My phone sits on the table next to me, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m opening Facebook. The app loads with its usual flood of notifications, but I ignore them and find Marcus Walsh on the third page of results. His profile picture is a selfie of him with two kids, a boy and a girl, who can’t be older than elementary school age.
I scroll through his timeline. He hasn’t posted anything new in the past couple of days. But maybe he doesn’t post everything publicly.
My thumb hovers over the friend request button. What am I doing? But I tap it anyway, because maybe if he accepts, I can check in a couple of days and see if he’s posting again. That, maybe, he’s still him.
I’m going back to reading when a beeping sound blares through the house.
My hands fly to my ears, my heart immediately kicking into overdrive. The beeping is high-pitched and urgent, like an amplified digital alarm clock. Is this a fire alarm? Or?—
Shit. Is it theghostalarm? Did something get past the fence?
I set the book aside and push myself out of the chair, setting Bob on the ground as I pull open the library door.
The hallway is empty, but there’s a flurry of movement upstairs—doors opening, footsteps converging. The beepingstops just as Nico rounds the corner carrying a laptop, focused in that way that suggests he’s already three steps ahead of whatever’s happening.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“I called a team meeting,” he says as he walks past me.
A house-wide alarm is such an extra way to call everyone together for a meeting. I’m about to tell him this when he glances over his shoulder at me, his face stern and somber:
“I found a case, and it’s a big one.”
CHAPTER 13
Some say Alan Morrow lacked empathy. I can tell you right now they were mistaken. Morrow may have lackedemotionalempathy, but he had sufficient cognitive empathy to design a trial around each victim pair. He understood exactly what would break them.
—Wheels Upside-Down: My Time with the FBI, a memoir by Donald Dellman
In the living room, I sink into an open spot on the couch next to DJ, who’s already there with the biggest bag of Peach Rings I’ve ever seen balanced on her knees.
“Do you know anything about this case?” I ask her.
DJ shakes her head, popping an orange gummy into her mouth. “Whenever one of us finds a potential case, the person who found it presents it to the team. Nico’ll walk everyone through what he’s found. Then we’ll decide whether we’re going to investigate.”
I nod and shift on the couch, settling deeper into the cushions. Benji glances up from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor on DJ’s other side. Griffin has dragged in a chair from the kitchen and positioned it on the far side of the couch. I’m about to say hi to him when a person sitting in the corner catches my attention.
A girl sits hunched over a silver laptop, frowning at the screen as she types. I’m temporarily stunned by how gorgeous she is, in this intimidating, don’t-even-think-about-trying-to-talk-to-me way. Her tawny skin is flawless except for a scarcutting through her left eyebrow, and streaks of teal run through her dark curls. She’s wearing a boxy oversized sports jersey over baggy wide-leg jeans.
Her brown eyes flick up to mine. I give her a small smile, but she goes back to her computer.
So that must be Zoey. She looks cool as hell, honestly.
I glance at Nico, who’s standing next to the TV at the front of the room with his feet planted square and holding a laptop. He holds his shoulders back with this calm confidence that tells me he’s done this hundreds of times before. Every inch a leader. My eyes linger on him, maybe a second too long, before DJ shakes the bag of Peach Rings in front of me. I grab two. I freaking lovegummy candy.
“I’m guessing Nico finds most cases,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“We all keep an eye on the news, but nobody reads more than Nico,” she says. “He’s like a bloodhound.”
Donny enters the room and lowers himself into a leather armchair. The energy shifts. Even Griffin straightens.
“Everyone here?” Donny glances around, taking inventory of us. “Good. Nico.” He waves Nico forward.
“Two days ago,” Nico says, his voice steady and clinical, “a garbage man in Pittsburgh found a body in a dumpster behind a strip mall.”
He clicks something on his laptop, and a body appears on the TV. Male. White. Probably in his mid-thirties and lying on a pile of trash bags. There’s blood crusted around his mouth. I swallow the rubbery Peach Ring.
I’ve seen crime scene photos before, but only ever on my phone. I used to look at them a lot in high school—I’d scroll through leaked images of my family’s crime scene any time I wanted to punish myself—but I’ve never looked at any blown upon a TV, or while surrounded by other people. Benji is chewing on his thumbnail nervously.
