She found herself wondering, not for the first time that day, what her mother was doing right now—what monsters Riley Paige might be hunting, what minds she might be deciphering while Jilly struggled with quadratic equations and the subtle politics of high school.
She sighed, still staring into her locker in the quiet hallway.Her mother had been up and gone early that morning, summoned by a phone call that could only mean another case, another killer.Bill—who she’d started tentatively calling “Dad” in recent weeks—had been away in Maryland on a case of his own.
April, lucky April, had escaped the confines of high school altogether.At Jefferson Bell University, she had classes with names like “Critical Approaches to Political Theory” and “Modernist Literature and Social Change.”Her sister had texted yesterday about some professor who’d quoted Nietzsche for twenty straight minutes without notes.Even April’s complaints sounded sophisticated.
“Meanwhile,” Jilly muttered to herself, picking at a loose thread on her jeans, “I get to dissect a frog tomorrow.”
The truth was, school felt like marking time—necessary but tedious hours to endure between the moments that actually mattered.Not that she didn’t try.Her grades were decent, aside from that C-minus in Algebra that felt like a personal affront every time she thought about it.But everything about high school seemed so...ordinary.So inconsequential compared to what her family did.
Years ago, she’d seen things on the streets of Phoenix that most of her classmates couldn’t imagine.Then Mom had found her, had seen something worth saving, had fought through bureaucracy and her own doubts to bring Jilly home, to give her this chance at normal.
Normal.The word tasted strange, even in thought.What did normal even mean when your adoptive mother hunted serial killers for a living?When your sister had once helped take down a psychopath who had kidnapped her?When the man becoming your father had scars—physical and otherwise—from decades spent peering into humanity’s darkest corners?
Jilly’s phone buzzed against her thigh, jolting her from the questions in her mind.She pulled it from her pocket, expecting a text from Gabriela about dinner plans or a reminder from Mom about locking all the doors when she got home.Instead, an unfamiliar number glowed on the screen.
Hey beautiful.Been watching you in class.Too shy to talk in person, but wanted to let you know I think you’re amazing.
Jilly blinked, reading the message twice.A warm flush crept up her neck, followed immediately by skepticism.She glanced around the empty hallway as if the mysterious texter might be lurking nearby.
The message sounded like it was from someone at school—someone who shared at least one class with her.Her mind instantly jumped to Jason Merrick in Chemistry, with his quiet intensity and habit of glancing away whenever she caught him looking.Jason, with his dark hair that fell across one eye, and the careful, precise way he handled the lab equipment.Jason, who always seemed on the verge of saying something to her before retreating back into himself.
Who is this?she typed back, her thumb hovering over the send button for just a moment before pressing down.
The response came almost immediately, as if the person had been waiting, phone in hand.
An admirer.
Jilly frowned, the initial flutter of excitement cooling.The vagueness of the response triggered an instinct honed by those past years—the same survival sense that had told her which truckers were safe to approach and which would demand more than conversation.
Seriously, who are you?I don’t like guessing games.
She watched the screen, three dots pulsing as the mystery texter composed a reply.
Someone in your orbit.Someone who’s noticed how different you are from everyone else here.How much deeper.I wish I could tell you face to face, but I’m not brave like you.Maybe we could meet somewhere?Get to know each other for real?
The message set off a warning bell in the back of Jilly’s mind.There was something too polished about the wording.This didn’t sound like a nervous teenage boy working up the courage to talk to her.It felt calculated, engineered to appeal to a sense of specialness.
Old street lessons whispered in her ear:If something feels wrong, it probably is.Trust your gut.
I think you have the wrong number,she typed, deliberately casual, buying time to think.
No mistake, Jilly.I know exactly who I’m texting.
Her breath caught.The pretense of a shy classmate was crumbling, and something colder took its place.
A new text appeared:I’d really like to meet you tonight.How about 9:00?
The hallway suddenly seemed too exposed, too public.Jilly gathered her backpack and moved quickly to the nearest empty classroom, sliding into a seat in the far corner, back to the wall where she could see both the door and the windows.Old habits.
She scrolled back through the brief exchange, searching for clues, for anything that might confirm the suspicion now forming.
Leo Dillard.
The name alone was enough to make her shoulders tense.She’d never met him, but his presence haunted their home like an evil spirit—the reason for the extra locks, the security cameras, the careful check-ins, the way Mom’s eyes constantly scanned for threats.
Was this him?Was he reaching out to her as a way to get to Mom?
The bell rang, startling her.Five minutes until Algebra.Jilly barely registered the sound, her mind racing through possibilities.
