Page 13 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)

Pulling my jacket tighter around me, I connect my laptop to my cellphone hotspot and type Rowan’s name into the search engine.

The first few pages of hits are all related to the podcast. I skim through them until I come across a photo from a charity event raising money for families of missing kids.

It’s a picture of the major donor sponsors for the event, and Rowan’s name is listed in the caption as: “ Rowan Applegate: Vice President, Lost Angels .”

I let out a breath. I had no idea she was so involved with the Lost Angels beyond the podcast. Given that Leo was the president and is now MIA, that would make Rowan the de facto head of the organization.

I study the photo, trying to figure out which of the dozen people pictured she might be.

Eventually, I give up and continue my search, coming across something else: a profile on one of those professional networking sites where you post your resume.

There’s a picture at the top, from what’s clearly a professional photoshoot.

She’s wearing a smart gray suit with a red silk blouse, her dark hair tucked behind her ears.

Her eyes are a stunning light blue, and there’s a studied seriousness to her expression as she stares down the lens of the camera.

I glance at her most recent job: Cybersecurity Lead Consultant at DevTech.

I sit back, tucking my chilly fingers into my sleeves as I skim her list of qualifications and skills: extensive experience with ethical hacking, expertise in penetration testing frameworks, familiarity with vulnerability assessment tools.

Basically, she’s a hacker, but the kind companies hire to test their own security defenses. Which makes her an expert in technology. As in the kind of skills that might come in handy when trying to help someone disappear online.

Dopamine floods my system, causing my fingertips to tingle and my stomach to soar.

I love this feeling. It’s one of the best parts of being a private investigator: the physical reward of finding a clue or fitting a piece to the puzzle.

My gut knows this is important. I’m on to something that will get me closer to the truth.

Pulse pounding with anticipation, I pull up the encrypted messaging app on my phone Taylor always insists I use to contact her. I copy the link to Rowan’s profile and send it to her, along with a message. She has a connection to Varrus. Any chance she may be involved?

Taylor responds within seconds. If she is, I’ll find out. Talk soon.

I give myself a few minutes to bask in this feeling. It’s the closest I’ve felt to success in a while, and if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s to enjoy the wins when and where you can.

Unfortunately, it’s short-lived. Less than a minute later, my phone buzzes with an alert. I check the screen, and my heart stutters. It’s from my podcast app. The second episode of The Royal Murders just dropped.

I check the time. It will be at least an hour before Connor’s done with his shift. A part of me thinks I should maybe wait to listen to it with Sam this evening, but what if Lanny gets a chance to listen before then?

My stomach churns with dread as I slide my laptop into my bag and pull out my headphones. I put them on and tug my hat down over my ears before taking a deep breath and pressing play. There are a few ads before the intro music, and then I’m met with the sound of my ex-husband’s voice.

“I’m going to get you!” he calls in a taunting, sing-song voice. “You can run, but I’ll run faster!”

I gasp, my fight-or-flight instincts kicking in, freezing me to the spot.

I jam my finger against the screen, desperate to end the assault.

When that doesn’t work, I rip the earphones free and fling them to the ground.

The podcast continues to play through the phone’s speaker, Melvin’s voice now tinny and distant.

I turn the volume all the way down, finally silencing him.

I’m panting by this point, sweat beading on my forehead and trailing down the back of my neck despite the cold weather. I close my eyes, drawing deep breaths to ground myself. But I can’t stop my mind from spinning back to the last time I heard that voice.

We’d been in an old, abandoned plantation house in the Louisiana bayou.

He’d just finished beating a woman’s head against the doorjamb before driving a screwdriver through her skull, killing her.

Then, he’d turned to me, his face smeared with blood.

He’d looked at me hungrily, ready to torture and kill me.

“Gina, I’m sorry, but this is how it has to ? — ”

To be.

That’s what I always assumed he meant to say. Not that it matters. They were the last words he ever spoke before I shot him dead.

I’m about to throw up. I press the back of my hand against my mouth, rifling through my purse with my free hand for my water bottle. I take several swallows, focusing on the feel of the cold water flowing down my throat.

I’m okay , I tell myself. I’m safe . I force myself to look around, to ground myself in my present reality. I’m at a horse farm in Tennessee. Melvin is dead and buried.

Though his bones are no longer there , a small voice reminds me. He’s still out there, pieces of him being used for some unknown, sick purpose.

“Enough!” I don’t realize I shout the word until a horse in a nearby field lifts its head, its ears twitching as I glance around, hoping no one is near enough to have heard or noticed my distress.

Everything seems to be continuing as normal: an instructor giving pointers during a lesson in a distant ring. Music filtering from the barn as Connor and a few other kids his age work through their chores. Hooves pounding as a woman steers her horse through an obstacle course.

I blow out a trembling breath that clouds the cold air and sit back in the chair.

My fingers grip the arms, nails digging through the paint and into the wood.

I force myself to release my grasp. I focus on box breathing: inhale for four beats, hold for four beats, exhale for four, then pause for four before starting again.

Already it’s affecting my parasympathetic nervous system, slowing my heart rate and easing the panic churning my muscles.

After several more minutes I feel my body returning to a somewhat normal state.

At least enough that my legs don’t tremble when I stand to hunt for the earphones that I threw into the dead grass.

When I’m finally settled again, I stare at the podcast’s cover art on my phone. It’s of a playing card, the king of hearts looking toward the left on top and the queen of hearts mirrored below. Their throats are slit, with blood dripping from the wounds.

It’s pretty obvious the king is meant to represent Melvin and I’m the queen. That both our necks are cut, presumably killing blows, isn’t particularly subtle. I stare at the words written in smaller font above the title: The Lost Angels Presents .

A familiar rage rises inside me, coupled with a newer exhaustion. First, Sam came for me, then Miranda Tidewell, then Leonard Varrus. Now that Leo has disappeared, it looks like Rowan Applegate is taking his place as the head of the Lost Angels to continue their crusade against me and my family.

The problem is that it’s difficult to hate them. They lost loved ones in horrific and brutal ways. For some of them, that kind of pain is too overwhelming to face, and it’s easier to manage it if they turn it into anger and blame.

Even though I wasn’t involved in their loved ones’ deaths, I still understand why they find me complicit.

Melvin was kidnapping and torturing women in our garage, practically under my own nose.

He claimed to be woodworking, and I never asked questions—never wondered why he came in from the garage without the telltale smell of sawdust on him.

Never asked what happened to all the furniture he claimed to be building.

If I’d been more curious, more suspicious, less milquetoast and deferential, maybe I would have discovered the truth earlier. Perhaps I could have turned him in to the authorities before he killed so many women. Before he killed Callie.

The truth was, there were moments I was scared of him, but I pushed those fears aside because I didn’t know what to do with them.

I had the life I wanted: two wonderful children, a house in a safe neighborhood with good schools, and a husband who supported us financially.

I didn’t want to do anything to rock that boat .

I accept the responsibility of my ignorance. But that doesn’t mean I deserve to be hunted. I don’t deserve to have my family targeted so publicly.

For a moment, I consider deleting the podcast—deleting all of it, actually: the SuperSicko folder, the Sicko Patrol files, the programs I use to access the Melvin Royal message boards on the dark web.

I think about recommitting to my promise to move on from all of it.

I know it’s what Lanny wants. After visiting Reyne U and getting a taste of what a normal, anonymous life would look like, she’s craved more of it.

She doesn’t understand why I spend so much time and energy surrounding myself with negativity instead of just letting it all go.

What she doesn’t understand is that ignorance isn’t bliss. Ignorance is dangerous. Ignorance doesn’t stop the threat from existing, it just ensures you’re not prepared for it when it comes.

That’s why I can’t let it go. Why I can’t move on.

With that in mind, I slide the earphones back in and brace myself for Melvin’s voice. This time, at least, I know it’s coming.