The party was alive, but Mason couldn’t focus. The balloons and streamers, party poppers, and playing kids were a solid distraction, but it was no use. Even the sudden flux of MJ’s young friends and their parents, who filled up the backyard with enough noise to wake a coma victim, couldn’t keep him from his dark, cynical thoughts.
“Can you keep an eye on them for a moment?” Mason asked one of the parents.
“Sure.”
Mason thanked her and tapped Diane on the shoulder. She had been so distracted by the fun their young son was having, she jumped the second she was touched. She spun around and placed her hand on her chest, smiling at the foolishness of her own reaction.
But she would soon learn just how apt a reaction it was.
They went inside. Mason went to the office and took the Lullaby Killer’s letter from his desk drawer and brought it back to her. He handed it over, let her read it, and watched the blood drain from her face. When she finally gaped up at him, Mason took the time to explain that he’d received it a while ago. Her reaction was less than calm.
“And you’re just telling me this now?”
“I had no choice. It could have been a hoax.”
“And it could have been real. I could have watched my back. And MJ’s.”
She was right. Mason couldn’t deny that, but it was too late now. He stared out of the kitchen window, grateful his son had reached his sixth birthday. All seemed fine in his life right now, but with Wendell back on the streets, he couldn’t help feeling like his ideal little situation was temporary at best. After losing Amy, he was more aware than ever that everything could be torn away from him with the simple flick of a knife.
“Is it real?” Diane asked.
“I think so.”
“Are we in danger?”
Mason shrugged and sighed. “Hopefully not, but we can’t be too careful. Bill and I have been looking into it, and we’ve been pretty aggressive.” He turned back to her, staring into her big, almond eyes as they searched for safety in his expression. He took her hand. “Whatever happens, I’m going to do my best to—”
The doorbell rang. Diane jumped again. Mason sent her back outside and headed for the door. Every instinct in his body prepared him for the worst. Was it an overreaction? Maybe, but they couldn’t be too careful. Not right now.
Mason pulled open the front door. There was no killer in front of him, but it was no pleasant sight, either. The woman stood on the doorstep, her gaunt face sheet white behind her too-big glasses. She clutched a laptop toward her chest with one hand and held a gift-wrapped package to her hip with the other.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
Mason let Evie in. Talking was all they could do.
For now.