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  “Nothing that comes to mind,” Ivy said slowly. Something wasn’t right here. “What’s wrong with Skyler? Is she in danger? Did she get a message too? Is she…” she froze, her mouth open. We understand that Skyler wanted to be a model, the detective had said. Wanted. Past tense. A slip of the tongue. Shaking, she pulled out her phone and dialed Skyler.

  The other detective, Lonnie, leaned over and plucked the phone gently from her hand, disconnecting it. He looked at her. His eyes were incredibly sad, and she knew for sure Skyler was gone. She burst into tears.

  “I’m really sorry for your loss,” Detective Lonnie said softly.

  “How did she… how…” Ivy tried to ask, her words unintelligible between the sobs and hiccups.

  “She was murdered,” Detective Lonnie said.

  “By that… that killer?”

  “It’s too soon to say.”

  Ivy shook her head and closed her eyes, feeling the need to scream, to hit someone, to break something. This night had been too much—first the fear, then the loss. She couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t!

  She felt a hand wrap around her own. She opened her eyes and saw Detective Lonnie was watching her with his big, sad eyes.

  “I know what you’re going through,” he said, “but it’s really important that you try to concentrate and answer some questions. To help us catch the man who did this to Skyler.” His eyes were like soft pools of sorrow, and she knew he really could feel her pain. He must have experienced something like it himself, sometime in the past. Slowly she calmed down, feeling like his hand gave her strength.

  “She was so full of life,” Ivy said, wiping her eyes. “So happy. She was just getting over some really tough crap, and… and…”

  “What tough crap?” the other detective asked.

  “Oh, nothing really. She wanted to be a model. She was really beautiful, you know? Anyway, she called this modeling agent, set up a meeting. And when he saw her, he told her she was too fat to be a model. Can you believe that? The girl barely had an ounce of fat on her entire body.”

  The detectives nodded, listening. She talked on, looking at Detective Lonnie. He was really easy to talk to.

  “Well, she decided she should go on a diet. It was really aggressive, and she used those dieting pills they sell at the store. I kept telling her she shouldn’t, that it was bad for her.” Ivy searched for the approval in Detective Lonnie’s eyes. He smiled a small, understanding smile, and she felt encouraged. She hadn’t told Skyler to stop, really. She had wanted her friend to become a model, and it had looked like the pills were working. But she liked to think she would have stopped Skyler, if she had known what would happen. And that was the important thing, right?

  “She took too many, I think,” she said. “She ended up in the hospital. She nearly died. I helped her get better. I visited her every day, until she was ready to come home. She said she could never have gotten better without me.” The tears started trickling down her cheeks once more, as she slowly got lost in the drama of her own story.

  “That’s so sad. You’re a true friend,” Detective Lonnie said. “Ivy, is there any reason that anyone would think that your phone number was actually Skyler’s?”

  “What do you mean?” Ivy asked, confused.

  “Have you two switched phones, or maybe she gave someone your phone number instead of her own?”

  “No,” Ivy said, frowning. “I can’t think of any…” But then she thought of a reason.

  Because there had been that day when she saw that advertisement online—the brand new modeling agency, looking for models to represent. She’d thought of Skyler. But she’d been afraid that, if she told Skyler about it, Skyler would start self-medicating again to get thinner and improve her chances.

  So Ivy had filled out the form herself, putting in Skyler’s details, and attaching some pictures of her friend as well. Except when she put in the phone number, she’d used her own instead of Skyler’s. She didn’t want them to call Skyler and tell her to get a bit thinner. She thought if they wanted to hire Skyler, Ivy could break the news to her. She was just protecting her friend from the horrible mental toll the modeling world could impose.

  She told the detective, and he listened attentively.

  “But it was just an ad,” she shrugged. “And they never got back to me, so I guess they weren’t interested. Is it important?”

  The detectives looked at each other. Was it her imagination, or did Detective Lonnie’s hand tensed a bit, clutching her own a bit more tightly?

  “Well,” he said, “it’s best if we follow all leads. Do you have the URL to the website?”

  “No,” she said. “I just clicked an ad.”

  “When did you see that ad?”

  “Three or four weeks ago, I think. On Instagram.”

  “Can you show me your computer?” His hand let go of hers, and she suddenly realized how warm her own hand had become. It felt nice.

  She took him to her computer. He opened her browser, and to her horror, opened the history tab. In her panic, she nearly pushed him away from the computer and unplugged the damn thing. Now he would see that three days ago she had browsed to a porn site, had watched the clip with the firemen. He’d realize she went to porn sites twice, sometimes even three times, a month. What would he think of her then? Her eyes filled with tears once more, this time tears of humiliation and embarrassment.

  He scrolled past the link to the firemen video clip, didn’t even glance at it. He also didn’t pause at the nude pool video. In fact, he didn’t seem to notice anything, until suddenly he froze and stared intently at the screen.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing, and her heart plunged. Now he’d noticed. Now he… Oh, hang on.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t recognize this. That’s weird, it doesn’t even end with dot-com. What’s RU?”

  “That’s a Russian website,” Detective Lonnie said, and clicked the link.

  The modeling agency form opened on the screen.

  “That’s it!” Ivy said, relief washing over her. “Well, if they’re a Russian modeling agency, it’s no wonder they never called back.”

  “Yeah,” Mitchell said. He copied the URL and sent it to his own e-mail. Then he got up and smiled at her. “Thanks for all your help, Ivy.” He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you remember anything else, I would be happy if you call me.”

  She suddenly really hoped she would remember something else.

  As the detectives were leaving, she grabbed Detective Lonnie’s hand. “Detective,” she said. “Will the killer be back for me?”

  He looked at her, and said, “No, Ms. O’Brien. The killer will never set foot in here.”

  And she knew he was telling her the truth. She could see it in his eyes.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mitchell and Jacob were the last to join the meeting. Mitchell had only been in the chief’s office twice before, and it wasn’t an experience he relished. Everything in that office spoke of meticulous order, to the point of obsession. The few sheets of paper on her desk were sorted in a single pile, none of them even marginally sticking out. The rest of the desk was completely empty except for a keyboard and a mouse, both shiny and clean. Keyboards and mice were not typically so clean. Mitchell had once upturned his own keyboard and shaken it, and the things that fell from within the cracks and crannies between the keys still haunted him. Nevertheless, he was certain if he did that to the chief’s keyboard, not even a crumb would drop. The walls were covered with framed certificates and honorary what-nots.

  The chief had made sure they had enough chairs for everyone. Jacob sat on the left-most one, leaving Mitchell to sit between Jacob and Zoe, the forensic psychologist, with Captain Bailey on her other side. Mitchell realized Zoe smelled of shampoo, and he was quite sure it was the same shampoo Pauline used. This, as well as the past sleepless night, made him feel a bit unfocused.

  “So,” the chief said, her voice sharp
and angry. “We have another dead girl.”

  They all remained quiet.

  “I understand that dispatch did get a call, so please explain what happened.”

  “The wrong girl called,” Jacob said. “The killer sent the message to the victim’s friend.”

  “Why?” The chief looked at Zoe.

  “It sounds like he was—” Zoe began.

  “He did it by mistake,” Mitchell interrupted her impatiently. “He had the wrong number.” He explained what they had found out.

  “So the killer used a modeling ad to get the victim’s details?” the chief said.

  “That’s what it looks like,” Jacob said, nodding.

  “Can we find out anything from the site? Get a search warrant to look at the host’s database? Maybe locate the killer via his credit card?”

  “The domain is Russian, and probably so is the host,” Mitchell said. “That’s definitely intentional. He wanted to make sure it would be tough to trace him through it.”

  “Can we take it down? Maybe call the Russian host? Explain this to them?”

  “Why would we want to?” Jacob asked.

  The chief stared at him. “I’m sorry?”

  Jacob looked back at her, his eyes calm. “We have the first real lead,” he said. “Serial killers are incredibly tough to catch, and now we have a real advantage: we know how he locates his victims.”

  “But we don’t know who’s registered on the site,” Captain Bailey pointed out. “So how does it help us?”

  “We can supply a victim,” Jacob said.

  The room became deathly silent. If a fly had sneezed at that moment, Mitchell would have been able to hear it wipe its nose.

  “That’s… interesting,” the chief finally said. “And dangerous.”

  “It’s our best move to catch the killer,” Mitchell said. He and Jacob had discussed it beforehand. They had both agreed it was a good idea, and they should advocate strongly for it. There was no other way. Mitchell had some ideas of where they could look for the right bait. The state police would probably have policewomen trained for such honey traps, women who could look the part. Or maybe the FBI.

  “How would we be able to make sure he takes the bait?” Captain Bailey asked.

  “The killer stalks his targets, and he probably starts with social networks,” Zoe said. “All the victims had an Instagram profile with some images. I can try and create an Instagram profile that matches patterns in those profiles. I’ve noticed that all of his victims pose in specific ways that might have gotten his attention.”

  “Beyond the fact that they’re all beautiful, the victims look different from each other,” Bailey pointed out.

  “Yes,” Zoe agreed. “But there are still some patterns. They all have selfies of themselves in bars, some with multiple men. The killer might be targeting women that he thinks of as promiscuous.”

  “You’ve just described every Instagram account of any young woman ever,” Mitchell said.

  “They all have photos with close-ups in which they look downward,” Zoe carried on, ignoring him. “The killer is probably attracted to this pose, thinking of it as submissive.”

  “How can you be sure?” Mitchell asked, frustrated by Zoe’s matter of fact voice.

  “I can’t,” she said, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “I’m mostly guessing. But I’m pretty good at guessing.”

  “Okay,” Mitchell said, deciding to drop it. “I really think it’s worth a try. We need to check around, find a cop that’s good-looking enough to grab the killer’s attention. Maybe state police can help us or…” he slowed down. He suddenly realized everyone except Zoe were looking at him strangely.

  “What?” he finally asked.

  “We already have a really good-looking cop,” the chief said.

  “Really?” Mitchell frowned. “Great. Who do you have in…” the rest of his sentence dissipated as realization sank. He turned to Jacob, who was looking back at him, his blue eyes reflecting nothing but innocence; Mitchell realized his partner had known where this would go all along. He was stunned at the betrayal.

  “No,” he said.

  “Mitchell—” Bailey began.

  “No!” he said, louder. “She just joined the force a few weeks ago. She’s not experienced enough. It’s too damn dangerous. I will not allow it. I—”

  “Detective Lonnie!” The chief snapped, her voice slicing his words to shreds. He shut up. “Officer Lonnie is perfectly capable of making up her own mind. I will be the only one to decide if this is too dangerous. I remind you that only a few seconds ago you were very enthusiastic about the idea.”

  Yeah, Mitchell thought. But that was because he had never realized his sister would be the bait.

  Success, it turned out, was way more addictive than Ricky Nate could have ever imagined. When she had started working at the Gazette, fame hadn’t been foremost in her mind. She mostly worked there because the thought of telling her mother she had been right, and a degree in journalism really had been a waste of time and money, made her nauseous. But the reporters at the New York Times didn’t have the Glenmore Park Gazette in their CV. It wasn’t exactly a stairway to the world of journalistic acclaim.

  Until the article about The Deadly Messenger. Her life had changed overnight. Her words had been quoted in dozens of incredibly respected magazines, both online and offline. She’d received e-mails from important people who probably hadn’t been aware of her existence the day before. Her mother had called to tell her that Uncle Richie in Boston had read her article and was very impressed.

  The day after the article was published was by far the happiest day of her life. Three days later, when she realized the phone calls and e-mails had stopped completely, and her article hadn’t been referenced for over twelve hours, she crashed.

  She had to get more of that.

  Problem was, success was not a drug easily purchased. She couldn’t walk up to a guy on a shady corner, pull out a twenty-dollar bill, and ask if he had some triumph and fame.

  She had to get it the hard way. She tried writing the killer several times, hoping he would respond, but her fourth e-mail was returned to sender, the e-mail address no longer in existence. She tried to milk all her contacts at the police, but most had nothing to tell her, and those that did kept quiet. She did a follow-up on Tamay’s family, and was moderately successful—she was quoted in two medium sized online news sites—but this wasn’t the pure thing she had felt before. She needed to do better.

  She showed up at Skyler Gaines’s funeral. She would never have done it a month before. She had always hated journalists who hounded the grieving parents or widows, refusing to give them space to mourn. But that had been before she became an addict. Now, she needed the story. If she had to invade the privacy of a mourning family, it was a small price to pay.

  It was heartbreaking, really. Skyler’s mother was clearly shattered, staring blankly at her daughter’s casket, completely oblivious to the condolences she received from the people who surrounded her. The father tried to be strong, until he suddenly burst into a fit of loud sobs that echoed in the large chapel.

  Ricky kept trying to format what she was seeing and feeling into dramatic, emotion-inducing sentences. Skyler Gaines was plucked from her loving family’s embrace— No. Plucked evoked thoughts of chickens. The Deadly Messenger has struck again, stealing Skyler from her loving— Oh, for God’s sake, what was she, in third grade? Some real passion was required here.

  Maybe make it more personal. As I watched Skyler’s parents weeping, I couldn’t help wondering… Not bad. Not bad at all. What couldn’t she help wondering? About mortality? Motherhood perhaps? She definitely had something there; she just needed to keep at it.

  A woman sat beside her, crying, constantly wiping her nose with a limp paper handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Ricky told her quietly.

  “Thanks,” the woman said, blubbering.

  “Are you related to the
deceased?” Ricky asked.

  “No, I’m just her friend,” the woman said. “We were very good friends.”

  “I’m sure you were,” Ricky said distractedly, trying to think of a poetic way to describe all the flowers around the coffin.

  “He was going to kill me as well,” the woman said.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Ricky asked, turning toward her in shock.

  “The killer. He sent me a message.”

  Ricky was prepared to dismiss the woman as a lunatic, or attention-starved—she knew what that was like— when the woman pulled out her phone, fiddled with it, and showed the screen to Ricky. Ricky blinked at the image of the rope. It definitely looked foreboding.

  “He sent it to me only a few minutes before he killed poor Skyler,” the woman said, sniffling. “I think he was coming for me next. But the police showed up.”

  “Really?” Ricky said, her heart racing. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  They all knew there was no time to waste. The time between each murder was getting shorter. Two weeks between the last murders. They probably had no more than ten days until the killer would strike again.

  Captain Bailey called Tanessa, waking her up. Waking up a few hours after a graveyard shift was a nightmare in itself. When she found out Chief Dougherty wanted to see her, it became even worse. Except it turned out the chief didn’t want to chew her ear about anything she did in particular. This was not, contrary to what Tanessa had thought, about the doughnut box incident. No, the chief just wanted to ask if Tanessa would be willing to be bait for a deadly serial killer.

  That was all.

  Sure, Tanessa said, the image of Tamay’s face burning in her mind. She’d be happy to help.

  Zoe Bentley, Tanessa, and Mitchell were tasked with creating an Instagram profile to bait the killer. They decided to use Tanessa’s own profile, which had images of her from the past year, though she’d neglected it lately. They removed any image which had any connection to the police. Then Zoe began to figure out how Tanessa should pose for the new pictures. What she should wear. Where she should take them. They scanned the profiles of the previous victims. All his victims were between eighteen and twenty-two. Tanessa was twenty-five, but Zoe said it was fine. They’d just lie about her age.