CHAPTER SEVEN
He scanned the quad, searching for her familiar silhouette among the scattered groups of students.
The red brick buildings of the freshman dormitories loomed ahead, their windows reflecting the slanting rays of the autumn sun.
Somewhere in those hallways and shared spaces, April had been trying to live the life of an ordinary college student—before today, before Leo.
There—a flash of dark hair by the entrance to Westmoreland Hall. April hurried down the steps, her backpack clutched in front of her like a shield.
Bill stepped out of the car and raised a hand. April saw him and quickened her pace, weaving between clusters of laughing students with single-minded focus.
“Any word?” she asked the moment she reached him.
“Not yet,” Bill replied, taking her backpack and placing it in the back seat. “Your mom’s on it, April. Every law enforcement agency in the area is looking for Jilly.”
April nodded, but her expression remained haunted as she slid into the passenger seat.
Bill circled around to the driver’s side, still thinking through what to tell her, how much detail to share.
April was seventeen now, no longer a child—but this was her sister who had been taken, and the perpetrator was a man she’d met right there on campus.
As he pulled away from the curb, Bill glanced over at April. Her eyes were fixed on her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen.
“Who are you texting?” he asked.
“Gabriela,” April replied without looking up. “She blames herself.”
“It’s not her fault.”
“That’s what I’m telling her.” April’s voice cracked slightly. She set the phone down and pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. “But I can’t help thinking it’s more like mine.”
Bill frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Because I’d already met him.” The words tumbled out in a rush.
“I talked to him, Bill. To Leo. Like he was some kind of normal person. When he came right up to me in the cafeteria, introduced himself like it was the most natural thing in the world.” She shook her head, disgust on her features.
“And I just... talked to him. Like an idiot.”
“April—”
“He was so normal,” she continued, her voice hollow.
“Charming, even. Asked about my classes, told me about his studies. I even...” She swallowed hard.
“I even thought he was kind of cute. I didn’t recognize him for what he was.
Until I told Mom about him later, and she went white as a sheet.
I talked to him and I didn’t see … I didn’t warn anybody. ”
“April, look at me,” Bill said firmly, pulling the car to the shoulder of the road.
He turned in his seat to face her directly.
“That is exactly what Leo wants you to think right now. He approached you deliberately, made himself seem harmless on purpose. That’s what psychopaths do—they’re experts at appearing normal, at hiding in plain sight. ”
April stared back at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“You did nothing wrong,” Bill continued. “You had no reason to be suspicious. And the moment you mentioned it to your mother, she recognized the threat. That’s not failure—that’s exactly what you were supposed to do.”
“But if I’d known sooner—”
“If you’d recognized him somehow, he would have simply adjusted his plan. That’s what people like Leo do. They adapt. They find another way.” Bill’s voice softened. “This is not your fault. It’s his. All of it.”
April wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Then why do I feel so guilty?”
“Because you care about your sister. Because you’re human.
” Bill pulled back onto the road, his eyes fixed on the stretch of pavement ahead.
“But don’t give Leo the satisfaction of blaming yourself.
That’s part of his game—to make everyone in Riley’s life feel responsible, to spread the pain as widely as possible. ”
They drove in silence for several minutes, the landscape gradually shifting from the manicured grounds of the university to the tree-lined streets leading toward the highway.
“What do you think Mom is doing right now?” April asked, her voice steadier.
Bill considered the question. What would Riley do? He knew her investigative instincts better than anyone.
“She’ll be following Leo’s trail,” he said finally.
“Looking for patterns, connections. Your mom has a way of... seeing things others miss.” He didn’t mention her uncanny ability to step into a killer’s mindset, to anticipate their next move.
April already knew about that particular gift—and the difficulties it brought with it.
“She’ll find Jilly,” Bill added, trying to infuse his voice with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. “And we’ll be there to help her when she does.”
As the car accelerated onto the highway, Bill’s thoughts turned to Riley—alone somewhere, hunting.
He’d seen her in this state before, the desperate focus that sharpened her abilities and blinded her to danger.
With Leo, the stakes were impossibly high.
This wasn’t just another case; this was Jilly.
Bill pressed down on the accelerator. Whatever Riley was facing, he needed to be there. They were partners—in work, in life, in everything that mattered. And right now, nothing mattered more than bringing Jilly home.
*
Riley followed the winding road toward Harper’s Ferry with Elizabeth’s directions repeating in her head—the stone pillar with the carved deer, the half-mile private drive. If Leo had taken Jilly to the Dillard family cabin—the place where his sister had died—every second mattered.
She forced herself to focus on the road ahead, on finding the marker that would lead her to her daughter.
There—a weathered stone pillar in the undergrowth, its carved deer barely visible through years of lichen and neglect.
Riley swerved onto the narrow dirt road, branches scraping against her car as she accelerated down the rutted path.
The forest closed in around her, dense and secretive, afternoon shadows deepening beneath the canopy of oak trees.
After what seemed like an eternity, the trees parted to reveal a clearing.
A cabin stood in its center, a two-story structure of darkened logs and stone chimney, its windows like vacant eyes staring out at nothing.
Five years of abandonment had taken their toll—the porch sagged in the middle, shutters hung askew, and vines crept up the walls as if nature itself were reclaiming the site of tragedy.
Riley cut the engine and sat motionless, scanning the perimeter.
The clearing was silent—no birdsong, no rustling leaves, just the cooling tick of her car’s engine.
In the packed dirt of the clearing, she could make out fresh tire tracks cutting through older ones, but no vehicle was visible.
Someone had been here recently. Someone had left.
Or maybe they hadn’t left at all. Maybe those tracks were a misdirection.
She drew her weapon and stepped out of the car, keeping the door between herself and the cabin as she continued her assessment. No smoke rose from the chimney. No sound came from within.
“Leo!” she called out, her voice startlingly loud in the stillness. “I’m here. Just like you wanted.”
Only silence answered her.
Riley circled around the car, moving with careful steps toward the cabin. The wooden steps creaked beneath her weight as she went up on the porch. Through gaps in the weathered boards, she glimpsed tangled weeds reaching upward from below, like fingers straining to grab her ankles.
At the front door, she paused. Had Leo brought Jilly here only to move her again? Was this all an elaborate distraction, designed to waste precious time while he carried out the next phase of his plan? Or was Jilly inside right now, watching, waiting, possibly hurt?
“Leo, I’m coming in,” Riley announced, though she doubted anyone was listening.
The door wasn’t locked—it swung open at her touch, hinges protesting with a long, mournful groan.
Riley stepped into stale darkness, gun raised, senses straining.
Dust motes swirled in the shafts of fading daylight that pierced through gaps in the boarded windows.
The interior certainly looked abandoned—cobwebbed furniture draped in yellowed sheets, dead leaves scattered across warped floorboards, the lingering scent of mildew and disuse.
But someone had been here. Recently. A path had been cleared through the dust on the floor, leading toward the back of the cabin.
Riley followed it, moving through what had once been a living room, past a kitchen with rusted appliances, to a door that stood slightly ajar. She pushed it open with her foot, revealing a back bedroom.
Her breath caught in her throat. In the center of the room was a rectangular pine box, its rough-hewn surface gleaming dully in the half-light.
It was approximately six feet long, two feet wide—a simple, crude construction of unfinished pine planks.
The lid had been sealed around the edges with clear plastic and silver duct tape, creating an airtight chamber.
Images she had seen before flashed unbidden through Riley’s mind—three previous victims, each found too late, their desperate scratches marking the insides of boxes identical to this one.
Years ago, she and Bill had tracked the Pine Box Murderer for weeks, always one step behind, until they finally caught him after the third death. The case had haunted them both—the knowledge that they had failed to save those victims, that they had been so close each time.
And now Leo had recreated it. He had studied her past, her old cases, her nightmares, her failures. He knew exactly how to twist the knife.
“Jilly!” Riley shouted, holstering her weapon and rushing to the box. “Jilly, can you hear me?”
No sound came from within. No movement. No sign of life.
Terror seized Riley’s heart in an icy grip. How long had the box been sealed? How much air remained inside? If Jilly was in there...
“Hold on, baby,” Riley whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m getting you out.”
She sprinted back through the cabin, out to her car, and grabbed a tire iron from the trunk. Seconds later she was back at the box, jamming the metal tool beneath the lid, throwing her weight against it. The nails shrieked as they pulled free, the plastic tore, and finally the lid gave way.
The smell hit her first—sweat and blood and something medicinal. Then, as dust and splinters settled, Riley looked down into the box.
It wasn’t Jilly.
A man in a police uniform lay inside, unconscious, his face pale beneath a sheen of sweat.
He was young—late twenties, maybe—with close-cropped dark hair and the solid build of someone who worked out regularly.
This man’s face stirred some recognition, but the connection remained frustratingly out of reach.
Riley’s eyes fell to the nameplate on his chest: POPE.
Something clicked in her memory. Pope. The name was familiar, as was the face, but from where? She had encountered hundreds of police officers over the years, worked with dozens of departments.
She saw that the plastic lining inside the box was torn and shredded from where Pope had struggled until he ran out of oxygen. She pressed fingers to his neck, finding a pulse—weak but present. His skin was cool to the touch, his breathing shallow.
“Officer Pope,” she said firmly, tapping his cheek. “Can you hear me?”
When he didn’t respond, Riley lowered herself to the dusty floor beside the box and began CPR. As she worked, her mind ran through possibilities. Why would Leo take a police officer? Why place him in this specific setting? What message was he sending?
And why did this man strike her as familiar?