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Instead, I look at Mercer's photograph again.

Ten minutes ago, the thought of Callie following me was funny.

Now there's a man in Hollow Creek who would use her without hesitation if she saw something she shouldn't.

My grip tightens around the phone.

The game just changed.

31

ROMAN

The first thing I learn about Gavin Mercer is that he’s boring.

For a man who's supposedly responsible for at least six deaths, he has the daily routine of a middle-aged accountant. Coffee and the newspaper with breakfast.

Then nothing.

For almost three fucking hours, I sit behind the wheel of my truck and watch the small rental house across the street.

Mercer's car hasn't moved.

There's been no delivery. No visitors. No reason for me to believe he's even awake.

But he is.

Men like Mercer don't sleep until noon in unfamiliar towns. They don't leave curtains open. They don't order breakfast to the front door. And they sure as hell don't make themselves easy to watch.

My phone vibrates in the cupholder. I ignore it and keep my attention on the house.

A woman walks a golden retriever past the driveway.

Mercer doesn't appear.

A delivery truck stops two houses down.

Nothing.

A black SUV turns onto the street, slows, then continues.

Nothing.

My phone vibrates again.

I glance at it.

Chaos: Good morning, James.

I look away.

Thirty seconds later, it buzzes again.

Chaos: I know you saw that.

My mouth twitches.

I don't touch the phone.