess that's some kind of progress.

Spotting movement in the distance, I look out the window and see that a vehicle is crawling into the parking lot. But it's not Malone, and I'm starting to think that he's not coming. Which means that maybe his meeting with Mrs. Duchette didn't go so well.

Grabbing my notebook, I start to jot down a few more ideas. That encounter with Mark and Amanda Waters was gold, from a journalistic point of view. Taking out my digital recorder, I begin to play the entire conversation back. I should be transcribing it all and figuring out which parts to use in my story, but after a moment I stop the playback and I sigh.

This doesn't feel good.

Those people are in shock, they're caught between grief and hope, and here I am getting ready to exploit them. I stare at the recorder for a moment, and then I bring up the menu and I prepare to delete everything. I hesitate, telling myself that maybe I'm being melodramatic, but then I realize that there's a danger I might relent and use the recording later. I take a deep breath, then, and finally I delete the file.

I guess I can't be like Rolinda Derringham after all.

***

“Hey,” I say as the door to his motel room opens, “I just -”

Stopping suddenly, I see that he has a black eye.

“Okay,” I continue cautiously, “that... doesn't look good.”

“Can we just talk in the morning?” he asks.

“What happened?”

“I just told a woman that her daughter is dead,” he replies. “You'll be surprised to hear that she didn't take the news particularly well.”

“She hit you?”

“She might have had a point.”

“But she hit you?”

“Only at the end,” he explains. “She sat there and listened, and listened, and listened, until I ran out of things to tell her. And at the end, when I said that I'd be back in the morning, she just... exploded.”

“Wow,” I reply. “Was it hard to fight her off?”

I wait, but he seems particularly uncomfortable right now.

“You did fight her off, right?” I continue. “Please, tell me you didn't just stand there and take it?”

“I need to get some sleep,” he replies. “Maggie, no offense, but can we finish this conversation in the morning? Today has been one hell of a day, and I just want to get it over with and start over. In the morning, everything will seem clearer.”

“There'll be reporters,” I warn him. “Once news about Kimmy gets out -”

“I know.”

“You'll need a strategy for dealing with them.”

“I know.”

“You'll also need -”

“My strategy for dealing with you didn't work out so well,” he adds. “Did it?”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“You're still here, aren't you?” he continues, before taking a step back. “Thanks for your attempts to help, Maggie, but I really don't think there's anything more to be gained from this. I'm sure you've got a long drive ahead of you, to get home. I'll be busy all morning, so I won't be around to say goodbye. But thanks again. I wish you all the best.”

“Wait,” I stammer, “I -”

“You're a reporter, Maggie.”

“So?”

“So do you really think that I don't know why you're here?” he continues, as his anger begins to rise once again. “Do you really think that I was fooled by all that bullshit about wanting to help? I had you pegged from the moment you walked through the door, I knew exactly why you came back. You're a vulture, like all the rest. You've got this pathetic desperation for a story, it's in your eyes like a kind of hunger!”

“If you thought that,” I reply, my voice trembling with shock and anger, “why did you let me help out?”

“I thought that maybe I could use you!” he snaps. “I thought that maybe you'd actually come up with some leads, and that I could manage you and prevent you from causing too much damage. Because that's all you do, isn't it? People like you, you use everyone else in your rush to get a story. I figured I could turn the tables and maybe get some help for the case, but you didn't help at all. You're not even a good reporter.”

“That's not fair!” I say firmly.

“So you're telling me you didn't record the conversation at the Waters house?”

I open my mouth to deny everything, but at the last moment the words catch in my throat.

“Let me explain,” I say after a few seconds, “I -”

“Save it,” he replies, “I don't need to hear it. Our little alliance is over, Ms. Carter. I'm sorry you weren't able to help, but I'm sure you got something out of it. You'll find a story to sell somehow.”

And then, before I have a chance to say anything in response, he swings the door shut and leaves me standing all alone out here.

“Piece of...”

I pause, and then I reach out to knock again on the door, and then finally I just about manage to restrain myself.

Taking the key from my pocket, I let myself into my own room and then I stop next to the bed. I'm fuming, and after a moment I turn and look at the wall that's dividing our two rooms, and I imagine Malone sitting in there feeling all sorry for himself. I want to go in there and defend myself, and tell him that I already deleted the recording of Esmee Waters' parents, but I doubt he'd listen. And, to be fair, he wasn't entirely wrong about my motives. I just wish he'd let me explain.

“Thanks again, my ass!” I snap finally. “You don't get to order me away like I'm some kind of puppy!”

Feeling completely furious, and still struggling to keep from going back out there and giving him a piece of my mind, I instead go over to the desk and open my laptop. Maybe Malone's had the wind knocked out of him, but I refuse to just give up, so I bring up all my notes and start reading through them again. There has to be something in here that'll give me a clue, something that'll point me in the right direction. If I have to uncover the truth by myself and present it to Malone on a silver platter, then so be it.

I don't give up.

Not ever.

I scroll down the notes, but to be honest I find after a short while that I already know these facts word for word. I read each section two or three times, hoping that I'll notice something, but my eyes are starting to burn with tiredness and finally I feel as if I'm going to throw up. I start skimming through the parts of the story that I've written so far, and then I select every last word and hit the delete button. Then I save the changes and close the file, and I sit back as I realize that I've destroyed all the work I've done since I got back to Ridge Falls. And yet I still feel like a bad person.

I can't sleep, but I'm going to go crazy if I stay bottled up in this little room.

And that's when I realize that there's one person I really need to see right now.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It's late by the time I reach the entrance to Thomas Roper's farm. The lights are on, burning through the night air, but I stop for a moment and sit all alone in my car. Roper has every reason to hate me, and I feel as if I have no right to go and bother him again. I should just turn around and leave, and live with the damage I caused.

But isn't that what people like me have always done? Just walk away, without facing up to things?

***

“I really didn't think you'd want to talk to me,” I say a few minutes later, as I step through the open door and watch Roper heading to the kitchen. “I almost didn't come.”

I wait for a reply.

“That's a nasty black eye you've got,” I continue. “If it makes you feel any better, Malone ended up with one too. You guys kind of match right now. I'm pretty sure that's a metaphor for something, but I'm not sure what.”

He stops at the counter and sets a water-boiler onto the stove. He hasn't actually said anything since he opened the door, but obviously he's at least willing to hear me out. Unfortunately, I was so convinced that he'd turn me away, I didn't really come up with anything much to say.

“So I guess I reverted to my instincts,” I tell him finally. “It's no excuse, but I was doing that job for a long time, and I guess part of it kinda... stained me. Does that make sense? It sank in so deep, I didn't even know it was there. And it's still there, even now, and I'm fighting it. And the worst thing is, I'm not even very good at it. Can you believe that? I held back for so many years, and eventually I decided to be like that dumbass Rolinda Derringham. And I failed.”

He sets two mugs on the side.

I guess that's a positive sign.

“They're gone now,” I continue. “The police, I mean. And there were a few reporters this morning, but they've drifted off as well. I wish I could tell you that they'll apologize, that they've realized they were wrong. The truth is, they left because the story here is over. There are no more bones to pick. Sorry, bad analogy, but you get the idea. They moved through Ridge Falls and took everything they wanted, and now they're gone.”

I wait.

He watches the water-boiler for a moment.

“Where?” he asks finally.

“I beg your -”

“Where have they moved on to?” he asks.

“I have no idea, but -”

“But it'll be someone like me,” he adds, cutting me off again as he glances toward me. “Some place like this. They'll just do it again and again and again, ripping up people's lives for -”

“For news,” I counter.

“For money!” he snaps, suddenly pounding a fist against the table. “They're just a business! They take lives and they package them up and they sell them to the public, surrounded by ads on news channels! There's no higher calling here! They're just scavengers, treating ordinary lives like they're scrap in a junkyard. That's how they see people like me. As human scrap. And for a while, I was worth re-using for their TV show. That's all it is, it's reality TV, and they get away with it because they claim that it's news!”

I open my mouth to disagree with him, but then no words come out. To be honest, I think maybe he's right. No, I know he's right. It just took me a while to admit all of this to myself.

“And you're one of them!” he adds.

“Not anymore.”

“You won't go back?”

“I haven't decided yet whether -”

“You're their kind of person,” he says, turning back to the water-boiler as it begins to whistle. “That's not gonna change.”

I take a deep breath and try to reset my thoughts. Maybe I came here to explain myself to Roper, but now I'm starting to realize that I don't need to do any of that. All I can do is apologize, and try to make him realize that I see how wrong everything was, so I make my way cautiously over to the counter and stop just a few feet from him. There has to be a magic word, or a magic sentence, that can make all of this okay again. There just has to be.

“The place looks good,” I say finally. “You've... cleaned up pretty well, after what happened. I guess the cops tore your entire house apart.”

I wait.

Damn, that was a dumb thing to say, wasn't it?

“Same as before?” he asks suddenly, taking the water-boiler and carrying it to the mugs. “Black? No sugar?”

“Sure,” I reply. I need to reset again, and for that I need a moment alone. “Do you, uh, mind if I go and use your bathroom for a moment?”

“Do what you want,” he says through gritted teeth.

I turn and hurry toward the corridor that leads down to the bathroom, but then I stop and glance back at Roper. He cuts such a lonely figure as he prepares the coffee, and I feel as if he's been wronged by the whole world.

“I'm sorry,” I say finally.

He doesn't respond.

“I'm just sorry,” I continue, my voice trembling slightly. “Everything that happened was wrong, and I'm sorry for my part in that. I'll fix what I can, and I'll learn from it all, and I'll do my bit to try to stop it happening ever again. I don't know how, not yet, but I'll think of something. And I just hope that you don't blame yourself for any of it. Because you're an innocent man whose life got caught up in it all, and I know nothing can ever truly make up for that. I just hope you find a way to heal.”

A way to heal?

Did I really say that?

I sound like some daytime shrink.

Then again, I guess maybe I meant every word.

Roper doesn't say anything, so I turn and make my way to the bathroom. Once I'm there, with the door locked, I take a moment to stare into the mirror and try to get my crap together. After everything I've done, I have no idea how to make it all right, but I have to keep trying. There has to be something I can do, something I can say, that'll put everything right. There has to be a magic word more powerful than 'Sorry'.

I stare at myself for a moment longer.

I wait for enlightenment.

“Crap,” I mutter finally, before sighing and flushing the toilet.

Maybe I'm not deep enough. As I wash my hands, I realize that I tell myself that maybe I just need to dig deeper. I bet Rolinda Derringham's never had a moment of weakness like this; I bet she just steams through every little hiccup and refuses to stop until she gets what she wants. I've always been held back by some faint sense of morality, even now, but maybe I should forget all that and just unleash my full instincts. If I dig deeper, maybe I can leave Derringham in the mud, I can win all the awards, I can be rich and famous, I might even get my own talk-show. Maybe that's all I'm good for. Maybe life isn't about trying to be the most perfect version of yourself. Maybe it's about succeeding, and about rationalizing it all while you count the money.

Or maybe it's just not worth it. Maybe I'm not so focused on success, at all costs, that I'm willing to trash my own soul.

I unlock the door and step out into the corridor, and then – as I'm about to go back to the kitchen – I glance into the next room and see Roper's bare mattress on the floor. This time there are some papers on the floor next to the mattress, a little bundle next to an old mug. My first thought is to sneak over and take a look, but I tell myself to hold back.

I tell myself that I don't have the right.

This is the moment when I become a better person.

I desperately want to go and look at those papers, I can feel an actual tug in my chest that's pulling me into the room, and I have to put a hand on the door-frame to keep myself steady. Man, it's as if my physiology is all set up for sneakiness.

I stare at the papers for a few more seconds, and then I finally feel the sensation pass.

I did it.

I beat my instincts.

I turn to walk away, but then – at the last moment – I notice the drapes.

Or rather, the drape.

I stare straight ahead for a moment, before turning to once again look into the room. And this time I see that there's a solitary beige drape fluttering slightly on the left side of Roper's bedroom window. On the right side, however, there's no drape.

In my mind's eye, I immediately see Kimmy Duchette's body parts being pulled out of that pipe. I try not to think of the bloodied chunks themselves. Instead, I focus on the tattered material that had been wrapped around them. I didn't see the material at the time, but I saw the threads that were in the image on the phone. And that 'tattered material' sure looked a lot like the drapes in Roper's room.

Or rather, like the single remaining drape.

I think back to the first time I was here. Were there two drapes? For some reason, I think I remember that there were two. Then again, isn't that something Malone would have picked up on while he was here with his men? Or was their search too hectic, too crazed? I remember how Malone and his deputies were storming about the place. Is it possible that they did less than a stellar job? That they missed one huge clue that was literally hanging by the window in one of the rooms?

I look along the corridor, to check that Roper isn't coming this way, and then I step into the bedroom. I get all the way to the mattress before I realize that this is wrong, and now I tell myself to turn around and head back out of the room. I have no right to be here. Nevertheless, I've done the bad part, so I hurry to the window and reach out to touch the drape.

It's the same stuff.

I want to deny it, but deep down I know that this is more than a coincidence.

The window itself is only open an inch or two, and it's secured by a lock that prevents it being opened any further. I feel the drape for a moment longer, and then I turn to hurry back out of the room. My heart is racing, but I'm still telling myself that nothing is amiss.

And then I stop next to the mattress, and I look down at the little pile of papers.

I take a deep breath, and then I do something that I know is wrong. I crouch down and take a look at the top papers, and I quickly find that they're cuttings from old, faded newspapers. There are no dates, and the stories seem random. After a moment, however, I move the cuttings aside and find that there are some books here.

Old library books.

I open the first, and I see a stamp indicating that the book is about ten years overdue.

Flowers in the Attic, huh?

That seems like an odd choice for a man like Thomas Roper.

The same goes for his other two choices: Little Women and The Secret History.

I try to tell myself that I'm overreacting, that nothing's wrong here, but I'm getting goosebumps. Malone must have found these, it's impossible that his search was so completely incompetent that he missed something so obvious, but at the same time I feel as if I should at least mention all of this to him. Because something here doesn't add up, even if I'm still certain that Thomas Roper is no ax-wielding homicidal maniac.

Suddenly I hear a creaking floorboard nearby, and I turn to see that Roper is standing out in the corridor, watching me.

“Hey,” I say cautiously, fully aware that I'm holding his papers and crouching next to his mattress and generally looking extremely suspicious, “so this isn't quite as weird as it might seem. I was just wondering whether -”

Before I can finish, he grabs the door and pulls it shut.

“Hey!” I yell, stumbling to my feet, and then trying to force the door open just as I hear the key turning in the lock. “Stop!” I shout, as I bang my fists on the wood. “Let me out of here!”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Thomas, you don't want to do this,” I say firmly as I try yet again to get the door open. “I'm sorry I came into your room, but we can talk about this. I didn't mean anything by it!”

Dropping to my knees, I try to look through the keyhole. All I can make out, however, is the sight of the corridor's far wall, and I realize after a moment that it's been several minutes since I heard any hint that Roper is loitering out there.

I check my phone again, but of course I still have no coverage out here in the sticks.

“I'm sorry!” I call out. “I was wrong! I'm a bad person and I made a huge mistake when I came in here, and I shouldn't have been snooping around! I'm sorry, this is all my fault! If you just let me out of here, I can explain it all! Please, you have to give me that chance!”

Well, maybe I can't explain all of it.

Realizing that he's not going to listen to reason, I turn to head back to the window. I stop after a moment, however, because I know I've already tried and failed to force the window open. I need to find some other way out of this room, so I stand completely still for a moment and try to think of a solution, and then I slowly turn and look back toward the door.

I've seen people kick doors down in movies, so why not try it in real life?

I take a deep breath and study the door, and finally I decide to aim just to one side of the handle, slightly up from the lock. That feels like as good a place as any, so I take another deep breath, then another, and then I rush at the door and kick as hard and as high as I can. I'm braced for this not to work, but to my surprise my foot crashes straight through one of the wooden panels and I slam face-first into the door with my right leg having burst through almost all the way up to the thigh.

“Huh,” I mutter, before quickly pulling back, only to feel a sharp pain.

I fall and slam down hard against the floor, and then I look at my right leg and see that there's blood dribbling from beneath a torn section of fabric. I sit up and take a closer look, and then I wince as I glance at the door and see a sharp, broken piece of wood covered in more blood.

Getting to my feet, I limp over to the door and start pushing out the remaining pieces of wood, until I have a hole that's just about large enough for me to clamber through. I struggle a little with my injured leg, but finally I manage to climb through and I stumble out into the corridor. I bump against the opposite wall, and then I pick up one of the larger pieces of broken wood and hold it up as a weapon as I turn and look around for any hint of Thomas Roper.

So far, the house seems completely quiet.

I wait, in case there's a faint creaking sound somewhere, but there's nothing.

Swallowing hard, and with the piece of wood still held up for defense, I start limping toward the front room. My heart is pounding and I know I'll struggle to defend myself, but at least I've got a chance. As I reach the end of the corridor and look around the corner, however, I see that there's still no sign of Roper. The front door is hanging open, and it's almost as if he ran away after locking me inside his bedroom.

Maybe he just went to fetch some axes and other crap like that.

Maybe he's sharpening the tools he usually uses when he dismembers people.

I head over to the kitchen and swap my piece of wood for a big, gleaming carving knife. I guess Roper didn't realize he should hide those away. Now that I feel a little more confident, I make my way toward the open front door, where I stop for a moment and listen for any sign that Roper is out there on his porch.

Finally, hearing nothing, I realize that I have to be brave.

I stumble out onto the porch and swing around, waving the knife around, but after a few seconds I see that all the chairs are empty. In fact, the only sound right now – other than the rustle of nearby trees – is my own panicked breath.

I turn and look out past the porch. The forest itself is pitch-black, but so far there's still no hint of Roper. I guess he could be somewhere else on the farm, and in my mind's eye I can still see him gathering his murder tools and maybe collecting some chains as well for good measure. I guess I must have figured him out all wrong, but there'll be time for a full postmortem once I get back to town and tell Malone what's happened out here. For now, I just have to make sure that I get away from this place.

Once I'm sure that Roper isn't anywhere nearby, I limp down the steps and out across the yard. I head toward the forest, while constantly looking around in case I've been spotted, but finally I reach the tall grass.

Suddenly I remember what Roper told me the other day:

“There's just something about the forest, you know?” his voice whispers in the back of my head. “I've lived here all my life, and even I wouldn't want to be wandering around out there. A man could lose his bearings and get lost, maybe stumble into the water, or even over the edge of the waterfall. And that's someone who's experienced. Are you experienced with the great outdoors, Ms. Carter?”

No. No, I'm not.

And I remember something else, something I said to Malone:

“I guess I'm starting to understand how someone could vanish and maybe never be found.”

For a moment, I stand and stare out into the vast darkness ahead. I'm cold and scared and hurt, and the thought of venturing out into the forest fills me with absolute terror. At the same time, I check my phone and see that I still have no coverage, which means I'm really not left with much of a choice. I either have to stay here at the murder farm and take my chances when Roper inevitably comes back for me, or I have to go out into the forest and hope that somehow there's a miracle and I make it back to civilization.

Suddenly I hear a faint cracking sound over my shoulder.

I spin around, still holding the knife up. All I see is the dimly-lit house, and there are no murderous, silhouetted figures, but I'm certain I just heard someone stepping on a twig.

So I run.

I turn and I race out through the dark forest, struggling on my injured leg, half-slamming into tree after tree, almost falling as the ground regularly dips and then rises beneath my feet. The sound of my own breath, and the sound of my steps against the forest floor, are all I hear as I rush out into the great darkness. I'm running so fast, I almost trip over my own feet, and finally I thud straight into a tree with such force that I almost fall backward and hit the ground.

Almost.

Steadying myself for a moment, as I struggle for gulps of air, I look over my shoulder. There's no sign of anyone, but then again someone could be rushing right for me and I wouldn't necessarily know until it was too late.

What if he has night-vision goggles?

I turn to run again, but my right leg almost buckles as I feel a burst of pain crackling up through my thigh.

Reaching down, I immediately feel blood on the side of my pants, and I realize that the injury to my leg must be worse than I'd guessed. Still, there's no time to stop and patch myself up, so I start limping out once more into the darkness.

Suddenly, hearing a rustling sound, I turn and look back again. And this time, I see someone running this way, just about visible against the distant glow of the farmhouse. Somehow, I recognize him immediately.

I turn and start running again, pushing through the pain. I know I'm making a lot of noise, but I can't help that as I race between the trees. I barely even manage to keep hold of the knife, but somehow I keep going until finally I hit another tree.

I look back, but now there's no sign of him.

Desperately trying to catch my breath, I glance all around. The pain in my leg is intense now, throbbing wildly, and for a moment I feel as if I'm just going to collapse here. I guess, if I passed out, he might not find me.

And then, just as I feel myself starting to weaken, I hear a rustling sound.

I turn, and I'm just about able to make out the sight of a figure rushing this way. In an instant, I can tell that it's him, so I force myself to keep going. I race out between the trees, stumbling slightly on my injured leg, and I somehow find the strength to run and run and run. I manage to keep going, until suddenly the ground seems to disappear beneath my feet. I let out a shocked gasp as I fall, and then I slam into the mud and roll down a steep slope that eventually levels out and sends me crashing into another tree, and I can't help myself.

I scream.

I groan as I start to sit up, and then I realize that I dropped the knife. I frantically feel around, hoping against hope that I might feel the handle somewhere in the wet soil, but there's nothing. I guess it's lucky that I didn't land on the damn thing, but as I look back into the darkness I realize that there's no way I can ever go searching.

A moment later, as the sound of my own breath becomes a little quieter, I realize that I can hear something else.

Water.

Rushing water.

I turn and look out into the darkness, and to my surprise I see a hint of moonlight.

And I hear the waterfall.

It's the same sound I heard a few days ago, when I was out in the forest with Malone. Sure, there might be other waterfalls in the area, but Malone spoke as if this was the only one. And if I really have found my way back there, I at least have a chance to stumble to the road and then get to town.

Filled with a sudden sense that I might be able to make it, I get to my feet and limp toward the moonlight, toward the sound of water that's getting louder and louder with each step.

And then, stopping, I see him.

Thomas Roper is right ahead, standing at the edge of the waterfall, looking down.

I freeze, terrified to make a noise, but then slowly he turns to me and the moonlight catches one side of his face.

I open my mouth to scream, but something stops me. I try to think of something, anything, I can use as a weapon, but all I have is a set of car keys and somehow I don't think I'm gonna be able to scratch this asshole into submission. I'm face to face with a monster and I don't know how to even begin defending myself.

“Please,” I suddenly hear myself stammering finally, as if the words are coming from my mouth without command, “don't... Please...”

I wait, but he simply stares at me.

There are tears in my eyes.

“Please,” I continue, trembling now with fear. “I'll do anything you want, but don't kill me. I'll do anything you want, but I'm begging, please let me live.”

Again I wait, and again he's staring at me, almost as if's not listening. I can just about make out his features in the darkness, and he looks so terribly sad. His shoulders are slightly hunched, and if I didn't know better I'd say that there's fear in his eyes.

Suddenly he tilts back and falls, dropping out of view.

I stand completely still and stare at the spot where he was standing. A moment later I start to look around, convinced that he simply scampered away and that he's now going to rush up behind me.

All I hear, however, is the sound of the waterfall still rushing.

I don't know how long I stand like this, but finally I realize that I need to do something. And in order to do something, I need to know whether I'm still being pursued. That's why, even though I'm terrified, I start edging toward the waterfall's edge, struggling to stay upright on the slippery rocks, until I get close enough to look down toward the rocks below.

And as the water continues to crash down, I see Thomas Roper's dead body, broken and bloodied in the moonlight far below.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The two paramedics lift at each end of the stretcher, finally raising Roper's corpse from the ground and then starting to carry away between the trees.

“You don't need to see this,” Malone says, standing next to me as I watch. “Come on, Maggie, it's time to get you to the hospital. Someone has to look at your leg.”

I keep my gaze fixed on Roper, until the paramedics carry him out of sight, heading toward the ambulance that's parked all the way out there at the side of the road.

“Why did he do it?” I whisper, still struggling to make sense of everything that happened last night. “Why did he jump?”

“Who knows what went on in that man's head?” Malone replies. “We might not ever know, not unless he left some kind of diary. You never know, sometimes these animals actually feel the need to catalog and justify their actions. For now, just focus on the positives. He's gone, and he's not going to hurt anyone else.”

I pause for a moment, before turning to him.

“Now,” he continues, “about your leg. We -”

“I want to go back to the farm,” I tell him.

“Why?”

“I need to understand what happened,” I reply. “I still feel like there's a part of this that we're not seeing.”

“You can figure that out another day,” he says. “Right now, your leg is more important.” He reaches out and puts a hand on the side of my arm. “Come on, let's get out of here. I need to go to the farmhouse for a moment, and then I'm taking you to the hospital. And this time, I won't take no for an answer.”

***

“Have they found anything yet?” I ask a short while later, as I limp away from Malone's car and see a couple of deputies traipsing into Roper's farmhouse. “You need more people out here. You're going to get more people, right?”

“There's no rush,” Malone replies. “There's not even a -”

“How did you miss so much the last time?” I snap, turning to him as I reach the steps that lead up to the porch. “There was a missing drape! There were books that probably belonged to Kimmy Duchette ten years ago! There were probably other clues! I thought you guys tore this place apart when you came up here?”

He puts his hands on his hips and sighs, but for a moment he seems to have no answers.

“We screwed up,” he says finally. “There, I admit it. When we came out here, I was angry. I was too emotional. We scoured the whole farm, but maybe we weren't methodical. I broke my own rules, and the result is that Roper remained a free man. He very nearly killed you, Maggie. If that had happened, I'd never...”

His voice trails off.

“Last time we spoke,” he continues after a few seconds, “I was angry, I -”

“It doesn't matter,” I tell him. “What matters is figuring out what happened here.”

“I said things that I shouldn't have,” he replies. “Maggie, I don't think you're some heartless journalist who only cares about getting a story. I said that to hurt you, and I'm sorry.”

“You weren't wrong,” I say firmly. “I was writing everything up for a story. I deleted it all, but I didn't come back to Ridge Falls to help. I came to get my career back up and running.” I can't help but sigh. “The good news, I guess, is that I didn't get very far. I don't seem to have that killer instinct. You, on the other hand, have to rip this farm to shreds. You have to check every inch.”

“We're doing that now.”

“You can't leave a single stone un-turned.”

“I promise you, we won't.”

“You have to stay on the job until -”

“We won't miss anything,” he says, interrupting me. “Not this time. You have my word.”

I open my mouth to tell him again, to make him understand, but I'm pretty sure I'd just be shouting into the void. I guess Malone and his team will do a proper job now. They'll go through the entire farm and figure everything out, and they'll be completely competent and professional. But will competent and professional be enough when it comes to getting inside the mind of a lunatic like Thomas Roper? Somehow I can't help worrying that maybe Roper was simply too far gone, too crazy, for anyone to ever figure out exactly what he was thinking.

Sighing, I turn to walk away. And then, without warning, my right foot catches on something that's poking out of the ground, and I fall before I have a chance to react.

I let out a pained gasp as I land hard on my butt.

“Now will you admit that you need to come with me to the hospital?” Malone asks as he takes my hand and helps me sit on the step. “You're no use to anyone like this.”

“Fine,” I mutter, unable to hide my frustration. “Whatever.”

He starts to help me up, but then he freezes.

“Are we moving, or not?” I ask. “Come on, this isn't exactly a fun position.”

I wait, but he doesn't reply.

Realizing that something seems to have caught his attention, I look down, and after a moment I spot some kind of thick, coiled pipe that rises up from the ground and then dips back down. The overall shape is like a hook, right next to the bottom step, and I figure that must be what caught my foot.

“Stupid thing,” I mutter, giving it a pointless kick.

“That's a power cable,” he replies. “Or some kind of pipe.”

“What do you mean?”

He kneels down and gives the pipe a gentle tug, and then he starts using his bare hands to scrape dirt away from the base.

“It's used to run a power line from the main house to somewhere else.”

“Like the barn?”

“Like the barn, except those lines are all on the other side of the house.” He digs for a moment longer, uncovering more of the pipe, which seems to run away from the house and out toward the forest. “We didn't notice this when we were here before.”

“Is it important?” I ask.

He looks toward the forest, and then he turns to me again.

“If Thomas Roper was powering something out in the forest,” he says cautiously, “then, yes, I think it might be very important. It looks like he tried to cover it up. Our search last time was so half-assed, I'm not surprised we missed it. This time, we're going to get to the truth.”

For the next hour or so, we work slowly and patiently, digging at regular intervals in an attempt to figure out the pipe's path. We soon find that it runs well out into the forest, and I start to realize that Roper must have put some serious effort into the job. After a while, we're far enough out to no longer see the farm, and I can't help wondering why Roper would go to so much trouble. And then, just as the whole task seems endless, we find the spot where the pipe dips deeper into the ground, seemingly disappearing into the space beneath the forest.

Malone looks around for a moment, before dropping to his knees and starting to fumble through the foliage.

I drop down next to him and start helping, but I still don't quite understand what we're doing.

“What exactly are we looking for?” I ask.

“We'll know it when we find it,” he replies. “Whatever it is.”

“That couldn't be any less helpful if you tried,” I point out.

We work in silence for a few minutes. The pain in my leg is starting to get worse, and I think maybe Malone was right when he said I needed to get to a hospital. Then again, I don't want to admit any of that, so I just keep on going while hoping that eventually he'll get bored. Finally, just as I'm on the verge of having to tell him that I need help, he starts furiously digging at one particular spot, and I crawl over just in time to see that he's uncovering what looks like some kind of hatch.

“What have you found?” I ask.

He doesn't reply. Instead, he continues to clear dirt from around the edges of the hatch, and I quickly start helping.

Finally, we uncover a handle.

Malone glances at me.

“What was Roper doing out here?” I ask.

He looks back down, and then we both grab the handle and start to pull the hatch open. It's hard work, and we struggle for a moment, but finally we manage to pull it all the way aside, and then we look down into the darkness below.

I take my cellphone from my pocket and activate the flashlight function, and then I aim the beam into the hole.

“Is that...”

I pause, barely able to believe my eyes as I see a terrified-looking woman staring back up at us, partially hiding her face with her hands as if she can't stand the light.

“Is that who I think it is?” I say finally, before turning to Malone. I wait for an answer, and then I look back down at the woman. “Are you... Are you Esmee Waters?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“So he never let you out?” the interviewer, Doctor Sutter, continues as he sits with Esmee and a counselor in a room at the hospital. “In ten years, Roper never let you out of that place? Not even once?”

Shivering and clearly frightened, Esmee seems unable to reply. Like an animal that has spent most of its life caged, she seems completely uncomfortable out here in the free world, as if she wants to fold herself back into that underground bunker in the forest. Finally, she summons the strength to shake her head, but she still looks as if she's struggling in the light of day.

“Did you even see daylight?” Doctor Sutter asks.

She shakes her head again.

“You had light down there,” the doctor continues, “but no windows. Did you ever ask to be let out?”

She shakes her head again.

“Her parents are on the way,” Malone says as I limp over to join him. He glances at me. “How's your leg?”

“They say I'll live,” I tell him. “How's she doing?”

“This is just a preliminary interview,” he explains, turning to once again watch Esmee through the one-way mirror. “She needs to be properly assessed. Ten years of isolation must have done a real number on her head. I had a hard time getting permission for anyone to talk to her at all, but I persuaded the doctors that this might still be an active case. Fortunately, Esmee says there are no other girls.”

“What about Kimmy Duchette?” I ask, watching as Esmee tries to answer another question.

“She remembers Kimmy being there, briefly,” Malone replies. “She doesn't know what happened to her, or why Roper killed her.”

“Does she remember being kidnapped?”

“Parts of it,” he explains. “She remembers Roper talking to her in the street one day, and following her while she was on her way home from the library. Everything else is a little fuzzy, but it seems as if he drugged her and pulled her into his truck, and then when she woke up she was in that specially-constructed hideaway in the forest. Roper must have been planning to make his move for months. Years, even. The man must have been completely insane.”

“I guess,” I whisper, watching Esmee for a moment longer.

Is this possible?

Thomas Roper, for all his weirdness, seemed to me to be a decent, gentle man. I'm having a hard time reconciling that with the facts that are now tumbling out of the resolved case, but I guess some people are just able to keep everything hidden. Some people are very good at being monsters. But that doesn't necessarily mean that Roper was insane. In fact, there seems to have been something very clinical about how he went about abducting and holding Esmee. I'm almost impressed that he pulled it off for so long.

“I've had someone check the hideaway,” Malone continues after a moment. “Apparently it's not such a bad place. Roper ran power in, so that there was light. He supplied her with books. He made sure she had all the food and drink she wanted. I'll be honest with you, I was looking at some photos and I've seen worse apartments. Sure, there were no windows and Esmee wasn't allowed to leave the place, but she certainly wasn't chained up or anything like that. Roper even gave her a tea-set.”

“He wanted to look after her,” I suggest.

“Maybe he wanted to treat her like a daughter.”

“Was there any violence?” I ask.

“Not after the initial abduction, apparently,” he replies. “He restrained her a few times when she tried to escape, but it seems that she fairly quickly accepted her fate. She said she was always looking for a way out, but that over time she gave up hope. And there was nothing sexual. He didn't try to force himself on her, or anything like that. She doesn't seem to have any injuries at the moment.”

“And she was down there the whole time?” I ask, still watching Esmee through the glass. “She's going to need a lot of help adjusting to being back in the real world. That has to be the focus, rather than digging into the past and getting every detail of what Thomas Roper was up to.”

“Did you ever try to escape?” Doctor Sutter asks Esmee in the next room.

She nods.

“How did you try?”

She tilts her head slightly, and then she shrugs.

“Did he ever find out about your plans?” he asks.

She pauses, and then she nods again.

“And did he punish you, Esmee?”

She pauses for longer this time, before nodding again.

“How did he do that?” Doctor Sutter continues. “You don't have to tell me anything that upsets you, but did he hurt you when he found out?”

She stares at him, as if she's not going to answer. And then, finally, she lowers her head slightly, before nodding yet again.

“Damn it!” Malone mutters, before turning and storming out of the room.

I watch Esmee for a moment longer, as tears run down her face, and then I hurry after Malone. I quickly find him, pacing back and forth near a vending machine, and for a few seconds it seems as if he's about to explode with anger.

“Listen,” I say finally, “I -”

“You were right!” he snaps.

“I -”

“You were right last year,” he says again, turning to me. “That girl spent over a year living in an underground prison, all because I didn't see what was right under my nose. Even when you showed up and started asking about Roper, I wouldn't listen. Don't deny it, because we both know it's true. That girl could have been rescued a lot sooner, and maybe Kimmy would still be alive, if I'd just heard what you were telling me.” He pauses, clearly exasperated. “I'm sorry, Maggie,” he adds finally. “I screwed the whole case up.”

“No,” I reply, stepping toward him, “you didn't. Absolutely not.”

“Even when I finally went out there,” he continues, “I was angry. I didn't search the place properly. She was right there, and we didn't find her.”

He sighs, and I put a hand on his shoulder to try to reassure him.

“I came to the same conclusion that you did,” I point out. “Once I met Roper and got to know him, I was convinced he was innocent. I still find it hard to believe that he was capable of something like this. Maybe some of us just can't quite understand the level of madness in the world. Maybe we should take that as a positive.”

“I'm sorry I didn't listen to you,” he replies.

“No-one ever listens to me,” I tell him. “If they did, the world would be a much better place.”

“I need some fresh air,” he says, before taking a step back, letting my hand fall from his shoulder. “I need to figure out what to do next.”

“I'm going to stay here for a while,” I reply. “Maybe we can meet up later for some dessert, though. Around six, at the motel?”

He mumbles something, but I don't quite make out any of the words as he walks away. I briefly consider calling after him, but then he slams the door open and disappears from view, and I realize that he most likely needs some time alone. Hopefully then he can at least realize that this wasn't all his fault. Thomas Roper just managed to fool everyone.

Heading back through into the observation room, I stop at the glass and see that Doctor Sutter is still speaking to Esmee. And now, finally, she's begun to speak. Her voice sounds so small and timid, but strangely calm and eloquent.

“I thought I'd never see anyone else ever again,” she's saying, as she stares down at the table with tear-filled eyes. “My family, my friends... I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life down there in that place. Sometimes I wondered whether I should end it all, but I told myself that I had to keep going. That I couldn't let him win.” She pauses, and for the first time I see a flicker of anger in her expression. “I think maybe I always had hope, deep down,” she adds finally. “Even if I didn't know it.”

Pulling up a chair, I take a seat and settle down to watch the rest of the interview. Maybe, just maybe, she'll say something that will help me to understand the madness of Thomas Roper.

Chapter Thirty

“What?”

Startled, I open my eyes and sit up straight, and I'm shocked to find myself in complete darkness. For a few seconds, I have no idea where I am, but then I spot a Fire Exit sign and I realize I'm still in the observation room. I look straight forward, and I can just about make out my own reflection in the glass, but it's clear that the interview with Esmee is over.

Right, of course.

I remember her being led out of the room. Doctor Sutter popped his head through the door to tell me that he'll be back tomorrow, and then I decided to rest my eyes for a few minutes while I got my head together. My thoughts were swirling around and I needed to let them settle, but evidently I nodded off and took a nap.

Checking my phone, I find that it's almost midnight, which means I must have slept for about two and a half hours.

So much for resting my eyes. Two and a half hours is a full-blown sleep. Everyone knows that a nap can only last for a maximum of two hours.

Getting to my feet, I feel stiff and sore, and the pain in my leg is persistent. I'm pretty annoyed with myself, for falling asleep for so long, but I guess this has been a pretty long day. I need to get back to the motel and try to sleep properly, and in the morning I need to finally make a decision about leaving Ridge Falls. With Roper no longer around, and Esmee about to be reunited with her family, there's not much else to do except figure out my next move.

Stepping out into the corridor, I find that the ward is much less busy than before. I glance along toward Esmee's room and see that the police officer is still on duty, sitting on a chair next to Esmee's door and making sure that nobody gets through unless they're authorized. At first, Malone felt that such a move wasn't necessary, but I quickly persuaded him that news reporters will soon be crawling all over the place.

“Night,” I say to the officer as I wander past, and he gives me a faint nod.

Shuffling along the corridor that leads to the stairs, I start imagining different futures. I'm really not sure that I'm cut out for the media business, but until now that's been my whole life. I guess I'm not too old to make a drastic career change, but it needs to be something I can get into without too much outlay. I never exactly built up a nest-egg in case of a rainy day.

I reach for my keys, before suddenly realizing that I left them in the observation room.

Sighing, I turn to go back. At that moment, however, I spot a nurse heading past the far end of the corridor. Except, I can't help furrowing my brow as I realize that I recognize this nurse, and I'm pretty sure that she's not a nurse at all. Still, I tell myself that I have to be wrong, that it can't be her.

Can it?

I hesitate for a moment, trying to figure out what's going on, and then I make my way back along the corridor. Reaching the end, I look to the right, just in time to spot the 'nurse' heading into one of the storerooms.

“Rolinda Derringham,” I whisper. “I should have guessed you'd show up sooner rather than later.”

For a moment, I'm not quite sure how to react. Rolinda has always had a tendency to employ dubious methods in her hunt for a story, and I have no doubt that she must have raced here to Ridge Falls in an attempt to get an exclusive story about Esmee's return. Her methods might not be very ethical, but they've helped her score plenty of awards, and she has a glowing reputation. She's the golden child of the local industry, and everyone knows that she's poised to become a breakout star on the national stage.

Heading along the corridor, I stop outside the storeroom as I realize I can hear Rolinda speaking to someone.

“Just give me a few more minutes,” she says as I lean closer to the door. “I have to look the part before I can get into the room. Even a dumb little moron like Esmee Waters might get suspicious if I don't look right.”

Reaching for my phone, I quickly switch on the recorder so that I can capture Rolinda's words for posterity.

“I know,” she continues with a sigh, “but that doesn't matter right now. I'll get what I can from the bitch, and it'll just have to be enough. Give it a few days, and no-one'll remember the name Esmee Waters. I need to get the bitch's photo tonight, or there's no point doing it at all.”

She speaks for a moment longer, and in the process she uses several colorful words that would make any self-respecting news viewer blush. She even throws in some decidedly unwise comments about our home city, which apparently is a 'shit-hole' that she can't wait to leave as soon as she secures a job in Washington or New York. Add in some rather unwise political comments and a few pronouncements that are downright slanderous, and – impressively – she's pretty much covered the entire gamut of offensive statements in under three minutes.

Nice.

I'm sure our viewers would love to hear all of this.

“I'm going now,” she says finally. “Don't call me! I'll be out soon!”

I pull back, around the corner, just as she comes out of the room, and then I peer around just in time to see her carrying a tray along the corridor. I raise my phone so that I can film her, and then I hurry along and watch as she mutters something to the police officer and then goes into Esmee's room.

The officer, fooled by the uniform, doesn't even bother to check her badge. Score another point for the local cops, I guess.

I keep my phone raised as I head toward the door. The officer turns to me and furrows his brow, but I put a finger to my lips and – fortunately – I've met this guy before. He at least doesn't say anything, and finally I stop in the doorway and film Rolinda as she approaches the sleeping Esmee Waters.

Not noticing me, Rolinda slips her own phone from her pocket and starts taking photos. She briefly stops to get some shots of Esmee's medical charts, and then she creeps closer and closer to her face.

“You're breaking some laws there,” I say, with a faint smile on my lips.

Startled, she drops her phone as she turns and looks at me.

The officer gets to his feet.

Esmee gasps and tries to sit up.

“Oh Rolinda,” I continue, “it's so nice to see you again. And to think, you came all the way out here to Ridge Falls. I didn't realize this place was even on your radar.”

She mutters a few curses as she puts her hands over her face, and then she grabs her phone before trying to rush out of the room.

“Not so fast,” the officer says, placing a hand on her arm. “M'am, are you a nurse or not?”

“Get out of my way!” she snaps, shoving past him.

“M'am -”

“No!”

When the officer grabs her again, she turns and shoves her elbow into his face, knocking him back against the wall. He lets out a pained gasp, and then I manage to catch everything with my phone as he storms after Rolinda. She's broken into a run now, but the officer catches up with her at the end of the corridor, and I can't help but grin as I watch – and film – the resulting arrest. It's fair to say that Rolinda Derringham isn't keen on going without a fight. In fact, she struggles quite firmly before finally getting cuffed. Of course, I have no choice but to take several photos of the entire process.

Glancing into the room, I see that Esmee looks totally shocked by the kerfuffle.

“Nothing to worry about,” I tell her, as Rolinda squeals in the distance. “Just the long arm of the law finally catching up with someone.”

***

“What the hell are you doing here?” Daryl asks, as I sit at the table in the corner of the bar. “Maggie? Seriously?”

“Hey, guys,” I reply, grinning first at Daryl and then at Terrance. “I had a funny feeling that you'd be here. I know you're probably expecting Rolinda, but I have some bad news for you. She's unavoidably detained.”

“Where is she?” Terrance asks.

“I don't have a cell number to give you,” I explain, “but I'm pretty sure that right about now she's having her prints taken. Something about trespassing and theft, not to mention breaking into a hospital storeroom. Oh, and resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer as well. Something tells me, she's in for a long night.”

Daryl stares at me, as if he still can't quite believe that I'm here, and then he turns to Terrance, who looks equally shocked.

“So here's the deal,” I continue, setting my phone on the table. “I'm going to give the pair of you a break, because for some reason I actually like you. There's a video winging its way to Culhoun's office, and shortly after that it'll be going to several other media outlets. When that happens, I have a feeling that things will get messy. By my reckoning, you probably have about six hours to come up with a cover story so that you're not implicated in what Rolinda was doing.”

“But -”

“Because, let's face it, you both knew exactly where she went tonight.”

“She went to the -”

“Shut up!” Terrance hisses, nudging Daryl's arm. “We are not going down for this. That Derringham bitch can take a hike.” He turns to me. “We always liked you better, Maggie,” he continues. “We were only talking this morning about how much we missed you.”

Daryl turns to him. “When did -”

“Just this morning!” Terrance says firmly, as Daryl winces from what I can only assume was a kick under the table. “Things haven't been the same without you, Maggie. You're looking really well. How are things going, anyway?”

“Just peachy,” I reply, and I have to admit that I'm touched by this bad attempt at flattery. “Actually, I've been -”

“Gotta go!” Daryl blurts out, suddenly getting up and rushing away from the table, probably so he can get started on the job of keeping his name clean.

“He's right,” I tell Terrance. “You guys do not want to be implicated in all of this.”

“I know,” he replies, and he sounds a little cautious now. “It's just...”

I wait, but I think he might actually be looking pale.

“Just what?” I ask, tilting my head slightly. “You're not going to faint on me, are you? I don't want to have to check to make sure you're not swallowing your own tongue.”

“It's that Roper guy,” he continues. “How did he get away with it for so long? How can a monster like that exist without making a mistake?” He pauses. “I guess I just thought we were making a difference. That maybe we were, like, detectives. In a way.”

“I think we should leave the detective work to the police,” I tell him.

“Then what's the point of what we do?” he asks. “Are we just vultures?”

“No,” I reply, “we're more than that. At least, we can be. We just have to make sure we don't end up like Rolinda. We have to be the best version of ourselves. And, come on, that's the same for any job. We're not so special. We're like everyone else. We just have to remember to not be assholes.” I pause, as I realize that I know what I have to do next. “Now if you'll excuse me,” I add finally, “I have to go pack.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Early the next day, I shove my bag into the trunk of my car and then step back. I still haven't quite worked out the details of my plan, but the outline is clear. I can't continue to work in journalism, not if I want to be a good human being. I'm going to find some other line of work, and I'm going to start being a better person.

“Heading off?”

Startled, I turn and see that Malone is standing in the doorway of his motel room.

“I was just about to knock and say bye,” I tell him. “I just...”

My voice trails off.

“I guess the big city's calling, huh?” he continues, stepping toward me. “I can understand that. Small-town life isn't for everyone. I'm actually amazed you stuck it out this long. I'm guessing our local shops don't offer premium-grade coffee. And we only have regular salt, none of that pink Himalayan stuff I see online. And the cellphone coverage out here is totally patchy.”

“Ridge Falls isn't so bad,” I reply. “To be honest, I kinda like it here.”

“Admit it. You'd go crazy if you had to actually live in a place like this.”

“Maybe,” I say, “but it's fun to visit. And I might pop back some time.”

“I'll believe that when I see it,” he says with a smile. “Actually, I was going to ask you whether you want to ride out with me to visit the Waters house. I have some questions I need to run past Esmee's parents, and now seems to be as good a time as any. Once they get Esmee home in a day or two, they're going to be busy.”

“I...”

For a moment, I consider accepting his offer. After all, an exclusive chat with the parents of Esmee Waters would be worth a lot of money. I could score a front page in one of the national papers, and this time I could actually tell them what I want and give them the chance to work with me voluntarily. Damn it, that actually sounds pretty ethical. Finally, however, I realize that I need to stay well away from temptation. This new, 100% decent approach to life and work isn't going to be easy. If I'm going to make it work, I have to give myself a fighting chance.

“I think I should hit the road,” I tell Malone, even though part of me really does want to stay. And not just for the story, either. “There's going to be traffic.”

“Sure.”

He hesitates, before stepping forward and reaching out to shake my hand.

“And if you do ever come back to Ridge Falls,” he adds, “then I hope you'll look me up. I mean, technically, I still owe you a dessert. Seriously, you might think you're not a dessert person, but I will make you a dessert person.” He pauses. “Wait, that sounded weird, didn't it? And a little threatening. I'm sorry, I -”

“It's fine,” I tell him, with a faint smile. “And you know what? I'll keep you to that promise some day.”

He hesitates, and then he takes a small card from his pocket and hands it to me.

“My number,” he explains. “And my e-mail address, actually. I wrote them on there, in case you ever need them. Not that I expect you would, but I guess it's always good to have the possibility.”

“I'll see you around,” I tell him, before turning to walk away.

At that moment, I spot a rolled-up newspaper in his hand, and I can just about make out part of Thomas Roper's face on the cover.

Realizing that I'm looking at the paper, Malone unfolds it and turns it around so that I can see the huge, garish headline that accompanies Roper's features:

CRAZED MONSTER

CAGED GIRL

FOR ELEVEN YEARS!!!

“Did they alter his face for that?” I ask, as I realize that the photo seems familiar, but that something seems to have been done to his forehead and mouth. I step closer and see that I was right. “They've made it look like he's snarling.”

“Poetic license, I guess,” Malone says.

“They've literally changed reality,” I point out, taking the paper so that I can get a closer look. “You can see the distortions if you look closely.”

“Most people won't notice that,” he replies.

“They've made him look evil,” I continue, as a shudder passes through my chest. “I'm surprised they didn't go all the way and add a little pair of devil horns.”

“Everyone loves a good villain,” Malone points out. “And a lonely guy who kidnaps one girl and murders another? Thomas Roper set himself up to be hated all across the country. It's pretty difficult to feel any sympathy for him. I just wish we'd captured the bastard alive. I want to know what was going on in his head.”

As I stare at the picture for a moment longer, I can't help but feel faintly nauseous. This isn't Thomas Roper. I know what he did, but this photo is a distortion of the truth. Roper wasn't a snarling monster. He was something else. Something darker. And it looks like we'll never truly know why he did all those awful things.

***

Rain is tapping against the windshield as I drive out of town, heading along the winding road the twists and turns through the heart of the forest. The sky ahead is gray and foreboding, and something tells me that the journey home is going to be a messy affair. Still, I need to get back to my apartment, so that I can figure out how to relaunch my career. I have a job to do.

Hearing a pinging sound from my phone, I reach over to the dashboard. At the last moment, however, I somehow manage to drop the phone, sending it slithering down to my feet.

“Damn it,” I mutter, reaching down but not quite getting far enough.

I glance down and see the phone, and then I look at the road again. I pause, before reaching a little further, and this time my fingertips just about manage to touch the phone's edge.

Close, but not close enough.

I watch the road for a moment longer, and then I decide to take a risk. I lean right down and grab my phone, and then I sit back up.

“What the -”

Suddenly seeing a human figure straight ahead, I frantically turn the wheel and slam my foot on the brake pedal. The car rushes past the figure, missing it by just a few inches, and then the entire vehicle comes thudding to a halt as I'm sent forward until my chest presses against the belt.

Turning, I see that the person has stopped.

I hesitate for a few seconds, before opening the door and stepping out. Sure enough, my initial suspicion was correct, and as the rain begins to fall a little harder I find myself face-to-face with none other than Esmee Waters.

“Hey,” I say cautiously. “What are you doing out here?”

I wait, but she simply stares at me, almost as if she's in a daze. I look around, in case there's anyone else nearby, but it seems that we're all alone here.

“I almost hit you,” I continue. “I'm sorry, I didn't see you until the last second.”

Again I wait, but I'm not even sure that she heard me.

“I'm pretty sure that you're not supposed to be out here like this,” I tell her. “You're all alone. Do the people at the hospital know that you're here? And the police?”

I wait a moment longer, before stepping over to her and putting a hand on the side of her arm. The fabric of her hospital gown is already damp, and I'm struck now by the paleness of her skin. I guess living underground in a bunker for a decade isn't exactly conducive to the development of a tan.

“It's starting to rain,” I point out. “You can't stay out here. You'll catch pneumonia.”

Wow. I sound just like my grandmother.

Esmee stares at me for a moment, and then I see tears starting to fill her eyes. She opens her mouth and her bottom lip begins to tremble, and she seems to be on the verge of breaking down.

“I don't know what I'm doing,” she whimpers finally, before turning to look past me, toward the road ahead. “I'm scared. The world is so huge, and I'm used to being in that little place in the forest. Part of me just wants to go back there forever, to hide away.”

“It's going to take time for you to adjust to being free,” I tell her.

“But why do I have to?” she sobs. “If I go back there, I won't be scared anymore.”

“You can't go back, Esmee.”

“What if it's just for a visit?” she asks, turning to me again. “Can you drive me there? I was going to walk, but you're right, the weather's too bad. Can you drive me? I might feel better if I just spent a little time in my old room.”

“I'm pretty sure the entire farm's a crime scene right now,” I explain. “I get that you're scared, Esmee, but you have to be strong. You have to accept the help that people are offering you, and you have to go back to the hospital. Imagine how worried everyone will be when they realize that you're missing. I'll take you back, and I promise you'll start to feel better eventually.”

I try to lead her over to my car, but for a few seconds she refuses to budge. Then, finally, she turns and comes with me.

“I can't believe they actually let you go,” I tell her as I open the passenger-side door. “The guy guarding your room is gonna have to answer some questions and -”

Before I can finish, I hear the sound of another vehicle approaching, and sure enough I turn just in time to see Malone's truck coming this way. His lights are flashing, and as he pulls up nearby I can already see the look of concern on his face.

“It's okay,” I say as he gets out of the vehicle. “Esmee's fine. She's just finding it hard to cope, that's all. We've talked and I think she's feeling a little better now.”

“I got a call from the hospital,” he explains. “They were terrified that something might have happened to you, Esmee. I've got men searching everywhere.”

“I'm sorry,” Esmee whimpers, as more tears roll down her face. “I don't know why I came out here. I just couldn't help myself!”

“Esmee,” Malone says cautiously, “you need to come back with me. You can't be out here like this.”

“Can we go one last time?” she asks, turning to him. “Just one time, I swear. That's all I need. One more time.”

“Esmee,” he replies, “I -”

“Just once!” she gasps, stepping toward him and dropping to her knees, then clasping her hands together as if she's begging. “Just let me look around! I swear, I'll be fine after that! Just give me a few minutes alone there, to come to terms with it all! That's all I'm asking! I don't want to go back to that hospital, not yet!”

Malone hesitates, and then he turns to me.

“Please,” Esmee sobs. “I just need to go there one last time!”

Chapter Thirty-Two

“I spoke to Doctor Sutter at the hospital,” Malone says as we stand at the Waters family front door, “and he's happy for Esmee to be home tonight. He's going to come by in the morning, to speak to all of you and to discuss plans going forward.”

“There's also going to be someone sitting outside the house in a police cruiser,” I add. “In case journalists show up.”

“I have a man who'll be here in about an hour's time,” Malone continues. “It's probably not necessary, but -”

“Oh, it's necessary,” I say, cutting him off as I turn to Mark Waters. “You won't believe the crap they'll try to pull.”

Behind him, Amanda Waters is gently leading Esmee up the stairs. It's clear that Esmee is still so fragile, and after a moment she stops and turns to us.

“I just want to go one last time,” she stammers, with tears still in her eyes. “Just to get it out of my head. Why can't you let me do that?”

“I'm sorry, Esmee,” Malone says, “but the farm is a crime scene. We need to preserve it and make sure that nothing's disturbed. I've got some people coming from out of state tomorrow to take a look at the place. They'll go over it with proper equipment and make sure nothing's left uncovered. Please, try to understand.”

She stares at him for a moment, and then she mutters something under her breath before turning and letting Amanda finish leading her upstairs.

“How could they let her just walk out of the hospital?” Mark asks, clearly furious. “Anything could have happened to her!”

“I'm going to speak to the man concerned,” Malone explains. “He'll be disciplined.”

“And that woman got in earlier and tried to take photos of her,” Mark continues. “What kind of operation are you idiots running out there? Are you in control of anything at all?”

“I can assure you,” Malone replies, picking his words carefully, “that we'll -”

“She's home now,” Mark says firmly, “which means that we're in charge of looking after her. Which means that we don't need your help anymore. Not that you were much use before, anyway. Frankly, the police have been no help in this case at all. You let her rot out there for more than a decade, it's your fault that she's like this.”

“That's not entirely fair,” I suggest.

“Keep out of this,” he snaps, before taking a step back. “Now, if you'll excuse me, my wife and I have to take care of our daughter. And you guys, frankly, can go screw yourselves.”

Before either of us can say a word, he slams the door in our faces, leaving me to turn to Malone as I realize that there's probably no point knocking again.

“So,” I say after a moment. “Dessert?”

***

“I thought you had to be somewhere tonight,” Malone says a while later, as we sit in the bar with two big ice creams. “What happened to your urgent need to get home?”

“I guess Esmee kinda slowed me down,” I point out. “When I saw her there, wandering along the road, I had to stop.”

“And now you're heading off, huh? I guess you've got some big pieces to write about everything that's happened. I just hope you'll be a little kind to us.” He pauses for a moment. “I know I made mistakes, and I can totally understand how this whole case could be written in a way that makes us look like incompetent imbeciles. I guess we deserve that. Mark Waters was right, this is partially our fault. Partially my fault.”

“That's not true at all,” I tell him.

“I could have found her sooner.”

He takes a scoop of ice cream from his bowl.

“I'm not going to be writing anything,” I say finally. “I've given up on all that.”

“On your career?”

“I think I want to do something where I feel a little more self-worth,” I explain. “Like stealing from little old ladies. Or organ trafficking.”

“You can't just give up,” he replies.

“I don't want to be an asshole anymore.”

“You're not an asshole,” he says. “Maggie, if people like you quit, then all that's left are people like that Derringham woman. Who's not being very cooperative, by the way. Seriously, she's not making life easy for herself. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I'm quite enjoying the chance to take one of those know-it-all media types down a peg or two.”

“Pretending it's me, are you?”

“I get the feeling that she's pretty much the worst of the worst.”

“I don't want to be like her.”

“Then don't be!” he says firmly, setting his spoon down. “I haven't known you for very long, but I never thought you were a quitter.”

“You don't understand,” I tell him.

“You think I don't face the same kind of pressure?” he asks. “If good people quit the police, that leaves just the corrupt, immoral assholes left. And the same goes for your line of work.” He sighs. “Think how this case will get written up if you don't do it. I'm not saying this out of some sense of self-preservation. I'm saying that you know what really happened. You can write it as it really is. And now you're saying you just want to walk away? You're just quitting?”

“It's not -”

“It is quitting,” he adds. “It's taking the easy way out. And if you're saying that it's not possible to be a journalist and have morals, then I just have to disagree with you.”

He picks up his spoon and gets back to his dessert.

I want to explain some more, to tell him why I'm tired of everything, but suddenly I realize I can't think of anything that'll sound okay. The last thing I want is to whine, or to sound like I feel sorry for myself. And the truth is, I think maybe – just maybe – Malone has a point.

“Well,” I say finally, before getting to my feet, “I'm just going to go to the bathroom.”

With that, I head away from the table. By the time I'm in the bathroom, I feel as if my head's going to explode. I'd already decided that I had to set off on a new line of work, and now all the doubts have returned. I know Malone's technically correct when he says that I'm running from a fight, but he just doesn't understand how exhausting it can be to have to fight your instincts every day.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe it's exactly the same for him.

“God,” I say, looking up toward the ceiling, “just in case you feel like telling me the answer to all this, I'd be real grateful for a light bulb moment.”

I wait.

Nothing.

Sighing, I wash my hands and then I head back out to rejoin Malone. It's late, but I figure I could drive through the night and be home just as the sun's coming up. That'd be better than sitting around here.

As I reach the table, however, I find that Malone's already getting ready to leave, and he seems to be in a hurry.

“Was it something I didn't say?” I ask.

“You were right,” he says, sounding a little flustered.

“About...”

“That blood we found in the forest last year, when Kimmy disappeared,” he continues, holding up his phone. “I just got an email. You said we could check the blood against ancestry sites. I didn't really think there was much point, but I sent in a request anyway and the results just came back.”

“And?”

I wait, but he seems genuinely shocked.

“Was it Kimmy's blood?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Was it Roper's?”

I feel a flicker of concern.

Again, he shakes his head.

“Then who was -”

“There's a 97% chance that the blood belonged to Esmee Waters,” he explains, “and it was fresh. Esmee was still Roper's prisoner last year, and she told us she never left the bunker, not even once. So what was she doing out in the forest when Kimmy went missing?”

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Okay, so maybe Esmee Waters was out in the forest at some point last year,” I say as Malone drives us along the road toward the Waters family home. “It's not completely impossible. But what was she doing out there in the forest around the same time that Kimmy disappeared?”

“Esmee was adopted,” he explains. “That's why we never had a sample of her blood before. Her birth parents died when she was about six months old, but somehow they were in one of the record sets.”

“Then maybe...” I pause as I try to think of the most realistic alternative. “Maybe she was kept alive for all that time, and then she escaped,” I add finally. “And maybe her escape had something to do with the timing of Kimmy's disappearance. It could all be a coincidence, but it could also not be.” I turn to him. “Are you sure she never mentioned anything about an escape?”

“She said she thought about it, but she gave up.”

“Maybe she's blocked it out,” I suggest. “Maybe it was too painful.”

“Maybe,” he mutters, as he swings the truck around onto the next street and then brings us to a halt next to a police cruiser, “but I want to find out. Something about this whole thing doesn't add up.”

Getting out of the cruiser, I see that the deputy is sitting in his cruiser, casually checking his phone.

Malone hurries over and knocks on the window.

“Is everything okay?” the deputy asks, after rolling the window down.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Malone replies. “There's been no sign of anyone approaching the house, has there? No journalists or TV crews?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Why? I thought you weren't coming back out here until the morning?”

“Keep up the good work,” Malone says, and then we hurry toward the house.

“Esmee Waters spent eleven years as a prisoner,” I point out. “That has to have messed her up pretty seriously. I know you've had people talking to her, but you've barely scratched the surface. We still don't know what really happened during those years. She could be suffering from all sorts of problems. I'd be shocked if she didn't have some form of PTSD!”

“Esmee said that she knows nothing about Kimmy's death,” he says, stopping at the door and knocking loudly. “Now we find out that she was in the forest around the time that Kimmy disappeared. If she has any information at all about that night, I need to hear it immediately.”

“Yes, but -”

Before I can finish, the door opens and Mark Waters steps into view.

“I need to speak to Esmee,” Malone tells him. “It's important.”

“Are you insane?” Mark replies. “It's nine o'clock at night. Esmee's gone to bed!”

“Then get her out of bed,” Malone says. “I can do this the formal way, or we can keep it informal.”

“You can't just come barging into our home,” Mark says, as his wife heads up the stairs. “I'm going to put in a complaint about your behavior. Right from the start, you've been completely out of order. You failed to find Esmee when she was missing, and you're harassing her now that she's home. I don't know what's wrong with you, but -”

“Mark, she's not here!” Amanda Waters shouts from upstairs, and suddenly she comes running down the stairs.

“Where is she?” Malone asks, pushing past Mark and heading into the hallway.

“She's not in her room,” Amanda continues, her voice filled with shock. “She's not anywhere in the house. Esmee's gone!”

***

“So I guess that deputy of yours wasn't much good,” I point out as we speed through the night in Malone's truck, heading up toward the Roper farm. “Not if Esmee was able to sneak out the back without anyone noticing.”

“He was watching for people going in, not out,” Malone replies. “Cut the guy some slack.” He pauses for a moment. “No,” he adds finally, “you're right. This is another screw-up.”

“Pull up here,” I say suddenly.

“We're not quite at the -”

“I know!” I say firmly. “Trust me. Pull up here and turn your lights off!”

He does just that, bringing the truck to a halt just a couple of hundred meters short of the farmhouse. As soon as he's cut the lights, I realize that I can see a faint hint of light in the distance, somewhere up in the forest but not quite at the farmhouse itself.

“I don't think we want to advertise our arrival,” I say after a moment.

“It looks like someone's up there with a flashlight,” he replies.

“Did you leave any men up there overnight?”

“I didn't see the need. And we're pretty stretched as things are.”

“It could be a reporter,” I point out, “although my understanding is that Rolinda's team was the only one that had reached Ridge Falls so far.”

I watch for a few more seconds, and I'm now certain that I can see the beam of a flashlight out there in the forest. Sure, there are plenty of alternative explanations, but there's one possibility that just seems to make sense right now.

“I want to see what Esmee's doing,” I say finally, as I climb out of the truck.

“Then let's go ask her,” Malone replies, getting out the other side.

“No, I don't want her version of it,” I tell him. “I want to see what she's doing. She told me earlier that she wanted to be there again, that she felt a need. The crazy thing is, as much as that might make sense, I'm not sure that it's the real reason. I feel bad for admitting this, but I think she was lying.”

“You said it yourself,” Malone points out as we begin to make our way up the dark, steep hill that leads toward Roper's property. “She's a screwed-up kid. Eleven years in a dungeon would do that to anyone. Maybe she's got some kind of Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe she can't bear to be away from this place.”

“Maybe,” I reply.

“Maybe she actually misses Roper,” he adds. “I know it's crazy, but she probably developed some feelings for that monster.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe she doesn't know what else to do,” he suggests. “Maybe home doesn't feel like home anymore. Maybe her parents don't feel like family.”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, then,” he says as we reach the fence and look up toward the farmhouse, “if you don't like any of my ideas, do you have anything better?”

I look past the farmhouse, toward the beam of light in the forest.

“I think Esmee Waters was very determined to get back up here,” I say after a moment. “After we picked her up earlier and took her home, she ran back here within a few hours. She took a huge risk, she must know there's a chance that we'll notice she's missing. If she simply wanted to come back here, I think she'd have waited a day or two, hoping that we'd stop caring. The fact that she came back so soon...”

My voice trails off for a moment, and then the beam vanishes.

“She's desperate to get back into that underground bunker,” I point out finally, “and something tells me that waiting until tomorrow wasn't an option.” I turn to Malone. “Whatever she needs to do out here, she needs to do it tonight.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

“She's been down there for a while now,” I whisper, as Malone and I continue to watch the hatch that leads down into the underground bunker. “What do you think she's doing?”

“It's a big place down there,” he reminds me. “There are four separate rooms, and several connecting corridors. Roper certainly spared no expense in trying to make her comfortable.”

“Nice guy,” I mutter.

“He seems to have been constantly working on the place and updating it,” he explains. “You should see the bathroom he built for her. I know this is going to sound weird, but it's almost luxurious!”

There's a faint glow coming from the hatch, so it seems that Esmee has managed to switch the power back on. She definitely hasn't come back out, and there are no other exits.

“We can't sit here forever,” I point out finally, as I take a step forward. “If she comes out, we'll be none the wiser. She'll just come up with a bunch of new stories. We have to see what she's up to, before she realizes that we're here.”

“Just remember what we're dealing with,” Malone whispers as we make our way toward the hatch. “She's a vulnerable young woman who's been to Hell and back. She's probably terrified, and we can't expect her to make rational decisions. If she starts to seem agitated, let me take charge, okay?”

“Wow,” I reply, “it almost sounds like someone went on a course to learn about sensitivity.”

As we get to the hatch, I crouch down and listen for a moment. I don't hear any sign of activity, which perhaps means that Esmee isn't in the room directly beneath the entrance. Then again, we can't be too careful, and I'm just starting to try to think of our best strategy when – without warning – Malone leans past me and starts to very slowly, very tentatively lift the hatch.

I'm about to tell him that he's being too loud, but then I see that the entrance section of the bunker is completely empty. The single electric light is buzzing on the wall, and several power cables are snaking in through the hatch's entrance, but Esmee must be somewhere deeper inside.

“Okay,” I whisper, “now we -”

“Do you hear that?” Malone asks suddenly.

I open my mouth to ask what he means, but then I realize I can hear something coming from deeper in the bunker. To my surprise, there's what sounds like classical music playing in one of the other rooms.

“Is that...”

My voice trails off.

“Dvorak's ninth symphony,” Malone whispers.

I turn to him.

“I think so, anyway,” he adds.

“You're into classical music?”

“Is there any reason I shouldn't be?” he asks. “Not everyone like thrashing guitars and heavy drums and... beeps and boops and electronic noises.” He pauses for a moment. “Can we talk about my musical tastes later, maybe? Like I told you earlier, Roper spared no expense in providing things for Esmee to do down here.”

Realizing that he's right, but still surprised by this discovery, I look back down into the entrance area for a moment and then I swing my legs over the side. There's a metal ladder leading below, so I take care to climb down without making too much noise until finally I step aside and wait for Malone to follow. As I look around, I'm struck by the fact that – despite being a secret underground bunker where kidnapped girls were held – this place is actually pretty cozy, with nice furniture and even some decent pictures on the walls. Some of them are signed, and I think I can just about make out Esmee's name. To be fair to her, she isn't a bad painter.

Classical music continues to ring out in one of the other rooms.

“This is nicer than my apartment,” I whisper to Malone as he joins me. “For real.”

“Roper went to a lot of trouble for Esmee,” he replies.

“I'm starting to understand why she wants to come back here,” I say, and then we start making our way toward the corridor that leads further into the bunker. “There's no need to work. There are no annoying people who might start bothering you. Apart from the fact that you're a prisoner, I can see the appeal.” I turn to him. “Does that make me a weird person?”

“Slightly.”

“You were thinking it too.”

“I never said that,” he replies. “But, sure, I guess this isn't the most hellish prison in the world.”

We stop talking as we edge along the corridor. As we approach the door at the far end, I realize I can hear someone moving around, and then I spot a shadow against one of the walls. I glance at Malone and see the concerned expression on his face, and then I make my way to the door and peer around, only to see that Esmee is down on her knees, scrubbing the legs of a dresser.

And this room...

Apart from the lack of windows, this place looks pretty luxurious. Roper's farmhouse might have been a bare shell, but he sure made an effort for Esmee. There's a large double bed, and two of the walls are made up entirely of bookshelves, filled in every possible spot with titles that in some cases have been piled on their sides. There's a radio, and a cabinet at the far end of the room contains what looks like a pretty fancy dinner set. There are a few creepy, old-fashioned dolls, and to top it all off there's even a chandelier hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room.

Esmee, meanwhile, is still wiping the dresser's legs, and she's apparently oblivious to the fact that we're here. She looks so focused, so busy, and it takes a moment before I realize why she seems familiar. She actually reminds me a little of my mother, who always used to do housework at the weekend. There's just something so homely about the way Esmee is working.

Suddenly she turns, staring straight at us with a blank face.

I open my mouth to say something, but I'm not sure where to begin.

“It's okay, Esmee,” Malone says, holding his hands up as he steps past me, entering the room. “We're just here to help.”

She looks around for a moment, and then she turns first to me and then to Malone.

“Esmee,” he continues, as he edges closer to her, “this whole place has to be kept pristine, for the people who are going to come tomorrow. Do you understand? There's a lot of forensic evidence that needs to be gathered. I'm sorry, but you really can't be here. And this is the second time you've run off today. Your parents are beside themselves with worry.”

He waits for a moment, and then he turns to me. It's clear that he's not sure what to do next.

“It's nice here,” I say, forcing a smile as I step forward. “I can see why you like it, Esmee. It feels safe.”

As I speak, I can't help noticing that she really seems to have been cleaning the place properly. It's almost as if she's been trying to wipe away any trace of what's happened. Maybe that's it, maybe she's just troubled, but as I look back at her I can't help feeling that she seems very calm, and very determined.

Something's not right here.

Suddenly Esmee gets to her feet.

“One day,” Malone continues, “you're not going to want to be here. You'll realize that there's a whole world out there, waiting for you. And this place will seem like a bad dream. Trust me, Esmee, you just need to come with us right now.”

He waits.

She stares at him.

Finally, Malone turns to me.

“You agree, Maggie, don't you?” he adds, clearly desperate for help. “Why don't we take Esmee out for ice cream? Everyone loves ice cream.”

“I'm not sure ice cream's the solution to all the world's problems,” I reply cautiously, as I notice Esmee stepping up behind him. “In fact, I think maybe -”

Suddenly Malone cries out and stumbles forward, and as he falls I see Esmee standing behind him with a crowbar in her hands. Before I have time to react, she hurries over to him and hits him again, this time slamming the back of his head and sending him thudding against the wall.

“No!” I scream, rushing forward.

She hits the back of his head again, and I'm horrified to see blood spraying against the wall. And then, before I have a chance to stop her, she turns and swings the crowbar at me, smashing me in the face and screaming as she knocks me out cold.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The first thing I hear, as my eyes begin to flicker open, is a faint but persistent shuffling sound. And then, as I finally manage to focus, I see Malone being dragged straight past me.

I let out a faint groan as I try to sit up, but now flickers of pain are rippling through my head and my vision briefly becomes blurry again. I feel really weak, as if I might pass out again at any moment, but somehow I manage to prop myself up on my elbows, and then I turn and see that Esmee is dragging Malone to the far corner of the room.

Classical music is still playing.

“What?” I whisper, just as Esmee lets go of his arms and lets them fall to the ground.

She turns to me, staring at me with a calm, blank expression.

I swallow hard.

My vision blurs again, and I have to really focus before I can see properly.

Esmee starts walking back over toward me.

“Wait,” I mutter, pulling back and slamming my back against the wall, hitting my head in the process. I feel groggy and weird, but I know this is all very wrong. “What did you do? What did you do to Malone?”

She stops just a few feet away, and I turn to see that she's towering over me.

I wait, but she doesn't say anything. It's as if she's content to simply stare at me, as if she finds me – at most – mildly interesting.

And then, before I can say another word, she reaches down and grabs my legs, and then she starts dragging me over to join Malone.

“Stop,” I murmur, struggling to stay conscious as the back of my head bumps against the ground. “Esmee, what is this? What's wrong with you?”

She dumps me in the corner, with my legs propped against Malone's chest. I start frantically turning around, and then I grab Malone's arm and start tugging wildly.

“Wake up!” I hiss, desperately trying to rouse him. “We have to get out of here!”

When he doesn't respond, I drag myself painfully around to his head, only to see that one side of his face is covered in blood. There's a thick, bloodied wound on his temple, and several more cuts have been sliced into his neck and shoulders.

“Malone, wake up!” I shout, shaking him as hard as I can.

I reach for his neck and press two fingers against his bloodied skin, but I can't find a pulse. I try on the other side, and I feel a burst of panic as I realize that there's nothing.

“Malone!” I scream. “Get up!”

Suddenly hearing a shuffling sound, I turn just in time to see that Esmee's heading out of the room. I open my mouth to call after her, to ask her why she's doing this, but then in an instant I realize that there's only one possible explanation. For all of this. It's as if, in a moment of sheer terror, all the lies and obfuscations fall away. I see it all. How could I have been so stupid before? This whole thing finally makes sense.

“Thomas Roper didn't kidnap you,” I say cautiously, as my voice trembles with fear. “Did he?”

She stops in the doorway, with her back to me.

For a moment, I think back to Roper's face on the night he died. He was standing at the top of the waterfall, and he stared at me. No matter what I've discovered since, I still can't quite bring myself to believe that I saw the face of a killer that night. Which really only leaves one other possible explanation.

“Eleven years ago,” I continue, still staring at Esmee, “when you disappeared, Thomas Roper didn't kidnap you.” I pause for a moment, as the full horror of the situation finally sinks in. “You kidnapped him.”

She pauses, and then she half turns to look at me.

I wince as I pull myself up. At least I've got her attention now, which means I might be able to buy myself some time.

“You were fifteen years old,” I remind her. “People were starting to ask you what you wanted to do in life, weren't they? What kind of career your wanted. But you didn't want a career at all, did you? You just wanted to be left alone, to read your books and listen to your music. Nothing else interested you. You just needed a way to make all of that happen. And you found a way, didn't you? You found Thomas Roper.”

She continues to stare at me, but now there's a trace of emotion on her face. A trace of anger.

“Roper must have seemed perfect,” I continue, still struggling to put it all together. “A loner, stuck out here beyond the edge of town. And he had money. Enough to get by. And he was... not dumb, exactly, but naive. Solitary. He didn't understand how the world worked, not entirely. Did you try to seduce him first, Esmee? I bet you did. And I bet he rejected you, for obvious reasons. So your first idea didn't work. You couldn't lure him that way, so you had to try something else.”

I wait, but she doesn't react.

“So you kidnapped him,” I add finally, as all the pieces start to slot into place. “How did it go, exactly? Did you tie him up? Did you lock him in one of the rooms? And then you worked on him. You made him your prisoner, not just physically but emotionally. You crippled his mind. You made him want to serve you, and you made him build you this little bunker, so you could live your life exactly how you wanted. He brought you books. He fed you.” I look up for a moment at the thick black cables that are running along the ceiling. “He built this place,” I continue. “He ran power out here. And water. He gave you everything, because you mentally and emotionally beat him into submission. Sure, he was walking around free after a while, but he was still your prisoner. In here.”

I tap the side of my head.

Suddenly she steps toward me.

“It was daring and audacious,” I tell her, “and pretty dumb, and by some kind of miracle it actually worked. He was your prisoner, even when you let him out.”

She stops and stares down at me, and now she looks utterly disgusted. It's almost as if she's offended by the fact that I've figured it all out.

“Everything was fine,” she says finally, “until he brought that other girl here. He was worried that I might be lonely.” Suddenly she grins, as if it's the most ludicrous idea she's ever heard. “Can you imagine that?” she continues. “What an idiot. He didn't understand me at all. I always told him what I wanted, I was very clear that I didn't want him to think for himself. And then finally he did think for himself, and he did something so completely stupid, I honestly think that he must have taken leave of his senses.”

“He was a good man,” I reply, as I try to work out how I'm going to get out of here. “You manipulated him. How long did it take, before you were confident to let him out alone? Six months? A year?”

“About two months,” she says calmly. “You're right, it wouldn't have worked on a lot of men. But Tommy was different. He had a kind of sweetness about him. A kind of innocence.”

“So you tricked him.”

“I knew what I wanted, and I took it,” she replies. “The thought of going out into the world, of studying, or working... It's repulsive, it makes my skin crawl. I shouldn't have to be near people.”

For a moment, I can only stare up at her in abject horror.

“Why did he bring that bitch here?” she continues. “She recognized me. That's the worst part. That stupid Kimmy girl actually recognized me. At that moment, I knew there was nothing else we could do. Of course, Thomas didn't have the balls, so I had to do it. I took her out into the forest and I killed her. She actually fought back pretty well, she managed to cut my arm. In order to kill her, I had to really transform and go crazy. Then Thomas disposed of her body, but I never truly forgave him for making me go through all of that. Nothing was the same, over that last year.”

“It was a cry for help,” I whisper. “He left the body parts out there so they'd be found. It was his way of trying to get someone to notice what was happening.”

“He could have just told people,” she suggests.

“No, he couldn't,” I reply. “You were too deep in his head for that.”

I look around, desperately trying to find a weapon. A metal pipe, maybe, or at least a brick. And then, in a moment of miraculous luck, I see Malone's gun still resting in a holster at his waist.

No.

I cannot be this lucky.

“He was so weak,” Esmee says after a few seconds. “How could I respect him? The more I twisted him around my little finger, the more I realized how much I despised him. Thomas Roper seemed like the strong and silent type at first, like the kind of man who looks after a woman. But once I really dug in deep, I found that he was so pathetically easy to manipulate. I mean, I was fifteen years old when it started, and he just crumpled. Can you believe that? He just fell apart for me.”

“Maybe you were just very good at it,” I reply, as I try to time my move for the gun.

I need her to look away.

“At first,” she continues, “he said it was too hard to run power out here. He said he couldn't do it. But I suppose I gave him the confidence to try. His next project was going to be tidying the place up a little, making it look a little nicer. That was the summer project I'd given him, and we'd even worked out a schedule. It was going to be quite risky, because I would have had to move into the main house for a few days, but...”

Her voice trails off, and then she shrugs.

“Well, it's over now,” she mutters. “I just needed to clean up some of the evidence here, to make sure no-one realized the truth. Now I'll have to burn the place, but it's okay. I can probably get a book deal, or even a film deal. I'll make money for that, won't I? I don't need much. Just enough to buy somewhere to live, and to always be able to read my books and listen to my music.”

She stares at me for a moment, before starting to turn away.

“Wait right here,” she adds. “I'll fetch the gasoline and -”

Suddenly I grab the gun and aim it at her. I place my finger on the trigger, but I resist the urge to fire.

“Don't move, bitch!” I snap, as I press my back against the wall and start to slither to my feet. “Don't even blink!”

She turns to me, and then she freezes as soon as she sees the gun.

“Where did you -”

She hesitates, and then she looks down at Malone.

“Oh,” she adds, “right.”

“If you move one inch,” I continue breathlessly, “I'll shoot.”

“That thing probably isn't even loaded,” she replies.

I aim past her and pull the trigger, shooting at the far wall. The sound is so loud down here in the basement, and Esmee instinctively winces and puts her hands over her ears as I aim the gun back at her again.

That was lucky.

“You were saying?” I ask.

She lowers her hands, and now she looks genuinely worried.

“Here's what we're going to do,” I continue. “We're going to go up to Roper's farmhouse, and from there we're going to call for help. And then, while Aiden Malone is recovering, you're going to tell the police everything. Do you understand? No more lying, Esmee. No more covering things up. You're going to make sure that everyone knows exactly what you did to Thomas Roper. Got it?”

She stares at me for a moment, with a kind of blank expression, and then she slowly nods.

“Get moving!” I say firmly, using the gun to gesture toward the far door. “Now!”

She hesitates, and then she turns.

I glance down briefly at Malone. He looks so badly hurt, but I have to believe that he's still alive and that he can be saved. Sure, I didn't find a pulse, but it might be there somewhere.

Focusing my attention on Esmee, I follow her slowly across the room, until finally she stops next to one of the tables.

“Keep moving!” I say firmly. “I'm not playing games, Esmee!”

“Neither am I,” she replies calmly, not turning to me. And then, slowly, she reaches out toward the crowbar that's resting on the table.

“I'll shoot you if you try anything!” I tell her. “Don't think I'll wimp out! Frankly, right now I'd rather shoot you, so don't give me an excuse!”

“I believe every word,” she replies. “It's just... I'm not an idiot. I might have missed the gun at first, but I recognize the model from a book I read once. Believe me, during my time here I've read a lot of books, and I remember so much of it all. I'm smart like that.”

She takes hold of the crowbar and starts dragging it slowly, loudly across the table.

I tighten my grip on the gun.

“When the last bullet is fired and it's empty, the gun makes a very slight clinking sound,” she continues, as she lifts the crowbar up and stands with her back to me. “It made that sound just now, which means it's out of ammunition. Silly man, isn't he? Coming out here with only one bullet in his gun. That's a real oversight that's going to turn out to have big consequences.”

Slowly, she turns to look at me.

“And really,” she adds, “if you were as tough as you pretend, you should have shot me already.”

“No, I -”

Before I can finish, she rushes at me. I step back and hesitate for a moment, but then I fire the gun just as she slams straight into my chest. A gunshot rings out, then another, and then two more as Esmee drops the crowbar and focuses on slamming my right hand into the concrete wall. I cry out in pain, and then I scream as she presses her knee against my wrist and twists my hand, breaking the bones and causing the gun to fire one last time as it falls helplessly to the ground.

“Gullible bitch,” she sneers, before elbowing me in the face and shoving me to the ground.

I stumble, but I manage to stay upright. The pain in my broken wrist is searing, but I force myself to turn and rush at Esmee just as she reaches back down for the crowbar. I slam into her and send us both crashing to the ground, and then I use my left hand to punch her hard in the face.

She lets out a loud roar as she shoves me back into the wall, and then she starts punching me over and over again in the chest. I struggle for a moment to fight back, but then she stops for a few seconds and reaches for the crowbar. I throw myself at her and pull her back, and finally I get an arm around her throat and start pulling tight.

She struggles wildly, kicking helplessly with her legs, and then she reaches up and starts digging her considerable fingernails into my arm as I pull even tighter.

Resisting the urge to try saying something snappy, I focus on holding her tight, and I'm pretty sure she can't breathe right now.

If I let go, she'll kill me.

Her legs continue to kick for a few more seconds, and then I feel her slump slightly against my chest. She's still struggling, but with not nearly as much ferocity as before, and even her fingernails are barely managed to cut into my arm right now. I can hear a faint gasping sound coming from her lips, along with a series of pained gurgles, but I refuse to believe just yet that I've managed to get this slippery bitch into submission.

“Please,” she stammers finally, as her hands fall down to her sides.

Clenching my teeth, I pull tighter against her throat.

“Please,” she groans again, as if she's about to pass out. “I don't want to die... Don't kill me...”

I pull even tighter. She lets out a long, guttural sigh, and then she falls completely limp. I don't let go, not just yet, but finally I loosen my hold just a little and I wait in case she tries to surprise me. I'm still furious at myself for falling for her little trick with the gun, and I'm not going to let her get a jump on me again.

I wait, and then finally I realize that she's unconscious.

Letting go of her, I wait a moment longer with her slumped against my chest, and then I check her neck for a pulse. Sure enough, the bitch is still alive. I pause for a few seconds, considering whether or not I should just finish her off, but deep down I know I could never do that. Instead, I clamber out from behind her and then I look around for a moment before spotting a length of rope on one of the tables.

I grab the rope and pull it down, and then I start wrapping it around Esmee's left wrist. Pretty soon, I've managed to secure her to one of the many pipes on the wall, and I give the rope one final tug to make sure that it's firm. As I do so, I feel another burst of pain in my right wrist, and when I look down I see that my fingers are starting to turn just a little purple. I try to clench a fist, but I have no luck.

“You're going to have to wait right here,” I tell Esmee, before getting to my feet. “Sorry if that's inconvenient.”

I make my way over to Malone and crouch down, and then I try to lift him up. My damaged wrist stops me, however, no matter how many different ways I try to support him. Finally, realizing that this won't work, I figure that I'm going to need another approach.

I have to call for help, and get them here fast.

“I'm going to the main house,” I say finally, leaning down toward Malone in the hope that he can hear me. I press two fingers against the side of his neck and start searching for a pulse.

Finally, after a few attempts, I feel something.

“Thank you,” I say with a relieved sigh. “Malone, I'm coming back. I just have to get to the house, that's all. I can call for back-up from there, and then I'll get you to the hospital. I promise. You just have to trust me.”

I wait, just in case he miraculously wakes up and murmurs something, but then I get to my feet and start limping out of the room. As I go, I look down at Esmee and see that she's still tied to the pipe. I reach down and tug on the rope again, to make doubly sure that it's secure, and then I shuffle out of the room and along the corridor.

My heart is racing.

Wincing as I feel the pain in my wrist, I finally get to the entrance hall and approach the ladder. I reach out with both hands, only to suddenly realize that I'll have to climb with just one. I take a moment to get my breath back, and then I start to climb, and then I stop suddenly as I hear a sound coming from the far end of the bunker.

I freeze, telling myself that I was wrong, but then I hear it again.

Someone's moving in the main room.

There's a shuffling, bumping sound, almost as if...

Almost as if someone's working to get free of some ropes.

“No way,” I whisper. “No f-”

I stop for a moment, but I already know that I can't leave Malone here with that psychotic bitch. I tied her up properly, but I was effectively working one-handed and now I'm starting to worry that she might have a chance of getting loose. I need to get to the farmhouse and call for help, but I have no doubt that a free Esmee Waters would not be a good thing. If she's even conscious, that's bad enough, so I step off the ladder and look around for something I can finally use to knock Esmee Waters out properly.

Meanwhile, the shuffling sound in the far room continues for a few more seconds before falling suddenly, ominously silent.

Finding a plank of wood resting against the wall, I realize that this is the best I'm going to be able to get. I raise the plank and start making my way back along the corridor, poised to fight back if Esmee suddenly comes at me. The single electric light in the corridor flickers slightly, buzzing in the process, but finally I get to the doorway and I look through.

My heart skips a beat as I see that while Malone is where I left him, Esmee is gone and has left behind nothing but some untied ropes.

This bitch is unbelievable.

“Esmee,” I say finally, figuring that there's no point hiding, “it's time to stop now.”

I step into the room, while keeping my back to the wall so that she can't come up behind me. I look all around, figuring that she has to be hiding somewhere, but I don't see any hint of movement.

“I'll help you, Esmee,” I continue, as I adjust my grip on the plank. “I mean that. I'll see what I can do to get you all the help that you so clearly need. But if you want help, you need to... get a grip.”

Get a grip?

Did I really say that?

She needs to get a lobotomy. That's what she needs.

Stopping, I realize that I can't get too far from the doorway, otherwise she might escape. Then she could seal the door and leave Malone and me trapped down here, and then maybe she'd be able to go and get that gasoline she mentioned. I'm starting to worry that the only way out of this mess is for me to smear her brains across a wall.

“Esmee,” I continue, “you're not a bad person. I know that. You just made some bad choices.”

That's a lie.

Still, it's a lie that might save my life.

“Let's just resolve this without any more trouble, okay?” I continue. “And then maybe one day you can even live a normal life again. You still have a future if you just -”

Suddenly I spot movement in the corner of my eye, and I spin around to see Esmee standing on the other side of the room. She's holding the crowbar in her right hand, and after a moment I notice that her left wrist is misshapen and twisted. I guess it's pretty clear how she got herself out of the ropes.

“Hey, Esmee,” I say, as I try to figure out how I'm going to defend myself. “I don't suppose you want to -”

Suddenly she screams and runs at me. Startled, I take a step back and raise the plank, but at that moment she lifts the metal crowbar high above her head.

“You don't have to do this!” I shout.

I wave the plank in her general direction, missing her completely, and then I watch helplessly as – still screaming – she pulls the crowbar back and then brings it crashing down toward my face.

And then, at the last moment, the crowbar's tip slices straight into one of the power cables running across the ceiling, and a loud bang is accompanied by a blinding flash.

I stumble back again, raising my left hand in a desperate attempt to protect my face, but then I see that the crowbar is dug deep into the cable, and Esmee is still screaming as she shakes violently. I don't know how much power is running through those cables, but there's smoke rising from Esmee's body now as her hands continue to grip the crowbar's metal handle, and after a few more seconds I see flames starting to ripple through her dress.

The lights flicker all around us.

Esmee's scream is still ringing out.

And then suddenly, as I stare straight ahead in horror, the lights go out and the whole bunker is plunged into darkness, and in that moment her scream stops. For a moment, I can still see ripples of flame running all over Esmee's body, but then even those disappear and I'm left standing in complete darkness.

I stare straight into the black void.

All I hear is silence, but I swear I can feel my heart thumping hard in my chest. Then, finally, I begin to hear a very faint gasping sound coming from the darkness straight ahead. The gasp keeps cutting out, but it's persistent and finally I realize that I need to see what's happening.

I reach into my pocket and, with my remaining good hand, I manage to take out my cellphone. My hand is trembling violently, but I'm able to bring up the flashlight. I hesitate for a few seconds, not really daring to turn the phone around and see the truth, and then finally I force myself.

I turn the phone.

And then I see her.

Esmee is horrifically burned, with most of her skin having been consumed by the flames. Her hair is gone, but she's still gripping the crowbar and her eyes are wide open and fixed on me. The gasping sound is coming from her throat, but she seems completely frozen in place until finally, slowly, she pulls the crowbar back and slips it out from the overhead cable.

With the flashlight still aimed at her, I watch with growing horror as she slowly steps forward and raises the crowbar again, and her expression twists until she's once again sneering at me. I don't know how she's still alive after all of this, but through some superhuman effort she manages to remain upright, and she starts to lift the crowbar above her head.

And then, finally, she falls backward and slams down hard on the concrete floor, with her arms still held out in front of her, still gripping the crowbar.

Epilogue

“So eventually the coroner told me to stop calling,” I say the next day as I limp back into the hospital room, carrying a cup of coffee. “I guess he had a point. Even Esmee Waters couldn't come back from being fried to death.”

I pause for a moment, as I feel a few flickers of concern starting to reach into the edges of my mind.

“Then again,” I whisper, “maybe I should call him one more time. Just to be sure.”

Hearing a gasp of pain, I turn to my left.

Malone starts to sit up in his bed, but he winces almost immediately and it's clear that he's still in a lot of pain. He's hooked up to all sorts of drips, so I can't even begin to imagine how bad he'd be feeling without sedatives. He tries to sit up again, then again, until finally he sighs and gives up. He's been doing this on and off all morning and, to be honest, it's become something of a sad sight. Why can't he just accept that he needs to rest?

I set the coffee cup down, and then I check my watch.

Where is Daryl?

“I swear,” I continue, as I take a seat next to the bed, “that girl seemed unstoppable for a few minutes. It was as if nothing could kill her. She must have had so much anger and hatred running through her veins. All she cared about was making her own life easier.” Now it's my turn to wince, as I start to sit up and then inadvertently put some pressure on my damaged wrist.

I manage to wriggle into a more comfortable position.

“When I think about Roper,” I continue, “I still don't quite understand. Was he really so completely under Esmee's spell? I mean, he had plenty of chances to tell me, to ask for help. There was that night I was with him at the farmhouse, and he just let me go without saying a word. He could have told me what was happening when he dropped me off at the motel, but he didn't say a word. She must have been so deep in his head, I guess he didn't think escape was possible. That's pretty messed-up, right?”

I turn to Malone and see that he's still trying to get himself comfortable in his hospital bed.

“Are you sure you don't want a coffee?” I ask.

“I'm fine,” he replies. “Thanks, but...”

His voice trails off. That's another thing he's been doing all morning, and it's starting to drive me crazy. He keeps starting sentences and then letting them drift off into the ether, as if he can't be bothered to finish them. I guess I understand. He's still trying to make sense of all the madness.

“There are journalists crawling all over the place,” I tell him, “but they don't seem to have got the memo yet about Esmee. They know she's dead, but they haven't figured out that she was the psycho all along. I guess that's going to go against the narrative they're preparing. Then again, I'm sure some people will get a vicarious thrill out of the whole thing. Someone should really tell the story properly, without all the sensationalist parts. Someone should get the truth out there.”

I smile at Malone, hoping to cheer him up, but he's simply staring into space.

I check my watch again.

Come on, Daryl.

“You didn't fail anyone, you know,” I say finally, figuring that I need to confront the real problem here. “Esmee Waters was a lying, manipulative monster straight out of a horror story. No-one could be expected to figure out what she was doing, not until it was too late. We all like to think that we can understand a monster. But if we can understand them, maybe they were never really a monster to begin with. When it comes to true monsters, we can glimpse parts of their reasoning, but they're too insane for us to ever truly understand. You're a good guy, Malone. How could you ever be expected to guess what Esmee Waters had done?”

“I should have figured it out,” he murmurs. “I tried, but I failed.”

“You can't protect everyone,” I point out. “You have to pick yourself up and get back to work. And that's gonna take time, with those chunks she hacked out of you. Focus on your recovery, and...”

I hesitate, as I realize that I'm the worst person in the world at giving pep talks. Malone's a good guy, and I know he's going to get through this madness and come out stronger on the other side. The people of Ridge Falls don't realize how lucky they are to have him keeping them safe, and I can already tell that – worries aside – he's not about to quit. He's going to keep moving forward.

“So when are you leaving?” he asks.

“Leaving?”

“You've been about to head home for a while now,” he points out. “I'm sure the city's missing you.”

“Well, I...”

For a moment, I'm not quite sure what to say. Ever since the madness last night, I've been feeling as if maybe I could stick around for a little while longer, but now in the cold light of day I'm starting to realize that there's no real reason. My car's fixed, I can hobble around just fine, and there really isn't anything for me here in Ridge Falls. Given all of that, however, I have to admit that I suddenly feel as if leaving would be wrong.

“There's a lot to go through,” Malone says. “I guess I was hoping you might stick around to help out, but it's fine. I've got some people who can get it all done.”

“Actually,” I reply, “I'd be happy to be -”

Before I can finish, my phone starts ringing and I see that Daryl's trying to get through. I briefly consider ignoring the call, but then I remember that I sent him on a little mission, so I get to my feet.

“Hold that thought,” I tell Malone.

“But are you -”

“Just hold it right there,” I add as I limp over to the door. “Trust me.”

Without waiting for him to ask any more questions, I head out into the corridor and then along toward the double-doors at the far end, where Daryl is already waiting. As I get closer, I see that for once he's managed to come through with something, and sure enough he's holding two big bowls of sundae.

“This is quite possibly the weirdest request I've ever had from you,” he says as I reach him. “And you've asked me for a lot over the years.”

“It'd take too long to explain,” I tell him, as I manage to take both bowls in one hand. “Thanks. See you around.”

With that, I turn to go back to Malone's room. I promised to have dessert with him some time, and this feels like as good a moment as ever.

“You can have your old job back,” Daryl says suddenly.

Stopping, I turn back to look at him.

“Culhoun's desperate,” he continues. “He's going to call you later today to make a formal offer. After Rolinda's fall from grace, he's under serious pressure. From what I hear, he's going to offer you everything you could ever want. Full control, editorial independence, freedom to cover whatever stories you want... I mean, that's your dream, right? You've got him over a barrel. So I guess it's not really getting your job back, it's more of a massive promotion.”

I stare at Daryl for a moment, as I try to work out what to say.

“Huh,” I manage finally.

He stares at me.

“Huh?” he says after a few seconds.

“Huh.”

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“It means... I have to think about it.”

“You have to think about it? Are you serious? Maggie, you always talked about a job like this. It could be the biggest break in history. You don't think about offers like this. You take them! You grab them with both hands and you thank the world for helping you out.”

“Sure,” I reply, feeling a little dazed by this news. “Well, I'll definitely think about it.”

“Are you insane?”

“If I want to stay in journalism,” I tell him, “it sounds like a good offer.”

“If you want to stay in...”

His voice trails off, and for a moment his mouth hangs open.

“He's supposed to be calling you any time now,” he says finally, taking a step back. “Take some advice from me, Maggie. Have your answer ready. 'Cause as much as he wants you back onboard, he's not gonna like it if you're uncertain.”

“I'm sure he's not,” I reply. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

He opens his mouth to say something else, but then he sighs, waves me away, and turns to leave.

I watch as he heads out of view, and then for a moment I'm left standing all alone in the corridor. I'm just about managing to balance these two sundaes, but my one-handed grip isn't too secure and I guess I need to get back to Malone's room before I drop everything. For a few seconds, however, I can't help but think about the possibilities. If Calhoun really made me an offer, and if turned out to be anything remotely similar to Dylan's suggestion, and if Calhoun actually kept to his word...

That really would be a chance to go back to work on my old terms.

I pause for a moment, before starting to make my way back to Malone's room. There'll be time to think about job offers if and when Calhoun calls, but for now -

Suddenly I stop as a little boy races across the corridor and hurries in to see Malone, followed almost immediately by a tall, dark-haired woman.

“Daddy!” the boy yells.

Standing completely still, holding the sundaes, I listen to the sound of rushed, anxious voices. Malone's talking to these new arrivals, and finally I realize that they must be his wife and son. I sort of recognized them from the photo that was on Malone's desk.

I hesitate, before stepping forward, and then I stop again as I begin to hear what they're all saying.

“I'm fine,” Malone explains. “It looks worse than it is.”

“They told me you got hacked with an ax,” his wife replies. “Aiden, I was so scared, I came straight down here.”

“There's no reason to -”

“You're moving back in,” she continues. “I'm not taking no for an answer, do you understand? There was a moment this morning, when Charlie called me, when I actually thought...”

She pauses, and it sounds as if she's in tears.

“I thought I'd lost you,” she adds finally. “The whole world just seemed to freeze on its axis. I really thought you were gone, and all I could think about was how stupid everything's been. The thought of losing you, Aiden, was too much. Please, we can work through everything, but you have to come home.”

Taking a step back, I suddenly feel completely stupid. Malone's a married man, with a son, and I'm pretty sure his wife isn't going to be too happy if some random woman wanders in with dessert. What in the name of all that's holy was I thinking?

“Can I help you?” a voice asks, and I turn to see that a nurse has come over from the desk.

“Yes,” I reply, before holding the sundae bowls out to her. “Could you deliver these to my friend in room 901, please? Mr. Malone.”

“Well, he's right there and -”

“I know,” I add, cutting her off as I very carefully force the bowls into her hands, “but something's just come up and I have to run. Don't worry, he'll be very grateful. He's a big fan of ice cream.”

With that, I turn to hurry away.

“Do you want me to give him a message?” the nurse calls after me.

“Tell him his friend said goodbye,” I reply. “Tell him good luck, and maybe I'll see him around some day!”

Making my way out of the ward, I start walking toward the elevators. I don't know why, but my heart is racing and I feel as if my head is spinning. Sure, I might have a mild concussion, but I think I'll risk that and take a slow drive home. After all, I've done what I set out to do here at Ridge Falls, and there's really no reason to stay. As an added bonus, it looks like Aiden Malone's life is going to get back to normal, and I don't want to interrupt the happy reunion with his wife and son.

As I reach the elevators and hit the button, I feel my phone starting to vibrate. Pulling it out, I see that Culhoun's trying to reach me. For a moment, I consider just rejecting the call, but then I realize that I need to give him an answer, one way or the other. I finally need to make a decision.

“Hey,” I say as I accept the call and put the phone next to my mouth. “Maggie Carter. Sorry, new phone. Who's this?”

BOOKS BY AMY CROSS

1. Dark Season: The Complete First Series (2011)
2. Werewolves of Soho (Lupine Howl book 1) (2012)
3. Werewolves of the Other London (Lupine Howl book 2) (2012)
4. Ghosts: The Complete Series (2012)
5. Dark Season: The Complete Second Series (2012)
6. The Children of Black Annis (Lupine Howl book 3) (2012)
7. Destiny of the Last Wolf (Lupine Howl book 4) (2012)
8. Asylum (The Asylum Trilogy book 1) (2012)
9. Dark Season: The Complete Third Series (2013)
10. Devil's Briar (2013)
11. Broken Blue (The Broken Trilogy book 1) (2013)
12. The Night Girl (2013)
13. Days 1 to 4 (Mass Extinction Event book 1) (2013)
14. Days 5 to 8 (Mass Extinction Event book 2) (2013)
15. The Library (The Library Chronicles book 1) (2013)
16. American Coven (2013)
17. Werewolves of Sangreth (Lupine Howl book 5) (2013)
18. Broken White (The Broken Trilogy book 2) (2013)
19. Grave Girl (Grave Girl book 1) (2013)
20. Other People's Bodies (2013)
21. The Shades (2013)
22. The Vampire's Grave and Other Stories (2013)
23. Darper Danver: The Complete First Series (2013)
24. The Hollow Church (2013)
25. The Dead and the Dying (2013)
26. Days 9 to 16 (Mass Extinction Event book 3) (2013)
27. The Girl Who Never Came Back (2013)
28. Ward Z (The Ward Z Series book 1) (2013)
29. Journey to the Library (The Library Chronicles book 2) (2014)
30. The Vampires of Tor Cliff Asylum (2014)
31. The Family Man (2014)
32. The Devil's Blade (2014)
33. The Immortal Wolf (Lupine Howl book 6) (2014)
34. The Dying Streets (Detective Laura Foster book 1) (2014)
35. The Stars My Home (2014)
36. The Ghost in the Rain and Other Stories (2014)
37. Ghosts of the River Thames (The Robinson Chronicles book 1) (2014)
38. The Wolves of Cur'eath (2014)
39. Days 46 to 53 (Mass Extinction Event book 4) (2014)
40. The Man Who Saw the Face of the World (2014)
41. The Art of Dying (Detective Laura Foster book 2) (2014)
42. Raven Revivals (Grave Girl book 2) (2014)
43. Arrival on Thaxos (Dead Souls book 1) (2014)
44. Birthright (Dead Souls book 2) (2014)
45. A Man of Ghosts (Dead Souls book 3) (2014)
46. The Haunting of Hardstone Jail (2014)
47. A Very Respectable Woman (2015)

48. Better the Devil (2015)
49. The Haunting of Marshall Heights (2015)
50. Terror at Camp Everbee (The Ward Z Series book 2) (2015)
51. Guided by Evil (Dead Souls book 4) (2015)
52. Child of a Bloodied Hand (Dead Souls book 5) (2015)
53. Promises of the Dead (Dead Souls book 6) (2015)
54. Days 54 to 61 (Mass Extinction Event book 5) (2015)
55. Angels in the Machine (The Robinson Chronicles book 2) (2015)
56. The Curse of Ah-Qal's Tomb (2015)
57. Broken Red (The Broken Trilogy book 3) (2015)
58. The Farm (2015)
59. Fallen Heroes (Detective Laura Foster book 3) (2015)
60. The Haunting of Emily Stone (2015)
61. Cursed Across Time (Dead Souls book 7) (2015)
62. Destiny of the Dead (Dead Souls book 8) (2015)
63. The Death of Jennifer Kazakos (Dead Souls book 9) (2015)
64. Alice Isn't Well (Death Herself book 1) (2015)
65. Annie's Room (2015)
66. The House on Everley Street (Death Herself book 2) (2015)
67. Meds (The Asylum Trilogy book 2) (2015)
68. Take Me to Church (2015)
69. Ascension (Demon's Grail book 1) (2015)
70. The Priest Hole (Nykolas Freeman book 1) (2015)
71. Eli's Town (2015)
72. The Horror of Raven's Briar Orphanage (Dead Souls book 10) (2015)
73. The Witch of Thaxos (Dead Souls book 11) (2015)
74. The Rise of Ashalla (Dead Souls book 12) (2015)
75. Evolution (Demon's Grail book 2) (2015)
76. The Island (The Island book 1) (2015)
77. The Lighthouse (2015)
78. The Cabin (The Cabin Trilogy book 1) (2015)
79. At the Edge of the Forest (2015)
80. The Devil's Hand (2015)
81. The 13th Demon (Demon's Grail book 3) (2016)
82. After the Cabin (The Cabin Trilogy book 2) (2016)
83. The Border: The Complete Series (2016)
84. The Dead Ones (Death Herself book 3) (2016)
85. A House in London (2016)
86. Persona (The Island book 2) (2016)
87. Battlefield (Nykolas Freeman book 2) (2016)
88. Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories (2016)
89. The Ghost of Shapley Hall (2016)
90. The Blood House (2016)
91. The Death of Addie Gray (2016)
92. The Girl With Crooked Fangs (2016)
93. Last Wrong Turn (2016)
94. The Body at Auercliff (2016)
95. The Printer From Hell (2016)
96. The Dog (2016)
97. The Nurse (2016)
98. The Haunting of Blackwych Grange (2016)
99. Twisted Little Things and Other Stories (2016)
100. The Horror of Devil's Root Lake (2016)
101. The Disappearance of Katie Wren (2016)
102. B&B (2016)
103. The Bride of Ashbyrn House (2016)
104. The Devil, the Witch and the Whore (The Deal Trilogy book 1) (2016)
105. The Ghosts of Lakeforth Hotel (2016)
106. The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories (2016)
107. Laura (2017)
108. The Murder at Skellin Cottage (Jo Mason book 1) (2017)
109. The Curse of Wetherley House (2017)
110. The Ghosts of Hexley Airport (2017)
111. The Return of Rachel Stone (Jo Mason book 2) (2017)
112. Haunted (2017)
113. The Vampire of Downing Street and Other Stories (2017)
114. The Ash House (2017)
115. The Ghost of Molly Holt (2017)
116. The Camera Man (2017)
117. The Soul Auction (2017)
118. The Abyss (The Island book 3) (2017)
119. Broken Window (The House of Jack the Ripper book 1) (2017)
120. In Darkness Dwell (The House of Jack the Ripper book 2) (2017)
121. Cradle to Grave (The House of Jack the Ripper book 3) (2017)
122. The Lady Screams (The House of Jack the Ripper book 4) (2017)
123. A Beast Well Tamed (The House of Jack the Ripper book 5) (2017)
124. Doctor Charles Grazier (The House of Jack the Ripper book 6) (2017)
125. The Raven Watcher (The House of Jack the Ripper book 7) (2017)
126. The Final Act (The House of Jack the Ripper book 8) (2017)
127. Stephen (2017)
128. The Spider (2017)
129. The Mermaid's Revenge (2017)
130. The Girl Who Threw Rocks at the Devil (2018)
131. Friend From the Internet (2018)
132. Beautiful Familiar (2018)
133. One Night at a Soul Auction (2018)
134. 16 Frames of the Devil's Face (2018)
135. The Haunting of Caldgrave House (2018)
136. Like Stones on a Crow's Back (The Deal Trilogy book 2) (2018)
137. Room 9 and Other Stories (2018)
138. The Gravest Girl of All (Grave Girl book 3) (2018)
139. Return to Thaxos (Dead Souls book 13) (2018)
140. The Madness of Annie Radford (The Asylum Trilogy book 3) (2018)
141. The Haunting of Briarwych Church (Briarwych book 1) (2018)
142. I Just Want You To Be Happy (2018)
143. Day 100 (Mass Extinction Event book 6) (2018)
144. The Horror of Briarwych Church (Briarwych book 2) (2018)
145. The Ghost of Briarwych Church (Briarwych book 3) (2018)
146. Lights Out (2019)
147. Apocalypse (The Ward Z Series book 3) (2019)
148. Days 101 to 108 (Mass Extinction Event book 7) (2019)
149. The Haunting of Daniel Bayliss (2019)
150. The Purchase (2019)
151. Harper's Hotel Ghost Girl (Death Herself book 4) (2019)
152. The Haunting of Aldburn House (2019)
153. Days 109 to 116 (Mass Extinction Event book 8) (2019)

Table of Contents

- Table of Contents
- Bad News
- Prologue
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Epilogue
- BOOKS BY AMY CROSS