Without thinking, she stepped closer.
Each tree along the edge of the forest had been vandalized—harsh, circular slashes etched into the bark. The same symbol over and over. Dayna’s hands flew to her mouth.
Behind her, Reagan was stammering into the phone. “We found her at the bottom of the stairs. Come fast. I think—I think she’s dead. No, she’s not moving. There’s blood.”
Dayna’s gaze flicked back to Margery, sprawled on the grass. Thick trails of blood had seeped out and left patches on her sweater.
Her stomach flipped, and she stumbled back a step, toward the stairs. If she was going to be sick, she shouldn’t do it here. The forest seemed to surge and warp, and Dayna clutched the railing, gasping for breath. She couldn’t pass out; they had to get somewhere safe. Someone was out there. Someone who’d carved the same symbol into the trees with a kind of obsessive precision. Someone who’d stabbed Margery repeatedly.
“I’m staying on the phone. Aye, we’re on the stairs at the back. Dayna, come on, she says to stay on the stairs.”
The next six minutes seemed like an eternity. An eternity in which Margery did not move, save for the patches of blood widening slowly on her sweater.
Dayna and Reagan stayed together, clutching each other, the voice on the other end of the line like some fragile link to safety.
Dayna kept desperately grasping for something, anything, to guard them. A spell, an incantation, even a prayer that might ward off a potential attack. Instead, her mind kept circling back to the same thing.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.
Her chest kept getting tighter, and she pressed a hand to her throat, fingers splayed, struggling to drag in another breath, and another.
Reagan had begun an incantation now, muttering a complicated spell under her breath, tracing one shaking hand in front of her. A faint shimmer appeared before them as Dayna gasped in another deep breath.
Whatever was in the trees shouldn’t be able to get through Reagan’s spell. Unless, of course…it was more powerful than them.
The wail of sirens in the distance made Dayna tense, and then the relief that shuddered through her came out in a sob. When the first officer began making his way down the steps, Reagan let out a strangled gasp and let her hand drop, and the spell flickered out.
“They’re here. Oh, thank god, they’re finally here.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
SAMUEL
Sam checked his phone for the hundredth time.
It had been a full ten minutes since Dayna had hung up on him, and he kept trying to convince himself not to call her back. She was somewhere safe; she was with Reagan and not Harriet King.
But where was she right now? Why wasn’t she calling him? She’d said to meet at the Coffee Bean, he was fairly sure of that. But he hadn’t really been able make out what Reagan had said in the background. It had sounded like she’d cursed. Had she sounded angry or afraid?
Maybe Dayna wasn’t as safe as she thought she was.
Sam glanced up and then back down at his phone, barely registering as someone sat down on one of the stools beside him. The Coffee Bean was usually quiet, but it was really packed today.
He’d give her another five minutes, and then he’d call again.
In an attempt to distract himself, he went to the counter to buy an iced latte, trying to ignore the barista’s bemused expression. He was fully aware he had sweat stains on his T-shirt. When Dayna hadn’t picked up the phone earlier, he’d begun frantically riding his bike across town to her house, hoping to catch her. Then he’d just as frantically ridden back as soon as she’d suggested the Coffee Bean.
He sat back down at the bar in front of the window and pulled up the message boards.
Sam had messaged a few of his forum mates less than five minutes ago, and CrimeBuff69 had somehow already managed to unearth old records for Harriet King—rent agreements, phone bills, old addresses. Sam didn’t ask how.
He spent several long minutes trying to piece together the woman’s history. Of course, it didn’t help that his phone vibrated with a new notification every five seconds.
When he’d first logged into the forums, his mouth had dropped open. Since news of the murders had leaked, his inbox had been filling, but reporters seemed to have found the forums now, and his inbox was at maximum capacity. He had hundreds of messages, both from forum regulars demanding information, and reporters requesting interviews and asking if he had inside information.
The whir of the coffee grinder made him glance up from the screen, and he noticed the coffee shop was filling up faster than usual.
A blond woman in a pantsuit moved past him, smiling. At the counter, a man in black slacks and a checkered dress shirt was speaking quietly with a gray-haired gentleman wearing an earpiece.
None of them looked familiar.
He remembered what the agents had said to his father, that there would be press flying in. Apparently they’d all just arrived and were cramming into the same coffee shop.
He tried to ignore the pantsuited lady, who was talking loudly on her phone beside him. “Nothing, Reginald. I told you, the sergeant practically dragged me out by my hair.” She paused. “No, the forum chap hasn’t replied. Yes, I know. I’ll keep looking, keep your knickers on.”
He froze. Exactly how many reporters in this coffee shop currently had messages in his inbox? The thought was bizarre. They seemed to think he was going to be some kind of source for them, having been the first one to know the Butcher was back. As if he had some kind of inside knowledge of what the killer’s next move was going to be.
He wished…
His inbox pinged again.
CrimeBuff69: I just found it. File is attached. Do you realize what this means?
Sam bit his lip, clicking on the file at the bottom of the message. It was a tenant agreement, drawn up ten years ago.
CrimeBuff69 had managed to dig up proof that Harriet King had been in Manchester when the Butcher first started carving his symbol. And here Sam was looking at a rental agreement on the Isle of Man.
If he’d learned anything from his obsession with true crime, it was that coincidences stopped being coincidental once they piled up like this.
Three places. Manchester, the Isle of Man, and now…the city of Carman.
Fingers trembling, he typed out, He’s following her.
A second later the reply appeared in his inbox.
CrimeBuff69: Mate, if you think your gf is hanging out with her, you got to get to this lady NOW.
Sam stood up so fast his chair tipped back, crashing to the floor. He froze as everyone in the shop turned to stare at him. The reporter in the pantsuit blinked at him. Her brow creased, and she took a step toward him. “Are you—”
She was cut off a second later by the whoop of a siren from outside. The walls of the coffee shop were suddenly flickering blue and red.
Two police cars had rounded the corner, pulling into the lot so fast their tires kicked up plumes of dust. As Sam watched, a third pulled in behind, followed by an ambulance. The officers hit the ground running. The crowd inside the shop gravitated to the window.
The gardai and the paramedics vanished into the tiny shop next to the farmers market.
Margery.
A second later, the pantsuited lady shot out the front door, nearly spilling her coffee in the process, and several of the other reporters did the same. Sam scooped up his bag, his heart hammering, and he followed.