Page 9 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)

I hadn’t been trained like I am now. Nor did I have access to the tools and databases I do today.

I start with the first name: At0m1Cluck.

He’d been a regular for a while, sending messages every month or so.

I click on his folder, already bracing for what I know I’ll find.

He was a fan of torture porn, and he especially liked photoshopping my face on the women involved and then sending me the results.

The video begins to play automatically, and I practically jump out of my skin trying to get it to stop.

At the time, I’d been able to track his user name across several different sites.

He’d posted enough personal details on each one that I eventually pieced together his real identity.

His name was Salem Adams, and he worked as a forklift operator in a warehouse outside Boise.

I’d considered collecting some of his messages and sending them to his boss, but this was early on in my post-Melvin life when I was still on the run and trying to keep a low profile.

I jot down his name and run it through one of the more powerful search engines I have access to through work, wondering if his online activity ever caught up to him.

Instead of an article about him getting fired for any of his violent, racist posts, I find an obituary.

I dig a little deeper and discover that he was murdered several months ago in what authorities determined was a home invasion gone wrong.

I can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone. That’s one less person in the world dedicating his life to spewing hate .

I move on to the next name on my SuperSicko list: QP1113d, aka Forrester Blakeny.

Where Salem had been one of Melvin’s early acolytes, Blakeny didn’t start falling down the Melvin Royal rabbit hole until a year ago.

However, once he decided that I was complicit in my ex-husband’s murders, he came after me pretty aggressively.

Not only did he send me vile, threatening emails, he also reached out to my boss late last year to ask her if she knew she was employing a serial killer.

J.B. hadn’t appreciated his tip and responded by using her agency resources to track him down and burn every contact of his she could.

She took great delight in forwarding me an article from his small-town newspaper, indicating he’d been fired from his sales job once his online activity came to light thanks to an anonymous community member.

I run an updated search on his name and frown when I find another obituary.

It’s short on details, and when I try searching for more information, I come up empty.

I check the date of his death and realize it wasn’t long after J.B.

blew up his life. For a moment, I feel a slight pang of guilt, wondering if there’s a connection between the two.

For the next several names on my list I don’t turn up anything interesting. Then I come across another two who died, one in what was assumed to be a drug deal gone wrong, and the other a gang hit. I discover two more who seem to have gone missing, though it’s unclear whether foul play was involved.

I sit back in my chair, looking at my final tally. There are over fifty names on my SuperSicko list, and four are dead. Another two are missing and presumed dead. Plus, Cooper Kuntz, who the FBI asked me about earlier. That’s over a 10% mortality rate so far.

Given that the US murder rate is around seven and a half deaths per one hundred thousand people, having that same number of suspicious deaths out of a group of fifty is alarmingly high .

I think about Special Agent Wren’s card on my kitchen table and consider compiling the list to send to her.

But she made it pretty clear she isn’t a fan of mine and the feeling is mutual.

Besides, I’m not sure what she’d do with the information other than conclude that I’m the common link, which would only fuel her suspicion of me.

Instead, I go back to the article I found on Salem Adams’ death and find the name of the police officer it quoted. I track down his phone number and give him a call. I’m surprised when he picks up on the second ring. I expected to be redirected to an operator instead.

It takes me a second to find my footing, but then I give him my name and explain that I’m calling for information about the Salem Adams case.

He hesitates for a moment before responding. “Do you mind if I ask what your interest is in the case?”

Over the years, I’ve learned that the best lies skew as much toward the truth as possible. “Of course. I’m a private investigator,” I give him the name of my company and my PI license number. “Mr. Adams’ name came up while I was doing some work for a client.”

“Unfortunately, ma’am, given that this is an open and ongoing investigation, I’m not at liberty to give out any details.”

I shouldn’t be surprised by the answer. I knew it was a long shot that he’d speak to me, but I’d still hoped he might.

“I understand.” I pause for a moment, wondering if I should ask if there were any human bones at the scene, but then realize if the answer is yes, it will only complicate things.

If that’s a piece of information that hasn’t been released to the public, it would look very suspicious for me to call out of the blue and ask about it.

Instead, I thank the officer for his time and end the call.

I sit for another moment, tapping my pen on the desk.

It’s a waste of time to call any of the law enforcement involved in the other cases; they’ll all give me similar answers.

However, there’s someone I know who they might be willing to talk to.

When Kez answers the phone, her breathing is labored, and her voice is strained. Alarm bells go off in my head.

“What’s wrong?” I immediately ask.

“I’m fine,” she tells me. “I’m just in labor.”