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There were only six cars in the parking lot of the Spring Orchard apartment complex, and none of them were a beaten-up black Toyota.

Which meant Robert Lawrence wasn’t home.

Three days, three bodies, and now Ripley was chasing a woman who’d crucified her own father. The thought clawed at her stomach.

Ella exited the car and made for Robert Lawrence’s apartment. The complex was a small place, and Ella was going to use the lack of bodies around to her advantage. Namely that nobody would be around to see her break in.

She found the entrance to the complex unlocked. She navigated the ground floor until she found apartment 7. It was at the end of the row. She banged on the door, then put her ear to the wood.

Nothing. Not even the electric hum of occupied space.

She tried the handle – locked – then checked the corridor. Left, right, clear. Nobody home to witness her procedural sins.

Before she could step back and position herself to break this thing down, her phone rang. Sheriff Bauer lit up her screen.

‘Bauer, tell me something good,’ she answered.

‘Far from good. We found the cruiser Ripley took. There were some dents in the front and side.’

‘Where?’

‘About fifteen miles west of here. Just off Route 60 on an unmarked access road. Middle of nowhere.’

‘And Ripley?’

‘No sign of her. The vehicle’s empty.’

Ella’s lungs collapsed. Ripley would never abandon her cruiser unless she was dead or dragged out of it.

‘Any blood? Signs of struggle?’

‘None, but there are tire tracks from another vehicle.’

The scene crystallized in her head, so vivid it was like watching it on a reel. Ripley pushing Sarah off the road, then approaching her, only for – what? The reel cut off. What had happened next? Had Sarah somehow abducted Ripley, and if so, where the hell was she taking her?

Another thought made its unwelcome intrusion – was Ripley still breathing? The lack of blood at the scene suggested her partner was still alive, but Sarah could be taking Ripley somewhere more isolated to do the deed.

Even as Ella thought about it, she just couldn’t imagine Sarah doing that. Sarah Webb was hiding something, but Ella didn’t think it was as simple as: she’s a serial killer.

‘Sheriff, I’ll get to the scene ASAP.’

Ella hung up and found herself being drawn back towards her car. She needed to see this wreckage for herself, and by some miracle, there might be a clue that pointed to Sarah’s final destination. Ella was back outside when she turned around and saw a row of porches.

She counted from the building’s edge. One, three, five, seven. The fourth patio would be apartment 7.

Robert Lawrence’s balcony and porch were right in front of her. It was a sliding glass door with vertical blinds drawn across it. One plastic chair occupied the corner, with an ashtray overflowing with butts. No plants, no decorations.

She’d come all this way to interview Robert, so she couldn’t leave with nothing. There was still a chance that something in his apartment could clue her in on Sarah’s intentions.

Did she have a warrant? No. Was she going to let that stop her? No.

Ella planted one hand on the railing, launched herself up and over, and landed on Lawrence’s patio with a soft thud.

She froze. Nothing stirred inside the apartment.

Through the vertical blinds covering the sliding glass door, she caught only darkness. Her fingers found the handle, expecting resistance.

It glided open smoothly.

Only the overconfident left their patio doors open at night, but Ella wasn’t complaining. And it made the eventual paperwork easier to fill in when the bosses asked her to clarify how she obtained access to a person of interest’s residence.

‘Robert Lawrence? FBI,’ she called out.

No response came. Combined with the darkness, Ella could safely conclude that no one was home. She grabbed her phone and switched on the flashlight. She crossed the hardwood floor and found the living room light switch next to the door. She flicked it and the room bathed in artificial brightness.

The living room was as spare as it came.

A generic sofa, a coffee table littered with what looked like unpaid bills and fast-food wrappers.

A large, dark television screen stared back at her like a dead eye.

There was little to inspect, little to give away who Robert Lawrence – this man who’d apparently only manifested into existence five years ago – really was.

Next came the bedroom. Ella half-expected to find a sleeping Robert in the queen-sized bed, but no such luck on her part. The bed was still unmade from the last time he’d crashed here, and given the stale air, that could have been days ago.

The bathroom held nothing of note. A tiny bath, sink, toilet. A grimy cabinet with toothpaste, face cream and a razor inside.

Lastly, Ella came to a spare room. There was an exercise bike in one corner, a guitar in the other and a bookshelf lining the wall. Finally, things with personality, Ella thought. She began rummaging through the spines.

‘Know someone by what they read,’ she said.

Horror paperbacks seemed to be the dish of the day.

The classics; King, Barker, Straub, followed by what Ella assumed were newbies.

Amongst the horror was true crime too. She pulled one out: The Butcher of Boston: America’s Forgotten Serial Killer .

The back cover bore a small, stylized logo: a black silhouette of a scarecrow against white background. Scarecrow Press .

All of Sarah Webb’s books were present too.

‘Girlfriend writes them, boyfriend publishes them,’ Ella whispered. ‘Cozy little arrangement.’

Alas, there was nothing in this apartment to help her. If she wanted to find Ripley, she’d just have to put boots to the pavement and cover every damn inch of this whole town. With the help of Bauer’s men, maybe they could cover twenty miles of ground before the night was out.

Ella was about to take her leave when her peripheral vision snagged on an anomaly.

On the top shelf sat a book noticeably thinner than the others. It had been wedged between two monster hardbacks, almost purposely so, as though the aim was concealment, not display.

Ella stretched up on her toes and worked it free with her fingertips.

She stared at the cover.

For one surreal moment, her brain refused to process what she held.

The book was at least thirty years old. The glossy cover was worn at the edges. It had bright colors that seemed obscene in this monochromatic apartment.

Ella was staring at a children’s book.

But not just any children’s book. It had a purple cover – and a bookmark sticking out of the middle.

Ripley’s voice echoed in her head.

‘That boy, Nathan, had one of those books in his hand. You remember Goosebumps? Those scary stories for kids. I remember it like it was yesterday. Purple cover, evil scarecrow on the front, bookmark sticking out of the middle.’

A wave of pins-and-needles sensation washed from her scalp down her spine. Every nerve ending in Ella’s body fired at once. For three seconds, her heart forgot to beat, then made up for it by slamming against her ribs like an avalanche of pumping blood.

The analytical part of her brain snapped awake, even as her body remained locked in the physiological storm of revelation. The connections formed with horrific clarity.

Nathan Taylor. The boy on the beach. The child clutching his horror novel while Ripley explained that his father would never come home. The victim who’d had to ask if drowning hurt.

That same book was in her hands.

Goosebumps.

The Scarecrow Walks At Midnight.

Now, it made sense.

In Sarah Webb’s car a few nights ago, Ripley had said: ‘I doubt that kid ever recovered.’

Ripley had been right all along. Damningly, infuriatingly right. The snakes would get you. Sarah Webb wasn’t to be trusted – and that poor kid hadn’t recovered.

Because Robert Lawrence and Nathan Taylor were the same person.

Ella threw the book back on the shelf and frantically made for the exit. Her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground as she vaulted back over the railing. Her muscles felt electric, supercharged.

This wasn’t over, because she knew exactly where Sarah Webb and Nathan Taylor were going to be tonight.

Together, they were trying to write the ultimate true crime story, and if Nathan Taylor was the mastermind behind all of this, his story could only end in one place.

Hold on, Mia. I’m coming.