Chapter 4
FOUR
Emily
In cases this big, even those who wanted to help were treated like suspects. They took my sneakers for evidence. They cut Daisy’s fur where a dark stain clung to it, clipped her nails, and swabbed her paws. Only when they were finished did they finally lead us into the interrogation room.
The lights are bright. Too bright. I hold Daisy in my hands, her body trembling against mine. I am shaking too. This room is colder than the others. The air seeps into my lungs. My heart beats so fast it feels like it might give me away, like I am the one who has something to hide.
They haven’t asked any questions. I want them to. The moment they do, I can ask mine. And I have so many.
The door opens, and a woman walks in, her brown hair pulled into a sleek bun on top of her head. She wears a dark blue suit with thin white lines. A badge hangs around her neck, and when she sits across from me, it clicks softly against the metal table.
“My name is Detective Mara Collins. I was the one who called you in for Zayne Mercer,” she says. “My apologies for Kade Rourke. We didn’t know he would be present on the first day you were supposed to meet Mercer.”
I exhale slowly, studying her face. I try to read her, but all I see is control. A woman who works among men and refuses to be overlooked. Every detail about her feels earned. Organized. Calculated. Ambitious. I recognize it because I am the same way.
I press a kiss to Daisy’s forehead and pull her closer.
“Rourke showed up at the apartment I’ve rented last night,” I say. “Is he dangerous?”
“No,” she says, then sighs. She clears her throat. “He wouldn’t harm a fly. He is driven to do anything to solve a case, even if it costs him everything.”
“I thought the case was solved,” I say. “Zayne Mercer is a killer.”
“Yes,” she replies, “but we still need a confession. We don’t have enough solid evidence against him.”
I tilt my head slightly. “You caught him placing his victim in the woods. He had puzzle pieces on him.”
“Yes,” she says. “We have his fingerprints. But the puzzle piece with the print was not on the victim. It was on him.”
She pauses, then continues. “Rourke was the one who caught him. With his drinking problem, the Chief is in a difficult position. We all know Mercer is the killer. The locations, the victims, the murder kit found at the end of Ozark. It all points to him. But we need answers. And we need the locations of his last five victims.”
I bite the inside of my lower lip, dragging it between my teeth until the burn steadies me.
“Kade Rourke thinks Mercer is connected to the Ozark Butcher from the eighties,” I say. “He believes Mercer had something to do with the explosion in 1998.”
Her eyes widen. Her hands press flat against the table, her palms damp from sweat.
“Not here,” she whispers.
“That will be all, Dr. Beckett,” she says. “Kade Rourke is a man dealing with loss. He doesn’t know what to think.”
She knows something.
“Can you take me home, Detective Collins?” I ask. “That would make me feel safe.”
She nods, standing quickly, and gestures toward the door.
“Of course.”
I hold Daisy closer. Poor soul hasn’t made a sound ever since we got to the station.
The hallway swallows the cold room behind us, but the chill stays lodged in my bones. Officers look up as we pass. Their eyes fixed on me, on whatever they think I might be hiding.
Detective Collins doesn’t help the unease. She moves quickly, as if slowing down would let something slip out.
Outside, the air is cold and wet, the rain still clinging to it. I’ve only been inside the station for an hour and a half, yet the morning hasn’t moved on. It’s still not even nine. I still have to go to the Institute.
She unlocks her gray sedan without looking back. I climb in. She waits until the seatbelt clicks before turning the key.
Daisy presses against my chest, her nose tucked beneath my collarbone. She’s still shaking.
The engine hums. Tires roll over wet pavement.
Neither of us speaks.
“What I say now,” she exhales as she pulls onto the road, “stays between us.”
I look at her, blinking.
“Got it?” she says, her voice sharper now.
“Okay,” I reply, irritation creeping in. “I got it.”
“The station is corrupt enough,” she says, her hands firm on the wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead. “I don’t want the wrong information getting into the wrong hands.”
She takes a breath before continuing.
“There was an explosion in 1998. Police and firefighters discovered four bodies. All four were patients locked inside the Halden Institute, convicted as criminally insane. The head of the hospital was Dr. Alistair Cermer Morrell. He opened a secret government project called Project Gemini,” she says.
“All I know is that he experimented on convicts. When one of them died, he claimed to shut the project down in the late summer of 1980. No one knew it continued until the explosion. That is when they found the doctor dead.”
She turns her head slightly toward me.
“The government silenced everyone. They sealed the case as X-Files. Rourke was one of the officers on desk duty when those files were locked away.”
“He thinks Mercer is connected,” I say.
Her jaw tightens. “The doctor who performed the autopsy on Mercer’s last victim found DNA. When it was matched, it came back as the Ozark Butcher. And as Zayne Mercer.” She swallows. “Not just a match.”
She looks at me.
“Identical.”
My stomach drops.
“The next day, the doctor turned up dead,” she continues. “And Mercer ended up in the Asylum.”
“Christ,” I whisper.
The car slows to a stop. I look out the window and realize we are already on my street.
“Please,” she says quietly. “Report only to me. If Rourke contacts you again, call me.”
I turn toward her. “What does this have to do with me?”
“We found a piece of paper on Mercer when we arrested him,” she says. “It was a handwritten note, ‘I forgive you,’ and your father’s address.”
My heart stutters, then slams harder, faster. It feels too big for my chest, like it might force its way up my throat.
“When we went through his belongings, we found pictures of you,” she continues. “Taken over a ten-year period.”
The words blur together.
“He was stalking you.”
The air thins. My lungs refuse to fill properly. Heat crawls up my neck, beads of sweat breaking along my hairline.
“I,” I gasp. “I can’t. Breathe.”
My hand scrabbles for the door handle, fingers being clumsy as they slide. The car feels smaller now. The windows are too close. Her lips move, but I can’t hear her. There is only a dull buzzing, layered beneath the pounding of my heartbeat.
I press my palm flat against my chest.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Count to ten.
The numbers slip through me, useless.
I am having a panic attack.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my focus anywhere but him.
Daisy shifts in my lap, whining softly, her body restless. She feels it before I do.
When I open my eyes, Detective Collins is leaning toward me, her hands on my face, slapping my cheeks lightly.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I stare at her. “I just found out a serial killer has been watching me for years,” I snap. “Would you be okay?”
She shakes her head.
“Fuck no,” I shout. “I am not okay.”
“At first, we thought you were his girlfriend,” she says carefully. “But then we realized you were just…”
She stops.
“What?” My voice cracks. “Say it.”
“A victim.”
My breath jerks back into me, uneven gasps leaving my lips. Anger surges up, washing away years of practiced restraint.
“Are you kidding me?” I yell, leaning toward her.
She shakes her head again.
“I am not doing this,” I say, my hand wrapping around the door handle. I pull it open.
“Emily,” she whispers. “If not for the case,” she exhales, “then for the families. They need answers.”
“No,” I say. “You are not turning me into bait.”
“There are still victims without names,” she says. “Jane Does. We need locations. We need answers.”
My jaw tightens. Slowly, I set Daisy down on the ground and grab her leash. My hands are still shaking.
“You are a shit person,” I say quietly. “You know that.”
She doesn’t argue.
“But you are right,” I add. “Those families deserve answers.”
“Good,” she says. She holds out a piece of paper. “This is my number. In case you need it.”
I take it. Nod once.
“Bye,” I mutter, already turning away.
I hurry toward my apartment, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Knowing the truth is worse than the fear ever was. I always felt watched. Now I know I wasn’t imagining it. There’s something cruel in that. In being right.
Fear dulls you. Awareness doesn’t. It cuts. It leaves you exposed.
And whatever comes next, I’ll have to be ready.
19 years old
It was my father’s funeral. Just a regular Sunday for me.
I stepped into the house I grew up in with nothing but a backpack slung over one shoulder. Two days of clothes inside. Not more. Just two.
My father always said a house holds onto memories. The irony never escaped me. He made sure most of mine were bad.
I didn’t look around. I didn’t stop to remember anything. I went straight up the stairs to the second floor and into my bedroom.
The door creaked softly as I opened it. Nothing had changed. Drawers still hung open with clothes spilling out. The bed sat exactly as I left it, white sheets printed with pink bows, wrinkled as if I slept there just yesterday. No one had bothered to change them.
On the nightstand beside the bed sat a small music box with a ballerina inside. He gave it to me when I was eight, back when all I wanted was to be in ballet.
I sat down on the edge of the mattress, the springs dipping beneath my weight, and let the backpack slide from my shoulder to the floor. I picked up the music box, allowing the cold wood to bite my palms, and opened it.
The soft, tiny notes of Dream a Little Dream filled the room.
My mother’s favorite song.
I had almost forgotten.