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  “So you’ve just being waiting around since the 8th victim because you were worried you had the wrong guy? You are aware two more boys have died since you kept your arms folded. And it’s about to be three.” Her fingers bit into the soft flesh of her palms. “Look, you could either go to the police about this or I will.” He shook his head.

  “From experience, Madison, how effective have the police been? Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten Tucker Miller’s case.” She lunged at him, he held her in place. “I didn’t bring his case up to spite you, just listen.” He released her wrists. “Going to the police will get you so far, and if I might add, we are working with a calculating nutcase; one that has your contact and probably knows where you live. We are going to have to dance to his tune, just until we can execute our plan.” She adjusted herself in her seat.

  “And what exactly is our plan?” Adam smiled to himself.

  “We’re going to kill that rat bastard.”

  . . .

  “And how does that make us any better than he is?” Madison asked again trailing behind him into his home. She’d been there once or twice. She had been there for the funeral reception of Sarah Walker’s death. And the other time... well she didn’t quite like her memory of the other time she’d stumbled into his home. It seemed unchanged, although since the funeral reception, it seemed to whistle with a brisk hollowness. It smelled faintly of roses, and hugged her with a chill. On the summer green walls held paintings and pictures, they didn’t necessarily bring Sarah back to life, but they came close, capturing her parade smile and easy grace in a frame.

  “We aren’t going to kill him, the police are. We are just going to push him to the corner, till he has nowhere to run.” He continued forward, till his fingers clutched the cool handle of the fridge. He pulled it open. “Want anything, some beer, cheer wine, water?” He looked further in the back. “There’s an old can of soda here too.”

  She thought for a second. “I’ll have a water.” Her words travelled the room as her hands trailed over the frames of the pictures that lined his walls. “And here I thought you were anti-police.”

  “Partially, I still want to get back on the force, I can’t be anti-police then.” He emerged from the kitchen and tossed her a plastic bottle of water. She caught it. "Look, I have a plan, you might not like it but I still gotta’ pitch it."

  She was shaking her head. “If I am not going to like it, then dump it, because there is no way in hell I would go through with it.” She twisted the nozzle of the bottle and guzzled the contents hungrily.

  "Look at it this way. Alexander Hemmings, our killer called you, which means he was in the vicinity long enough to get your details from the Daniels home." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "He's going to keep in touch with you, at least before he does something to Ethan, and I need you to get close to him, close enough to get a confession out of him, close enough to get Ethan from him." Nope, she wasn't going to play ball. What if she messed up and got Ethan killed? This is a situation she needed to rely on the authorities for. They'd taken her statement; didn't that mean they were onto something?

  "I am not going to get involved, that's the job of the police." He gave her a look as if reminding her about their discussion in the back of the cab. She remained defiant. "I am not getting anymore involved than I already am."

  "Should I remind you that you owe this little ten-year-old this, he was in your custody when he was taken; he is going to be scared, sad and desperate. He needs you, are you really going to bail on him?" She turned away, padding to the couch.

  "I'm not bailing; I'm letting the law handle it." He was pricking at her conscience.

  "The law is shit if you haven't noticed." She had, but how much had her involvement in Tucker Miller's case actually impacted the investigation? It had done nothing but throw officials off track. "Ten boys have died because the law is wedged with no new clues."

  "How do you know this is going to work?" Her voice was small, weak, it sent tendrils of irritation surging her veins.

  "I don't but we can't let Ethan become the eleventh victim because we didn't try."

  *

  He could hear it, his heart thundering, threatening to break out of his rib-cage, threatening to break his cover. Alexander Hemmings was a nervous wreck, and just when he’d thought he was going to chicken out, all the reasons to do this came flooding back in. He’d wreaked fear through the streets of Charlotte. Parents trembled for their ten-year-old boys, and children were told stories about the faceless man who would snatch ten-year-olds from their school; although he’d taken things too far with the kidnap of Ethan Daniels. He'd made a bad decision; and now, he needed to know just how much damage he'd caused.

  His fingers curled around the cleaning-supplies-buggy, he pushed further, eyes, dark as sin darted to the last door on the left. With the night lurking beyond the walls and windows, the big names that could have booted him for all the children, for Ethan, had taken their leave. He was alone, in a sense; striding farther and farther away from the dull chatter of rookie parole officers. The buggy he trudged squeaked, his footsteps thumped a beat.

  Hemmings stopped, turned the knob into detective Gates office. It was locked, that wasn't going to stop him, if there was anything mama Hemmings always said is; "Don't let a locked door stop you sweetie, if you really wanna get in, there's always another way." Although Alex doubted she'd meant it in the sense of breaking and entering... She was dead anyway she couldn't exactly scold him now could she? The poor old folk. He reached through the pockets of his overalls for the master key he'd been given upon employment. He'd taken up the job as head janitor of Westover Division's precinct to fill his pockets, if any of the other guys knew he was sneaking around he'll be waist deep in shit, that was for sure. So he couldn't get caught.

  At the soft clicks of footsteps turning the corner, Alex halted, breath held, he listened.

  A sweat ran down the side of his chiseled face as a voice said; "Yeah, she just gave her statement, apparently, the killer called her. What was her name, Madison something, she gave us a number. Had Danny down from the phone-company run the digits, get this; the call was made from a payphone somewhere around Cotswold elementary."

  That little bitch ratted him out the second he'd cut the damn call! She was supposed to beg for the stupid kid... Ethan... He didn't want to have to hurt him... Well... one more death wouldn’t exactly hurt him ...How would she like taking the fall for the little rats’ death?

  "Think he could still be in the area?" Asked the other voice; easily tugging Hemmings from his spiralling thoughts. He didn't have time for their conversation, and he had a feeling just standing there like a creep was going to draw more attention to himself than he needed. He continued to pat down his overalls for the damn master key he'd never had to use.

  Tucked away in his right breast pocket was the master key. He swiped it over the lock. These new fancy technology doohickeys work pretty fast, Alex thought pushing into detective Ryan Gate's office. The room was smaller than Alex had anticipated, and quite messy, but that wasn't his concern, at least not at the moment. On the table were scattered documents, he couldn't tamper, but he could look. So he did, leaned over the edge, he let his eyes roam the headings; Tyler Shaw, Jasper Kepper, Gibson Knight, these were profiles of the victims, his victims. A small smile ghosted his lips, was this pride? It had to be. Because he'd done this, he couldn't explain his reasons, he was sure no one in the tri-state would understand, but he was responsible and a part of him wanted to scream it from the rooftop.

  He didn't need to look too far for what he'd been snooping around for. Pictures, notes and strings, it was a crime board, Gates was trying to narrow down his suspects, he had the staff of Cotswold Elementary pinned as suspects... This was almost too amusing to miss. Even the parents of some of the victims had a mens rea. He shook the table, but none of the glasses toppled over; but how much longer till a glass tips over? How much longer till his luck runs out? He reached
for his phone. He would further analyse this, what Gates had gathered, but right now, he couldn't be caught poking his nose where it didn't belong. At the click of his phone camera, there was a knock at the door. Startled, he turned, eyes wide. Shit, Gates wasn't supposed to come back!

  Chapter Six

  A thrilling silence ran through Adam Walker’s home. There was too much to say, and nothing to say. The soft pat of Madison Miller’s bare footsteps kissing the parquet was melodious to his droopy eyes and weary mind. “What exactly do I have to do?” She finally asked. He looked up at her, even clothed in the baggiest pair of pyjama pants and top, she radiated an alluring grace, a subtle sexiness. It wasn’t much of a secret that he’d admired his neighbour in ways he ought not. And with the ache of Sarah’s passing, he’d wanted nothing more than to roll around in the sheets tangled up with the fierce whiskey blonde haired woman next door. In time he’d learned his feelings weren’t mutual, at least he had after a drunken night brought her back to his place and she’d lived to regret that mistaken kiss they’d shared by his porch. “Penny for your thoughts, Adam?”

  He cleared his throat. "I just wish I knew what game he was playing." Her eyebrows creased in a disheartened frown. By this time yesterday, she'd been checking her email for a response from any of the news stations she'd sent out her résumé to. WCNC, WSOC, Fox46, she was supposed to become the lead reporter, she was supposed to follow the story and tell it from a third person perspective. She had become the story and it was her perspective. She didn't need to switch on the television to know just how her life had been snowed-in. She was in deep shit, at best, she would face legal charges for the tort of negligence. She couldn't escape this without jail time and from the look in Lauren Daniels eyes, it seemed the distraught mother was going to buckle up with the best lawyer money could buy and haul Madison's sorry ass to prison. The thought sent a chill running down Madison's spine. Prison would not suit her in the slightest.

  "Run me over what I have to do to get Ethan back home, preferably unharmed." She cushioned her touchy against the coffee table. Everything she felt, her situation, her emotions were a rerun of what she’d endured after Tucker Miller’s kidnap. What had ached her had been the fact that she’d been with him every day and every night for ten-years and just like that, he was snatched away from her. She tucked away the thoughts of him. One day that closet door that concealed her thoughts and fears would burst open and she would have to face everything she'd tossed inside. But that wasn't happening anytime soon, the door still closed, with a bit of an effort, but it still closed. Adam Walker looked up at her.

  "The ball isn't in our court, it's in his. We have to wait for his call, and when he does call, you organize a meet-up over coffee, you tell him that you're willing to do whatever it takes, and you negotiate a price to release Ethan. I might be able to get him immunity for the murders, but he has to at least go down for kidnapping."

  "That's not even a fair deal!" She grumbled. "Immunity for the murders of ten little boys?" She could imagine what those parents were feeling. Correction, she didn't need to imagine, because she knew just what it felt like to lose a ten-year-old son. She knew what it felt like to lose Tucker Miller. She knew the depression that shadowed her actions; she knew the pain that just never seemed to heal. Those parents might never get over it, but they could get closure knowing the man responsible was paying for his actions. "You can get him a lesser sentence at best but he has to go down for every damn drop of innocent blood those boys shed."

  *

  It wasn't detective Ryan Gates, but both of the rookie parole officers from the hallway. They’d stumbled into the detectives’ office. The first one with ragged brown hair and an untucked uniform shirt cleared his throat. His name tag read Hassan, Alex took a swing guessing the man was probably of a middle-eastern decent. Although there wasn't much of an accent to base his guess on. If anything the mans slur was all southern. "Mind if you can clean our office too when you're done here? We had one too many beers to celebrate my buddy's engagement," He hooked an arm around the other officer, the one whose name tag read Felix. "We can't have that getting out to the other guys." Felix chuckled. Alex forced a smile and hoped that these men were three sheets to the wind and wouldn't notice his smile was more of a grimace.

  "Sure thing boss, what office?" Alex tugged on his cleaning buggy. He needed to hightail his guilty ass out of Gates office before he finds himself in deeper crap. They may not be able to pin him for the murder of the ten ten-year-old boys, but they could boot him for spying, treason. How many years was that anyway? Did it even matter? Alex wasn't going to go down, not for anything. He'd merely done what the voice in his head urged him to. One ten-year-old for each ten-year-old that tormented him back in elementary school. He remembered them vividly, loud, rambunctious little brats. They'd made it their goal to make his stay at Cotswold a living hell. He'd tried stalking them through the years, it didn't make sense, it was almost like they'd fallen off the face of the earth after graduation into middle-school. They were gone, but he still had this... fire in his belly that burned for revenge. So, he returned to Cotswold elementary, everyday at the same time the harassment would start, and he would sit, hauled back to those afternoons of eating dirt and washing it down with a toilet water, and afterwards, he would leave. Some times, he would stay around the area, and pick up a kid one who reminded him so much of those boys; Ricky, Ernie, Bert, Chandler, Mikey, Leonard, Gilbert, Kenny, Patrick and Jimmy.

  He'd bagged ten boys, but he'd gone too far with Ethan, it was a mistake. He'd got his wires crossed. Ethan was him, in a sense, Ethan was being bullied by the boys Alex had killed, Ethan wore a smile in front of his mother even though he was hurting. He'd just wanted to talk to Ethan, he couldn't wait, it was a late night visit gone wrong and when he'd realized just what he'd done, he had to take the boy. No, he wouldn't kill him, even if that bitch tattled, he would give him back, he just needed to put some things in place.

  "317, third floor, we want that place spotless by tomorrow, got it?" Felix's chatter-box friend leaned in, a hand pocked on Alex's chest. Alex nodded. He would have let out a breath if he'd bothered holding one when the men turned and dragged their drunk bodies out of Gates office. Alex had seen enough, he would go home and further analyse just how these suspects could lead the police back to... well... him.

  Chapter Seven

  S oft flecks of grey-gold dawn lights seeped through the gap in the drapes. The pitter-patter of a drizzle was eminent through the thin sheets of glass over the bed, it was a mere reminder of the storm that ravaged the night. Madison Miller hadn't been able to get a lick of sleep, at least not in her own home; she'd tossed and turned all the while wondering whether the faceless killer would come after her. He knew her phone number who’s to say he didn't know her address as well? He'd probably already found out about her statement and had been watching her through her own window. The fear that gripped her at the mere thought sat quietly, watching as her breathing became erratic, deep, and then shallow. At that point, she'd sat with reason and drawn the conclusion that if she were to sleep, she would be riddled with vivid daunting nightmares.

  Rolling out of bed, Madison reached for her phone and twirled her car keys on her lean trembling fingers. She didn’t think she would need to depend on that heap of scrap metal she’d paid for in her early twenties... but then again, she couldn’t take any risks—that is to say letting anyone bolt away with her clunky 2009-model Nissan 350z. As she drifted through her home a mere silhouette in night, she’d picked up mere necessities, like the old flip knife her late aunt Denise had shoved at the very back of the coffee table drawer. Thoughts of her late aunt Denise cradled her. Back when she would make visits to Charlotte, bounding along with Julia Miller, Denise Weinstein would always open these very doors for her sister and accompanying niece; Madison. It was no wonder why after the grey-woman’s tragic demise; Madison had sought the open doors of house 216, Bertonley Avenue—where her withering Aunt had manage
d to exquisitely meet antique Queen-Anne furnishings with a modern hue of warm grey walls. Madison Miller only wished she hadn’t inherited the throat slitting mortgage along with her new home.

  At least from what a young Madison could tell at the time, the lease seemed to be the peak of Denise’s inconveniences. She highly doubted the poor old woman had to deal with a serial killer gawking outside her window, threatening to take the life of a ten-year-old boy.

  There had been a tender breeze that rippled through Madison’s baggy pyjama shirt when she’d slipped out onto her porch. The night had been pitch black, there hadn’t been a black out, but none of the street lamps glared over the isolated streets. Her head darted towards the bushes, the fern shrubs that separated her property from that of Adam Walkers’. She’d heard it again, the rustling that caught her attention. It had to be that dang cat that always seemed to gait its way onto her porch for a square meal... what else could it be?

  The night grumbled with an ache, one that had Madison quickly locking her front door and scurrying to Adam’s. She’d read enough books and watched enough movies to feel threatened, vulnerable, pounding against the door of her neighbour at ungodly hours of the morning.

  “Has he called?” Adam had asked, flinging his front door ajar, just enough to let her in as well as flakes of the nights’ bracing gust. She scampered into his home, breezing towards the couch. She heard the large wooden door click behind her.

  “Not exactly, but, I don’t think after my statement, I should be... alone. Like you pointed out, he might know more than just my phone number.” He might want to slowly torture her for ratting him out to the police. How stupid could she be? This was reality; the police could only do so much. The couch dipped and crinkled with Adam Walker’s weight, she didn’t look at him. She’d let her eyes rest aimlessly on the stack of ripped envelopes slumped over his coffee table.