Chapter 1
REVERIE
Senior Year
The Locksmith sliced his victim’s throats open from ear to ear—that was how he killed them.
But not before torturing them. Raping them. Brutalizing them. Slashing their jugulars. Then ripping out a chunk of their hair for his macabre collection before chopping them into pieces and disposing of them.
He was the reaper of Silent Mist, California. In some ways, he still is.
Special Agent Barry Jones and his partner, Jeff Lakes, suspect he murdered over a hundred women, despite recovering only twenty-three bodies.
All those women went missing within the same areas, during the same time frame.
However, if the investigators believe he could’ve killed that many women, not many would agree.
My heart thuds heavily against my rib cage, and sweat coats my trembling palms. I see nothing, hear nothing, just a quiet ringing in my ears.
“…Reverie. Reverie.”
I blink. All my senses reopen, except now, everything is too loud—too bright.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Sorry,” I rush out, my tongue feeling heavy and resistant to forming words. I clear my throat, but it doesn’t remove the rock lodged in my windpipe. I can’t breathe, I can’t think—all I can do is feel the soul-crushing weight of dread.
Truthfully, I can’t recall a time I’ve felt anything else.
“Listen, both of us were hoping this would never happen,” Barry begins, his gentle voice emitting through my phone’s speaker, coercing tears to prick at the backs of my eyes.
He’s the only one in the world who talks to me that way, and I hate it.
Once I hang up, I’m back to the cruel reality of my life.
“But you know I’ll do everything in my power to protect you from him. ”
What a lonely task, one that will ultimately be wasted.
As much as I want Barry’s words to be true, he can’t protect me. Not from the monster reentering society, and not from the other monster plaguing my every waking hour—even in my nightmares.
I appreciate him for trying, though, considering he and his wife, Brenda, are the few people who care enough.
The day the judge sentenced my father and officers carted him off to prison, Barry came looking for me.
My mother nearly burst a blood vessel screaming at him to stay away from us, so Barry gave me a look I’ll never forget—one that made me feel safe—and told us to reach out if we ever needed anything.
Mom scoffed, but I held on to that offer with a white-knuckled grip until I was thirteen.
It was the day I left the prison’s visitation center and told my mom I was never returning the moment she got in the car. She lost her mind, and I needed a real adult. One who might understand how fucked my life was.
I googled Barry, called his office, and left a voicemail.
He returned the call within five minutes, and from then on, he and Brenda introduced me to what a family is supposed to be like.
They never could have kids of their own, so I felt like the daughter they never had.
They cared for me, provided me with a safe haven when my mother made home a nightmare.
Barry admitted he sought me out that day in court because he felt partially responsible for destroying my life. It’s why he held nothing against me when my mom and I publicly discredited him as an investigator back then.
But, in reality, he saved me.
He even saved my mother, though she never knew it.
I rake a trembling hand through my hair, the strands quickly tangling in my damp fingers. I barely feel the sting across my scalp as I fist them tightly. It’s a sad attempt not to panic, but vomit is climbing up my throat, and my vision isn’t just blurred—it’s tripled.
My world teeters, and what sounds like a swarm of bees circles around in my brain, as if sunflowers have sprouted from it. Quickly, I sit on the edge of my bed in my dorm room before I eat the thin, cheap carpet.
“I’ll be okay,” I mumble, but I don’t know who I’m reassuring. Honestly, I’m not convincing anyone. I haven’t been okay since I was four years old.
“Have you sent him any letters?”
I release my hair and swipe my hand across my jeans to remove a few strands tangled around my fingers. “You know I haven’t. The only letter I sent was the…” Blood instantly drains from my face.
“The character statement,” he sighs. Three simple words that undoubtedly earned me my father’s wrath and sealed my fate.
I broke a promise when I wrote it, and he’s going to fucking kill me for it.
Lionel’s parole hearing was last month, the very beginning of December.
He knew Dread would show up and make his victim impact statement, which is exactly what he did.
So, to combat it, Lionel expected me to send in a fucking character statement praising what a wonderful father he is, to remind them I stood by him once, and that, thirteen years later, my loyalty remains.
He thought I was still that six-year-old girl who discovered something I should’ve never seen, who was terrified of him following through with his promise if I so much as breathed a word of it.
It kept me quiet two years later, when he was charged for the murder of Katherine Sharpe, and even still during his trial.
He also thought it’d keep me quiet now that I’m almost twenty-two.
But he can’t keep that promise anymore. And I’m not that little girl, either.
I risked everything by sending in that character statement detailing what I saw that night. I had nothing to lose, other than gaining the wrath of my father, but it was worth it if it meant him staying in prison until I could finish college and move out of the country.
But it didn’t work.
“Why didn’t it work?” I croak, staring sightlessly at the worn gray carpet. “Dread’s impact statement—that meant nothing to them, either?”
Barry hesitates. “Honey, you know they weren’t going to just take Dread’s statement at face value when so many believe he lied and put away an innocent man.”
“Okay, what about mine?” I demand.
Again, he hesitates, and then, with another disappointed sigh, he quietly says, “The warden.”
My head jerks back, bewildered. “The warden?” I echo, shaking my head as I attempt to compute that.
“Your father had the warden so convinced of his character, he sent in a letter to the board, pleading for them to see how deserving Lionel is of being released.” My mouth falls open, and the tears I fought so hard to keep back spill over my lashes in rivulets.
Still, I stare down at the carpet, silenced by my devastation.
The judge sentenced him fifteen years to life with the possibility of parole for second-degree murder—not even first degree.
Coupled with a fifteen-percent good-time credit on top of his seven months served before sentencing, Lionel became eligible for release after serving only twelve years and four months.
Barry and I were hoping he’d serve the entire fifteen, giving me enough time to graduate college and get the fuck out of the country. Best case scenario: he never makes parole at all. But we knew that was wishful thinking.
Barry warned me it was possible Lionel’s good behavior could sway the board, but I never considered it’d sway the warden, too.
Though I suppose I should’ve. Lionel is the smartest man I know.
He spent those years locked up proving he is everything the public believes him to be.
A stand-up man—the type who would give you the shirt off his back and take a bullet for you.
He led a church group in prison, created a nonprofit that provided prisoners with a job, shelter, and food while they reacclimate into society after release, and, therefore, avoid falling back into old patterns.
“His letter made mine look fucking pitiful, didn’t it?” I ask, though I already know the answer. It’s fucking obvious, considering Lionel will be a free man soon.
Yet again, Barry hesitates.
“Barry,” I grit out through clenched teeth, pushing for an answer.
“Lionel’s lawyer informed the board of your estranged relationship, that you haven't seen him since you were thirteen and never wrote to him. They concluded that there may have been…” He huffs, struggling to say the words.
“That… there may have been ulterior motives behind your letter. They found it suspicious you never spoke a single word of what you witnessed before, so they questioned why you’re speaking up now. ”
A flash of fury turns my vision red.
“So, what? They think I’m just a bitter daughter who turned on her father and made up lies to punish him?” I spit, my voice cracking.
“Sweetheart—”
“They’re releasing a fucking serial killer into society, and I just dug my own fucking grave, Barry!” I shout, barely getting the words out before a sob bubbles from my throat.
Squeezing my eyes tight, I slap my hand over my mouth, violently trembling as I attempt to calm myself.
“Listen, honey, I know you took a big risk, and it didn’t pay off,” Barry begins gently. “But he doesn’t know where you are, and he can’t leave the state without approval. If the fucker dares to try, he'll be back in prison before his toe can cross state lines.”
When has Lionel ever given a fuck about approval? Or following the law? He’s a goddamn serial killer, and a good one at that. If he crosses state lines, he won't be stupid enough to get caught.
I don’t bother voicing that aloud, though.
Whether Barry admits it or not, he already knows that.
“So, it’s decided then,” I state plainly. “He’s actually getting out.”
After the hearing, the board said they needed to consider additional information—whatever that fucking means—and they’d submit a decision within one hundred twenty days.
This entire past month, I’ve been begging the universe to do me a solid for once in my life and let them deny it.
Obviously, the universe and I have serious beef with one another.
“It’s decided,” Barry confirms solemnly.
“Did they set a date for his release?”
He sighs. “February 5th.”
Three weeks.