Page 29 of The First Hunt (The Final Hunt)

HOLLY

H olly turned up the volume on her Walkman over the rain pelting against the roof and closed her eyes.

Roxy Vega’s first hit single, “Anarchy in Neon,” played through her headphones.

She tried to envision what it must’ve felt like to be the young singer, on the uprise of punk rock fame, strolling along a downtown street in the middle of the night after leaving her friends at a bar near Pike Place Market.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Holly opened her eyes and paused the cassette. Had she heard something? Streaks of rain blurred the window that looked out over the Narrows Bridge. It had been raining on and off all day, just like it had the day Roxy Vega died.

She was about to press play when she heard it again.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

She pulled off her headphones, then crept slowly down the stairs, her shoulder sliding along the wall.

Laurie always called before dropping by.

Holly paused at the bottom of the steps, straining to make out the figure beyond the frosted glass.

The outline looked taller—and thinner—than Jared’s stocky frame.

The stranger stood still, no longer knocking, as if they’d sensed Holly was on her way to the door. She got to her tiptoes and peered through the peephole. The tension dissipated from her shoulders. It was a teenage boy. Probably looking for money for a school fundraiser.

He turned and started down her porch steps.

Holly opened the door. “Can I help you?”

He spun. He was a good-looking kid. Tall, wavy brown hair and hazel eyes. He smiled.

“Hi. Sorry to bother you. I just came to see about borrowing that book.”

Holly’s brows knitted together. “Sorry?” He must have had the wrong house.

He glanced sideways in a look of confusion. “I live next door. I’m Clint’s son—”

“Oh!” Holly’s hand flew to the side of her head. “Yes. Of course.” Sometimes it was hard to pull her mind out of the story she was writing to reenter her present reality. She wondered on occasion if that was why she wrote. “Come in.” She opened the door wide.

The young man’s expression softened. She could see it now—the boy’s resemblance to his father. Same hair, lankier than his dad but a similar build.

“Sorry,” she added when he stepped inside. “I meant to find it for you. I’ve been writing all day. It’s just in a box upstairs.”

“I’m a huge fan of your books. I’ve read them all. The Last Broadcast was my favorite.”

“Thank you. Me too. That was my first.”

He stood in the entryway when she started up the stairs, looking unsure about stepping farther into the house. Halfway up, she glanced over her shoulder. “Come on up if you’d like. It might take me a few minutes to find it. As long as you don’t mind the mess of a writer’s office.”

A flash of excitement showed on his face. “I won’t mind at all.” He slipped off his Nikes and glanced at the baseball bat leaning against the entryway wall. “You play baseball?”

Holly followed his gaze, slightly embarrassed at the bat Laurie had given her to use as a weapon. “Oh, no. That’s for…um…self-defense.”

“Oh, right,” he said, politely acknowledging her reason as if it were a normal explanation before following her up the steps.

“So, you read a lot of true crime?” she asked when she reached the top of the stairs.

“I read a little of everything. But yeah, I’ve been getting more into true crime the last few months. Aside from your books, I really liked Helter Skelter and The Onion Field .”

“Then you’re going to love In Cold Blood .

” She stepped into her office and moved toward one of the two boxes on the floor beside the desk.

She opened the first, seeing her stack of notebooks and cassette tapes of countless recorded interviews about Roxy Vega.

“It must be in this one.” She moved to the second box, finding the book near the top, along with her dictionary and The Chicago Manual of Style .

She stood to give it to him, but the boy wasn’t looking at her.

He stood, open-mouthed, gazing at her office wall.

Holly followed his gaze to the map and the list of suspected Green River Killer victims, organized by the locations where they’d gone missing and where they’d been found, along with the state of their corpses upon discovery.

Even though Holly had never been able to prove her theory, she still kept a list titled BUS STOP KILLER?

with a small group of women’s photos underneath, including Meg’s.

This morning she’d added a newspaper clipping to the growing list of victims she was increasingly worried Jared was responsible for.

It featured a photo of Rebecca Lopez, the twenty-five-year-old hairdresser who’d gone missing after leaving the nearby Albertson’s.

There were also several photos of body dump sites that she’d clipped from newspaper articles over the years, some of which she’d written herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said. How had I not thought about my murder wall before inviting him upstairs? “I forgot I had all of that up.” Her obsession over her sister’s murder had become normal to her. It was only in moments like these that it struck her that it wasn’t—especially to a teenager.

He stepped toward the wall, his eyes wide with fascination. “What’s all this?”

“It’s um…research.” Holly’s theory that there were two serial killers at large—not one—and that one of them killed her sister, seemed like too much to explain.

He turned away from the wall. “I read an article you wrote about your sister’s murder. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Holly cocked her head. The article she’d written for the Tribune where she’d mentioned Meg’s killing had come out in 1985. “How did you find that?”

His mouth lifted into a half smile. “The library.”

“Ah.” She nodded and held out the book. “Here you go.”

He accepted the book, flipping it over to the back cover.

“This is the first true crime novel ever written.” Holly pointed to the author’s photo.

“Truman Capote is credited with creating the genre. This is also the only true crime he ever wrote. Before this, he was known for writing Breakfast at Tiffany’s .

” She tapped the back cover. “But this is much better.” She looked up to meet the boy’s gaze. “Have you read To Kill a Mockingbird ?”

He cracked a grin. “Three times.”

“Harper Lee and Truman Capote were childhood best friends, and she helped him with his research.”

“Cool.” He let the book fall to his side.

“Is your dad also a big reader?”

He shrugged. “No, not really.”

“Your mom, then?”

His gaze shifted back to the wall. “Maybe. I’m not sure.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “She died when I was seven.”

“I’m so sorry. I assumed your parents were divorced.”

“That’s okay.” He met Holly’s gaze. “I don’t remember that much about her. Mostly just what my dad tells me.”

Holly studied him, feeling bad for bringing it up. “It’s hard to lose someone you love.” She wondered how his mother had died. Her gaze travelled to the X on the wall where Meg’s body had been found.

“Well, I better go,” he said. “I promised my dad I’d help make dinner, and I’ve got some homework to do.” He looked down at the faded paperback in his hand. “Thanks for the book. I should have it back to you sometime this weekend.”

Holly waved a hand through the air. “Take your time.”

“It was nice to talk to someone about books,” he said as Holly followed him down the stairs. “My friends are only into video games.”

“They’re missing out.”

He nodded, throwing her a lopsided grin. “Definitely.”

Holly paused halfway down the staircase. “If you liked Helter Skelter , I have another book you might like called Till Death Us Do Part . It’s written by that same attorney. If you have a minute, I’ll run up and see if I can find it.”

“Sure.” He nodded. “Thanks.”

“Be right back.” Holly bounded up the stairs, only to return a few minutes later without having found it. “I looked through the boxes I packed, but it must still be at my houseboat. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’m excited to read this one.” The boy stood tall after tying his shoelaces when Holly reached the bottom of the stairs.

She appraised the well-mannered teenager as he opened the front door. Clint had done a great job raising such a nice kid as a single parent. It couldn’t be easy to do alone.

“Thanks again for the book,” he said before stepping outside.

“You’re welcome.”

He turned, reaching into the front pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. “Oh. I almost forgot.” He pulled out a mass market paperback copy of The Last Broadcast. “Would you sign this for me?”

Holly blushed. It didn’t matter how many books she’d signed; she still felt flushed whenever someone asked. “Sure.” She took the book as he pulled a pen from his pocket and held it out to her.

Her cheeks felt hot when she opened it to the title page but for a completely different reason. “Oh, my gosh. Sorry, I don’t think I got your name?”

“It’s John.”

“John,” she repeated as she signed the book to him. She smiled, closing the book and handing it back. “It was nice to meet you.”