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James stared at the message, his brain trying to untangle the riddle and the string of nonsense beneath it. His mind jumped to images of a clock, but that was as far as he got before rationale kicked in. This letter hadn’t been here twenty minutes before, so someone had slipped it underneath his front door recently – and what kind of person delivered mail at this time of night?
Despite the vagueness, James instinctively knew that this message was a threat.
James scrunched the message up and discarded it, the act affording him an unexpected surge of adrenaline. He edged back towards the front door, heart sunken to his gut. He tightened his grip on his knife and then gripped the door handle, primal instincts taking over. The usual calmness of his suburban neighborhood now seemed like a façade, hiding unknown dangers in the shadows.
He peered through the peephole, but the porch light cast more shadows than illumination. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, James slowly unlocked the door, the metallic clicks sounding unnaturally loud. He opened the door just enough to peek outside. The cool night air hit his face, a stark contrast to the stuffiness of his kitchen.
His eyes darted from one side to the other, scanning the front lawn and the street beyond. There was no sign of anyone, but the feeling of being watched persisted.
‘Who's there?’ James shouted. ‘Show yourself!’
There was no response, only the echoing of his own voice in the empty street. James's heart raced as he scanned the area. Every shadow, every slight movement in the periphery of his vision, sent a jolt of electricity from head to toe. Perhaps being out here on the lawn – in an area where his neighbors could glimpse him from their windows – gave him an advantage. Surely, no one would risk attacking him in such a public space.
Leaves rustled at his feet. Wet grass moistened his soles. James scanned for lights in neighboring windows and saw none. Even out here, he felt isolated, trapped in a world of his own making. Images of the people he'd tormented in high school flashed through his mind. Faces he remembered but names he didn’t. Guilt mixed with fear, creating a toxic cocktail that clouded his thoughts. James felt on the verge of a panic attack, as though the sky was about to descend and crush him to dust.
Suddenly, a twig snapped, sending James’ heart rate into overdrive. He whirled around, knife at the ready, but the energy drained from him before he could even raise his weapon. In that split second, as James turned, his past, his fears, and his present reality collided.
A vice-like grip encircled his neck from behind. Panic surged through him, his breath caught in his throat, the cold steel of the knife useless in his trembling hand. As James struggled for air, his eyes met those of his attacker, and the recognition was immediate.
The weird kid.
The puzzle boy.
In the seconds before the world blacked out, James remembered everything.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ella checked the clock in her office. Ten PM. It only felt like five minutes ago she was interrogating Lucas Trent, but time seemed to move faster when the countdown to death was on. As of yet, they could neither confirm nor deny Lucas Trent’s involvement in the murders, which meant they needed to continue searching for further suspects should Lucas turn out to be innocent.
‘Just ignore Carter’s demands for now,’ Ripley said from across the table.
The director, Randall Carter, had gotten wind of her and Ripley’s altercation in the Iron Horse bar, and such a thing was apparently out of order during a homicide investigation. Apparently, Carter was keeping tabs on them from afar, and that didn’t vibe well with Ella’s investigative discipline.
‘You don’t think he’ll go nuclear on us?’ she asked.
‘No. If you set a precedent, he’ll expect it every time. Keep on doing what we’re doing. He needs to know that we don’t have time to document every little movement we make, especially when there’s a chance a body will show up before morning.’
Ella agreed. The bureaucratic tangles of agency politics were a distraction they couldn't afford. They needed to stay focused, to follow their instincts and expertise. This wasn't just about solving a case; it was about saving lives. And given that Lucas Trent was refusing to give up names of any potential victims, the hard work rested on Ella and Ripley’s shoulders.
Ella turned her attention back to the social media page on her computer screen. Images of smiling faces, groups of friends, and shared moments from years past stared back at her. Each person in these photos was a potential target, a possible next victim in this twisted game the killer was playing.
The dilemma she faced was clear: Should she attempt to track down and warn every person in these photos? It was a daunting task, not only in terms of the sheer number of people but also the risk of causing panic or, worse, tipping off the killer. Warning everyone could potentially push the killer to act more unpredictably or hastily, increasing the danger for potential victims.
Likewise, could she run every single name of the group’s members through the police database, isolate the ones with criminal records and see if they matched the profile of their unsub?
Both were time-consuming, both were backward methods of approaching the investigation. However, there’d been no progress from the forensics teams. No fingerprints or DNA evidence at any of the crime scenes. Right now, the chief’s team were still tracking down CCTV footage from peripheral areas to each scene, as well as checking footage from the motel Lucas had been staying in.
‘We need to narrow down our list of potential targets,’ she said to Ripley, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. ‘Let's focus on individuals who had the closest connections with the victims or shared similar patterns in their interactions. We can't warn everyone, but we can prioritize those most at risk based on their relationships to Demi, Mark, and Miles.’
‘What about the geographical zone?’ Ripley asked.
‘The crime scenes are across a four-mile radius. Something else we have to consider is that, if our killer is targeting this specific clique, what happens if one of them has moved away?’
Ripley tapped her pen between her teeth. ‘Our unsub might be motivated by rage, and chances are that rage has been reignited by seeing these people in the flesh. He’s most likely seen Demi, Mark and Miles many times before he killed them. I’d bet good money that it’s the visual indicator that triggered him. If one of the clique no longer lives around here, he’s probably been able to mentally distance himself from them.’
Ella listened intently. Even now, Ripley still taught her things about the psychopathic brain that she didn’t know. ‘So, they’re safe?’
‘Yeah. Plus, traveling miles to kill someone is a much bigger risk than killing someone on your doorstep. CCTV, freeway cameras, eyewitnesses. Our unsub wouldn’t risk that.’
