It was late when Jo finally made it back home. No one was up, but her family had left the living room light on for her. Lucy’s schoolwork was spread out on the coffee table, with a half-empty glass of milk and a bowl of Goldfish cracker crumbs serving as paperweights. The handmade throw Jo had purchased from a boutique in Brooklyn had literally been tied in a knot, and the giant television was paused on a scene from Bob’s Burgers. Jo had no trouble reconstructing the evening’s events. At some point well past nine, Art had yelled down to Lucy that she should have been asleep a long time ago. Lucy ignored him until he made an angry appearance at the top of the stairs. Threats were issued, but never seen through. Teeth may have been brushed—though probably not. Lucy definitely pouted and asked when Mom would be back. Art would have kissed her forehead and said he didn’t know. You’ll see Mom in the morning, he’d have told their daughter, as if there were nothing more certain. As if mothers and daughters always came home.
Jo rode a wave of panic all the way up the stairs. She rushed past the dimly lit room where her husband was snoring and threw open the door at the end of the hall. A girl in striped pajamas lay curled up on the mattress, the bedsheets and blankets all kicked to the floor. Awake, Lucy played the role of a miniature adult. She sassed her mother and cursed like a sailor when her father wasn’t around. Only when Lucy was sleeping could Jo see how small she still was—and how easy it would be for someone to hurt her.
Jo lay down beside her daughter and pulled Lucy into her arms. Their world always seemed so safe and predictable. But the truth was, they’d just gotten lucky so far. Jo cried for Mandy Welsh and the mother who hadn’t been able to protect her. And though she didn’t often pray, Jo begged any god that might be listening to grant her the power to keep her own child safe.
She woke the next morning with her arms still wrapped around Lucy. The covers had been lovingly tucked around both of them, and she could smell oatmeal cooking. Jo peeked in the bathroom mirror and rubbed away the mascara smudges under her eyes before heading downstairs.
Art was at the stove, stirring frozen blueberries into a pot of bubbling oatmeal. She didn’t interrupt him. She wanted to watch. There was something so comforting about seeing him there in his bare feet and boxers, his hair still sleep-tousled and a streak of blueberry juice on his shirt. But she’d barely come to a stop when Art turned straight toward her, as if he’d felt her presence. “You going to be okay?” he asked.
“I don’t have a choice,” she said.
“Why don’t you take the day off?” he suggested.
“I’m not going to the gym today.”
“Really?” He sounded surprised. “I mean, great. I think that’s wise. We can do something nice, just the two of us. Maybe. . .” His words trailed off when he noticed Jo’s pained expression.
“I need to find out who murdered that girl.”
Art closed his eyes and shook his head as if he should have known it was too good to be true. “Jo, the police—”
“No one’s going to stop them from doing their thing,” Jo said. “I’ll just do mine, too.”
“But why?” Art asked. “Why do you have to do anything?”
“Because I saw a girl’s body rotting inside of a trash bag. And I swear to God, Art, I will never get that picture out of my head. I hope someone would do the same thing for me if it was my daughter who’d been killed.”
“Our daughter,” Art corrected her as he always did. She braced herself for the argument to come, but her husband simply nodded. “Okay. I get it.”
“You don’t think I’m crazy? You won’t try to stop me?”
Art’s smile seemed hopeless. “Would you let me?”
Jo closed the gap between them and wrapped her arms around him. “Nope,” she said with her head on his chest.
“For the record, I do think you’re nuts,” Art said as he planted a kiss in her hair. “But that’s always been part of your charm. Just promise me you won’t get yourself hurt.”
“I’ll try. Right now I’m going to go out for a run. Gotta stay fit if I’m going to fight all the bad guys. I’ll be back in time to take Lucy to school.”
Jo jogged down Danskammer Beach Road, expecting to find it deserted as usual. She knew she wouldn’t encounter the spirits Nessa had seen, but she wanted Mandy and the other girls to know she was there. They would not be forgotten. She hadn’t told Art exactly where she was headed, of course. He would have warned her against it, and he’d have had a good point. Whoever had murdered the girl and dumped her body in the scrub might return for a visit. A woman running along an empty highway in the early morning would make an irresistible target. The killer could be lurking out there right now, waiting for another victim to wander into his trap. Jo hoped so. She fantasized about what she would do to the asshole if she found him—and wondered if she’d grown powerful enough to rip him limb from limb.
A truck sped past with two men in the cab. It swerved to the center of the road to avoid her, but didn’t slow. Another car drove by a minute later, ferrying a group of young women with their windows rolled down. More vehicles followed, one after another, all headed away from town. Jo couldn’t imagine where they all might be going. Even on summer weekends, Danskammer Beach didn’t attract many swimmers or sunbathers. The road was out of the way for anyone not bound for the Pointe.
Then a gleam in the distance caught her eye. As she drew closer, she could make out the hood of a car with the morning sun bouncing off it. The vehicles that had passed her were there, too, parked along both sides of the road. People milled about at the edge of the scrubland. Jo picked up speed, her feet slamming against the pavement. Another body must have been found. She sprinted toward a middle-aged couple standing with their backs to the ocean. She’d almost reached them when she saw the man lift a phone and smile. It was too late to stop. She arrived just as the selfie was snapped. The two of them greeted her with startled expressions.
“What’s going on?” Jo panted.
“They found a body here yesterday,” the woman explained, looking over her husband’s shoulder as he inspected the photo they’d taken.
“Let’s try it one more time,” he said, putting his arm around his wife and holding the phone aloft once again.
“Why are you taking photos?”
“Friend of mine’s an EMT.” The woman kept the smile on her face and her eyes on the camera. “Said it looked like the work of a serial killer. This beach is going to be famous.”
“For God’s sake, stop talking,” her husband ordered.
Jo left them to their photo shoot and wove her way through the others who’d gathered to gawk. A few hearty souls were inspecting the edge of the scrubland, searching for a way into the thicket. None of them spotted the entrance to the path, which now seemed clear as day to Jo.
“You were here yesterday when they found the body.” A young man had sidled up beside her. His clothing appeared slightly disheveled. There were bags under his eyes and the scruff on his chin was quickly turning into a beard. He looked as though he might have slept in his car. “I saw you on the news. You were one of the women who found the body.”
Jo ignored him. It would be safer for the kid if he just went away.
“Jo Levison, am I right?”
She was itching to punch someone, and he’d just become the likeliest target. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name’s Josh Gibbon,” he continued, undaunted. “I host a top-rated true crime podcast. Maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s called They Walk Among Us.”
Jo had heard of it, all right. She’d been a regular listener when the podcast launched. At first it had been a scrappy one-man show. By the time she stopped listening, They Walk Among Us was sponsored by insurance companies, home security systems, and men’s underwear manufacturers. Serial killers and dead girls were a lucrative business.
“I know, I know.” His smile seemed a little too slick. “The name of the podcast’s a bit over the top. But I assure you, we’re a very serious show. We analyze unsolved homicides, looking for similarities. We’ve managed to alert authorities to the existence of five serial killers at work in the northeastern United States. One of our guys was captured two months ago. Have you heard of the Head Hunter? We even gave him his name.”
“Because killers need catchy names?” Jo sneered. “What’s next, collectible cards?”
Josh shook his head. “We’re not trying to glorify serial killers.” He’d had his response ready. “We want to get people to listen so we can bring attention to the crimes.”
“And what were the Head Hunter’s crimes?” Jo asked.
“He murdered ten women—maybe more. He’d pick them up outside of shelters, drug them, dismember them, and leave their heads around Providence, Rhode Island. He was a very bad guy, and thanks to us, he’s off the streets now. I drove out here from Brooklyn this morning because it sounds like there may be a predator at work on the island. If I’m right and you were one of the people who found the body, I’d love to ask you a few questions.” He was already pulling his phone out of his pocket.
“The ten women the Head Hunter butchered. What were their names?”
Josh’s face reddened, but he didn’t hesitate. “You got me. I guess I’m better at giving names than I am at remembering them.”
“But I bet you could tell me where all the heads were found, couldn’t you? You probably have a whole file filled with pictures.”
This time, the answer didn’t just slip off his tongue. “I assure you that all the victims were named on the podcast,” Josh said.
“Then maybe you should go back and listen to it.” Jo could feel her arms throbbing with energy. “I need to finish my run.”
She sped past the gawkers, eager to leave them all in her dust. Fueled by fury, she could have kept going forever, but the gate to Culling Pointe appeared before her, its tall metal slats reaching up toward the sky. While there was nothing but sand and scrub on Jo’s side of the fence, the drive that stretched out in front of her was lushly landscaped. The Pointe’s beachfront mansions remained hidden from view. It occurred to Jo that she’d never actually seen them up close. There were plenty of pictures to be found online, and anyone with a boat could admire them from offshore. But Culling Pointe’s gate had never once opened to let Jo through. The chop of a helicopter drew her eyes to the sky. She watched the craft descend from the clouds and fly alongside her, its landing skids almost skimming the waves. Then it passed over the Pointe and vanished out of sight.
Watching Jo run toward the gate were two uniformed men in an air-conditioned guardhouse. As she got closer, one of them stepped outside to meet her at the gate. It seemed unnecessary. She wasn’t able to burst through iron. Yet.
But he didn’t try to shoo her away. Instead, he reached through the gate’s slats and handed her a bottle of water.
“You run all the way from town?” he asked as she opened the bottle and gulped down its contents.
“Thanks,” she panted. “And yeah, I did.”
“All those vultures still down by the beach?”
“Yep,” she said.
The guard shook his head, his lip curled with disgust. “I saw them on my drive in, just waiting around for the sun to come up. What kind of people take selfies at the site of a body drop?”
“Assholes,” she said. The guard laughed, giving Jo the green light to keep going. “You guys see anything weird down here over the past few weeks?”
The guard held up a finger, then gestured to the earpiece he wore. He was receiving a message. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said when he’d finished listening. “Would you mind stepping to the side for a moment? I’ve just been informed that a resident is arriving.”
While the gate opened, Jo watched a black speck in the distance rapidly grow into an enormous black SUV. By the time it arrived, the gate was wide-open. The vehicle came to a brief stop while the guard checked the driver’s ID. The back window was down, and Jo saw Rosamund Harding sitting inside. Jo lifted a hand in greeting, but Rosamund stared straight through her. It wasn’t a snub—Jo was sure of it. Rosamund’s eyes looked flat and glassy. A second later, the SUV sped away, and the gate closed.
“Thanks,” the guard said.
“The lady in the back seat,” Jo said. “She’s a client of mine. I’ve been a bit worried about her. Does she live out here?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The guard looked back over his shoulder at his colleague. “I’m not at liberty to discuss any of our residents.”
That was all she was going to get from him. The guard didn’t give a damn about Rosamund Harding. His job was to protect Culling Pointe.
“Thanks for the water,” Jo said. Then she turned her back and ran for town.