Once I step into the room in the basement with Duane, all breath leaves me. The gray walls are hidden behind massive whiteboards littered with photos and notes in black marker. I count twelve boards in all, and they are grouped in various sets.
This must be his case about the serial killer—whom I now assume he knows full well is a demon.
I move closer to the first one. Some pictures show a horrible car accident. Other photos are happy snapshots of a family—who I assume were the accident victims. Most of the photos, though, are of one victim, a teenage girl. She was a pretty brunette with light green eyes. From the snapshots, I see she played the violin, went to science fairs, and ran track.
“That’s Melany Zimmerman,” Duane says. “She died in a motor-vehicle accident near Seattle, Washington. Her family’s car was struck by a minivan in January, resulting in the death of four people.”
I’m immediately confused. Car accidents aren’t linked to serial killers.
He moves to the next board. The photos cause my stomach to flip. There’s a burned-down building, and many bodies are charred. The snapshots again focus on one subject: a green-eyed brunette who was into lacrosse, played drums, and had awards for creative writing.
“This is Krystle Abermann. She died in a fire at Seattle Grace Hospital along with eighty-two other people. That occurred in March.”
Two accidents, both in Seattle, but this one had a massive death toll.
He moves to the third board. My stomach tightens further at more pictures of fire victims. Again, one person has the most snapshots—a green-eyed, brunette female active in sports, music, and academics.
It’s obvious these girls are the killer’s preferred target, though many other people die along with them.
“This is Kali Fredrickson,” Duane says, interrupting my thoughts. “She and eight other victims died in a fire at a Georgia foster home in May.”
“Georgia?” I ask as a flag goes up in my mind. Serial killers tend to be creatures of habit. Almost all of them follow some pattern, whether it’s weapon, kill zone, dumping ground, whatever. This guy kills by both car accidents and fires, doesn’t seem to care how many innocent victims die along with the target, and now he’s jumping states. Aside from the pattern of the main victims, it doesn’t even seem like the same killer.
“Now you see what I’m up against.”
He shuffles to the next set of three, which looks nearly identical to the previous set. Maybe there is a pattern after all.
“This is Jamie Miller. Her family’s vehicle was involved in a ten-car pileup in Arkansas. A total of twenty-nine people died on the scene.”
My head is a whirl, trying to sort out the connections.
I follow him to the fifth board, suppressing the urge to either cry or puke.
“This is Linsey Cooper. Her home in Oklahoma caught fire during a party, claiming the lives of sixteen people. That was July.”
A tear slides down my cheek as we move to the sixth board. So many people suffered at the hands of this monster.
“This is Brandy Kline. She and her boyfriend were killed in Louisiana in September when their bonfire somehow got out of control.”
My feet feel heavy as we move to the seventh board, which is in the last set of two. This board is different. There are snapshots of only one person.
“This is Heather Waters. She was involved in a hit-and-run in Texas last week. She’s what led to us making the connections. A deputy working the case noticed how similar she was to his deceased niece, Linsey Cooper from Oklahoma. He searched for other victims matching them, found all these cases, then called us.
“The car crashes had been previously written off as accidents. And the fires had been ruled as arson, even though the investigators couldn’t pinpoint the source or the person or persons responsible. Those methods are atypical of serial killers. They’re too impersonal. If not for Deputy Cooper, we never would have made the connection.”
I take a moment to calm down enough to talk. This case, these boards—this is different than the files he’s shown me over the years. Seeing everything displayed like this . . . it’s realer. I can almost hear their screams.
He moves to the next board. The moment I see the first photo, I close my eyes and turn away. My knees are instantly weak, and I struggle to stand as he says what I already know.
“This is Lauren Atwood. She died in a fire this afternoon at her father’s campaign rally.”
I know. I was inside her when she died.
My knees give, and I crumble to the floor. Lauren, like all the others, was a green-eyed, brunette teenager.
My body trembles, and thunder rumbles outside. Immediately I realize I need to get a grip on my reactions, or MJ will hear the thunder and rush down here. I need to know more.
It takes several deep breaths to calm my nerves enough to silence the sky and several more to stop the shaking. When I open my eyes again, Duane’s kneeling before me. He doesn’t say a word. His sharp brown eyes watch me.
I look past him, over his shoulder to the south-facing wall. There are four more boards. Those boards have snapshots and surveillance-type photos but no sickening crime scene images. Maybe they are potential targets.
“Have you noticed the killer’s pattern yet?” Duane asks. “Car crash. Fire. Fire. Car crash. Fire. Fire. Car crash. Fire.” He points to board nine. “The next victim will undoubtedly die by fire.”
My body convulses and my calves burn, remembering Lauren’s death.
I scan these final four boards; the last causes another jolt of pain to rush through me. It’s Amber.
Only three girls now sit between Amber and a demon.
“What else aren’t you telling me about this demon?” I ask, my voice quietly escaping my mouth.
“You’re a smart girl, Madison.” He nods. “It is a demon. MJ must have told you that’s why he’s in town to protect Amber.”
Now I understand: Duane warned MJ to stay away from me because the demon coming for Amber might mix us up and kill me by mistake.
My insides are being squeezed by fear. It’s hard to breathe. MJ knows the demon has killed all these girls—plus countless other people in the wake. How could he keep so much from me?
“Each of these girls was born on the same day,” Duane says in my silence. “Do you want to guess what day?”
I shrug—but my breath races.
“They all turn seventeen on Halloween.” Still kneeling in front of me, he leans in closer. “But their records aren’t very accurate, so it’s hard to be sure if the date is correct. That tends to be the case with adoptions.”
I look at the photos again. Their faces morph into mine with our identical features. And we’re all adopted. We have the same birthdate. The same talents. It’s as if we were the same person.
I could be girl number thirteen.
Then I remember what Amber said in the office Tuesday about her parents.
I barely recognize my voice as I ask, “What happened to their birth parents?”
He lets out a long exhale. “The birth parents of all twelve girls died the day the girls were born.”
My heart stutters. If all their parents are dead, are mine too?
“Do you know”—I pause, taking a breath—“about my birth parents?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s staring down at me with pain in his eyes.
He knows.
“Please, tell me.”
He crouches down, placing a hand on my shoulder. His essence rushes in, trying to comfort me. But how can it? His touch is that of a stranger.
“I will tell you. But I must warn you—it will be difficult to hear.”
My insides quiver. With everything he’s ever told me, he’s never offered a caution before. Not even before showing me the most graphic crime photos.
It must mean my birth parents met some tragic end. I don’t want to know that. I’d rather imagine they were happy somewhere, living a great life—even if it were without me. But still, I have to know. Their death will be the first and only thing I know about them.
I take a moment to silence my emotions and prepare myself. Once everything calms, I meet his gaze and nod.
He stands, taking his essence with him, then moves to stand beside the first board belonging to Melany Zimmerman.
Duane looks at me carefully. “Did MJ tell you why the demon is targeting these specific girls?” He says it slowly, gauging my response.
I barely register my head shaking in reply.
“Perhaps that means he just didn’t want to scare you,” he says. “But hopefully, it means MJ—and everyone in Immortal City—hasn’t made the connection.”
“I don’t want to know about a connection. Or MJ’s case. I want to know about my birth parents.”
“Just listen, Maddy. Seventeen years ago, on Halloween, there was a report of a motor-vehicle accident where a woman lost control of her minivan on Mount Rainier and crashed into the side of a jeep. Sound familiar?”
He taps Melany’s photo, hinting at the connection.
My throat tightens, already nervous about where he’s going with this.
“Both vehicles burst into flames. By the time rescue workers arrived, there was nothing left but charred remains. The driver of the minivan was identified, but the other wasn’t. Next to the scene, the police found a newborn baby girl. She was somehow born shortly after the accident, before the woman driving the jeep died and before anyone came across the accident. The mother was still in the vehicle, though. No one could figure out how the baby was beside the wreckage. The baby was taken to Seattle Grace and surprisingly found to be in perfect condition. Seattle Grace is the same hospital Krystle died in this year,” he says as he moves to Krystle’s photo.
I try to swallow but can’t.
“The day after the baby arrived, a fire started in the hospital nursery. It claimed the lives of thirty people, including an unknown baby girl. That was November first. November third, you showed up on Marie and Dean’s doorstep in Georgia. They called the police and child services. The police searched multiple databases for any missing baby reports, but they came up empty. After a quick stay at the hospital, you were placed in a foster home.”
The dots are starting to connect, but I don’t want them to. I want him to stop talking.
He moves on to Kali’s photos. “The foster home caught fire November twenty-first, the day Dean and Marie adopted you. Thirteen people perished—four ladies who ran it, and the remaining nine were children. According to the police report, one of the deceased was a three-week-old baby girl. The house was rebuilt, but it caught fire again this year, killing Kali and eight others.”
He waits for me.
My fingers rub on my jeans, wiping away the sweat. Then I let out a breath.
“I’m the baby, aren’t I?”
He frowns. His brown eyes fill with despair.
I know what he’s going to say.
I should have died in the fire at the foster home.
I should have died in the fire at the hospital.
I should have died in the car crash—either before or after I was born.
Born . . .
I sob into my shoulder as it suddenly hits me. My birth mother is dead. She was the unknown driver of the jeep.
“I’m sorry, Maddy.”
Pain tears through my heart, shredding it to pieces. A loud moan comes from outside, as if the wind is grieving the loss too.
“What about my father?”
“He is dead too, though I don’t know the specifics.”
My nails dig into my palms as I tighten my fists. I try to focus on the physical pain to block out all emotions.
“The others in my group found you,” he softly says, “and together we’ve kept you hidden from the world.”
The room blurs as tears well up. “Why? Why did you do all this for me and not them? I’m just girl thirteen.”
Duane looks at me with an intensity I’ve never seen.
“You are not ‘girl thirteen.’ The demon is hunting you, Maddy. You are the real target.”
I clamp my eyes shut and lean my head into my shoulder, trying not to make a sound. Trying to keep it together so MJ won’t rush down here. I push it all someplace far and deep—but there’s just so much. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it back.
He places a hand on my shoulder, sending his essence into me again. I stare at his hand. He could have walked away in the beginning—gone on living as he had. Instead he changed his whole life, just to keep me safe.
He lets go, taking his essence with him, and moves back to the boards lining the wall. “We moved you around a lot in the beginning as a precaution.”
I grimace, thinking about everything he and these “others” have done and everything my family has endured—for me.
He continues down the line, stopping at each photo. “You lived in Georgia, then Arkansas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Texas, Colorado.” He points to girls three through eight. “Then Illinois, Wisconsin, Nebraska,” he continues, pointing to the three girls between Lauren and Amber. “The girls lived in your old houses.”
“How is that possible?” I ask. “How could an adopted girl who looks exactly like me, with the same exact birthday and talents, just happen to live in each of my old houses?”
Duane doesn’t blink. “Sacrifices had to be made to protect you.”
Sacrifices . . .
I don’t blink either, but it’s because I’m too shocked. “Are you saying you put them in my old homes knowing it would get them killed?”
He crouches in front of me again. “I knew it was a possibility, yes. I didn’t like it, but the others assured me it was necessary to keep you safe. And now that the demon is hunting you, I agree with them.”
I lean away from him. “How could you say that? How could you even think that?”
“We needed decoys to give us time to hide you from the demon. I have a feeling that if he kills all twelve girls and realizes none of them are you, he will rip apart the earth looking for you. And in turn, we would rip apart the earth to keep you safe.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “This is crazy.”
“So is a girl who restores emotions in the dead and whose emotions affect the weather.”
My jaw drops. “You know about that too?”
“Maddy, Georgia nearly flooded the few weeks you lived there. Of course I noticed. I made sure no one else did, though.”
“So even as a baby, I was a freak.”
“You’re not a freak, Maddy. You’re gifted. Powerful. And I believe that’s why the demon wants you.”
Thunder rumbles again. The walls vibrate from the force. I try to contain my emotions, but the battle . . . it’s too much. I stare at the bedroom doorway, waiting for MJ to race through it. He doesn’t. Where is he?
My abilities—the abilities I never wanted—are a curse.
I raise my eyes, trying to stop my tears, but all I see are their faces—the faces of the girls dying for me. The bodies.
I close my eyes. The darkness—I see it. I see the car crash that killed my mother. Was that even an “accident”? Was her death my fault?
I begin to stand, shaking from the pressure building inside me. My head turns from side to side, looking for escape as if I were a caged animal.
“Where are you going, Maddy?”
“I—can’t—be—here,” I say through my pain and guilt.
“I can take you someplace else.” He reaches for me.
I twitch, not wanting him to touch me. I don’t want to feel his essence. I don’t want to be reminded of his lies.
Only one thing can help me now. MJ. His arms are exactly where I want to be. I need to tell him everything.
I take a step to leave the room.
Duane moves in front of me, blocking me. He knows exactly where I’m headed and why.
“If you won’t let me help you, fine. But MJ can’t either.”
“Yes, he can.” I look for a way around him.
“No, he can’t, Maddy. Listen. Everything we’ve done, everything they’ve sacrificed”—he points to the boards—“has been to keep you a secret. Keep you safe.”
“I didn’t ask you to do this. I don’t want you to.”
“This was set in motion the day you were found. When Dean and Marie adopted you, one of the ‘others’ I mentioned earlier posed as the case worker. He gave them a social security card and birth certificate for you. They’re listed as your parents. He led them to believe that was all they would ever need. You were theirs, and no mortals would ever question it. In case any supernatural beings were to ever question it, he erased your parents’ memories of adopting you, only allowing them to discuss it with you when no one else was around. He of course never filed any adoption paperwork with the government. As far as the government knows, you are not adopted. That’s why you’re not on the FBI’s list as a potential target.”
My head spins. The only reason the demon—and MJ—doesn’t know who I am is because some supernatural being didn’t file my adoption paperwork.
Duane’s eyes bore into me. “Under no circumstances are you to tell MJ, or anyone else, you’re adopted.”
“I can’t lie to him. It’s his case. He needs to know. It can help him save the remaining gi—”
“You tell him, and it’s over,” Duane says with finality. “The demon will find you and kill you. Is that what you want?”
I hug myself. All I want is MJ. My feet shift.
“Plans are being made to get you out of here,” Duane says. “That’s why I’m really here, to keep you safe while the others finish preparing. It could be a day or a month—I’m not sure. But know this: if you tell anyone you’re adopted or even hint at it, I will pull you out of here right then. You will never see your adoptive family—or MJ—again.”
My eyes are wide.
“It’s not a threat, Maddy,” he says. “It’s a promise because you must be protected.” He sighs and moves to the side.
I take off.
I run from that room.
I run from him.
I run from the hundreds of innocent people dying for me.
I bound up the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the garage door in one flash. I come face to face with MJ. And when I see that tender way he looks at me—when I see the love I don’t deserve—I run from him too.
Duane’s right. MJ can never know the truth. If he knew that monster was killing everyone for me, he’d never forgive me.