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Jessie had barely pulled out of the parking lot of Lemmon’s building when she got the call.

She was headed home on what was supposed to be her day off when she saw Captain Gaylene Parker’s number on her caller ID. That didn’t bode well.

"Hi, Captain," she said reluctantly.

“I can hear the enthusiasm in your voice, Hunt,” Parker replied, exhibiting a hint of something she rarely displayed: a sense of humor.

“Sorry,” Jessie said, “but I assume that when you call me on my day off, it’s not to see if I’m watching a rom-com double feature.”

“Afraid not,” Parker confirmed. “I’ve got a case I need your help with.”

“Captain, I’m literally the only member of the team not on duty today,” Jessie said. “Can’t someone else go?”

"The rest of the team is occupied, and your husband is still on desk duty," Parker told her. "Besides, I'd be asking for you even if they weren't all busy."

“Why?”

“Because Chief Decker asked me directly.”

Roy Decker, the chief of the LAPD, used to have Parker's old position as captain of downtown's Central Station, where Jessie and the rest of HSS worked. He was a huge advocate for Jessie, having seen her work up close. But that also meant that when a high-profile case was giving him trouble, he was quick to turn to her. There was no point in arguing if he'd put in the order.

“If everyone else is busy, how am I going to do this?” Jessie asked. “I’m not technically a cop. Any investigation requires a real-life detective.”

“And you’ll have one,” Parker told her. “This is going to be a joint operation between the Los Angeles Police Department and the jurisdictional agency.”

“Who is that?” Jessie asked.

“The Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department’s Homicide Bureau.”

“Why do they have jurisdiction?”

"Because of where the crime took place—just off King Harbor in Redondo Beach. Apparently some rich guy named Daran Peterson was murdered there, on his sailboat from what I'm hearing. The body was brought to shore after it was found floating at sea. But the sheriff wants a top profiler on this, and your name came up. It seemed like a perfect opportunity to get some law enforcement synergy going. Your partner will be Sheriff's Department detective Aaron Riddell. He's meeting you at the South Bay Yacht Club. That's where the boat left from last night. Do you need directions?"

“No,” Jessie said, “I’ve been down in that area on cases before.”

"Alright," Parker replied. "Please keep me updated on developments. You know Decker's going to be wanting them, and he's going to come to me."

"Yes, Captain," Jessie said. "Can you please transfer me to Ryan?"

“Yes, and feel free to use him if you need help,” she said. “Your husband is driving everyone crazy by trying to get up in their business.”

“That’s just so you’ll put him in the field early,” Jessie confided.

“I know, but it’s not going to work. Hold on.”

A moment later, she heard the police station’s hold music. A few seconds after that, Ryan’s familiar voice came on the line.

Jessie wished she wasn’t driving so that she could have a FaceTime call and look at him. Even though things had been bumpy for them lately, the sight of his dark hair, warm brown eyes, and sweet smile, highlighted by impressive dimples, always made her feel a little better.

“What’s up, wife?” he asked, sounding more playful than in recent days. She decided to embrace it.

“Just got assigned a case, husband,” she answered. “How are you?”

“Still as stir crazy as yesterday,” he said. “Parker won’t let me do anything outside the office. She’s even insisting that I order my lunch here. She said she doesn’t want to risk me going to a restaurant, seeing some shoplifter, and trying to chase him down.”

“I’ve got to say that it’s a legitimate concern.”

“Et tu, Brute?” he chided, before asking, “How’s Janice?”

“Dr. Lemmon is doing fine,” she said, keeping it vague to avoid any conversation about potential parenting. “Maybe you should set up an appointment to discuss that ‘craziness’ you mentioned.”

“Stir craziness,” he reminded her.

“If you say so,” she teased. “I might actually have something that will help keep you busy.”

“What’s that?” he asked, with unexpected excitement.

“I just got assigned a potential murder case,” she said. “I was going to ask Jamil and Beth to gather some info on the victim. Maybe you could give them an assist.”

“Sure,” he said enthusiastically. “Who are you being paired with?”

"The crime seems to have occurred on a boat offshore, so it's the Sheriff's Department's jurisdiction," she explained. "Parker says that Chief Decker wants LAPD to make nice with them, so he's offering my services. My partner will be a detective named Aaron Riddell."

“Oh.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

“It’s just that I’m vaguely familiar with Riddell,” Ryan said. “He has a reputation for being—caustic.”

“Wonderful,” Jessie groaned. “I’m already going to be out of my comfort zone on this one. And now you’re telling me I’m going to be working with a jerk?”

“I’ve never actually met him,” Ryan said, backtracking slightly. “Maybe the chatter is off base. Or maybe he’s mellowed.”

“All the more reason to have all my ducks in a row by the time I meet up with him,” Jessie said. “Can you get Jamil and Beth to pull whatever they can on the victim, Daran Peterson? I don’t have much on him other than that he’s dead and had a sailboat based out of Redondo, so I assume he was doing pretty well.”

“I’ll talk to them as soon as we hang up.”

“Are they busy?”

“They’re always busy,” Ryan said.

It wasn’t an exaggeration. The HSS research department was a small operation, comprised exclusively of research director Jamil Winslow and Beth Ryerson. Unlike the detectives in the unit, they never seemed to get a break. Luckily they were both only twenty-five with seemingly inexhaustible energy.

“Well, I’ll take whatever info they can give me.”

“Don’t forget that they’ll be getting a little help on this one from yours truly,” Ryan said.

“I appreciate it.”

“One more thing before I forget,” he said. “I nearly tripped on that box in the garage when I left this morning. Are you planning to do something with it soon?”

Ryan was referring to a bankers box filled with the personal of effects of a young man named Mark Haddonfield.

“Yes,” she groaned. “I promise that I’ll go through it this weekend. I just haven’t had the urge to look at the personal effects of a serial killer who first tried to murder me, and then after getting killed, gifted his personal possessions to me.”

“I understand,” Ryan said, “But maybe it’s better to just rip off the Band-aid. Besides, he must have had a reason to give you his stuff beyond just being obsessed with you.”

“You sure about that?” she asked.

“I’m just glad you’re dealing with the box, so I don’t break my leg the next time I stumble over it,” he replied. “Now say goodbye so I can go talk to the research gang.”

“Goodbye,” she said. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

After she hung up, Jessie couldn’t help but let her mind drift back to that box. Why had Haddonfield left it to her?

Mark Haddonfield was an unbalanced former college student who became obsessed with Jessie when she taught a seminar at UCLA and, when she didn’t recognize his genius and ask him to be her profiling protégé, committed a series of murders before ultimately trying to take her out too.

She managed to outmaneuver him. He was arrested and incarcerated, but not before he published an online manifesto calling on supporters to hurt those closest to her. She’d managed to get him to retract the manifesto by agreeing to a deal that allowed him to look over some of her cases and assist in analysis.

It was a small price to pay to keep her family and friends safe. And on the one case he looked at, he actually proved helpful. She’d consented to let him look at more after his murder trial was over, regardless of the outcome.

But on the day he was convicted and was being transported back to jail, Ash Pierce, who was also at the courthouse for a proceeding, launched her escape plan. In the process, she shot him through the mouth. And just like that, Mark Haddonfield was gone.

Or so Jessie thought. Now she had this box that had been given to her as if it was some kind of inheritance. She'd been putting off looking at the contents, mostly because she didn't want to face whatever ugliness was inside. Was there another screed against her like the one that had launched an army of incel acolytes?

She had no idea. What she did know was that on the day he died, Haddonfield had tried to get in touch with her. Unable to do that, he'd gotten hold of Hannah through a collect call and pleaded with her to convey a message to Jessie. His sister had dutifully done so. According to Hannah, he'd said: If you want to be independent, you have to go to the mattresses.

The only problem was that Jessie had no idea what it meant. Apparently Hannah had asked him to clarify it, wanting to know if it was some reference to the line from the movie, The Godfather . But he’d only repeated himself, refusing to offer any more clarity. And now he never would.

There had to be more to it than just that. She still had about twenty minutes before she got to Redondo Beach, so she decided to make the most of it.

“Call Dante Moore,” she said into her phone.

Dante Moore was Administrator Moore, the man who ran Twin Towers Correctional Facility, where Haddonfield had been housed during his trial. She didn’t know what it said about her life that she had his direct number.

“Moore here,” he said, picking up on the first ring.

“Dante, it’s Jessie Hunt,” she said.

“I didn’t expect to hear from you anytime soon, Jessie,” he replied, before quipping, “I don’t think we’re currently holding anyone who has tried to kill you.”

“That’s actually why I’m calling,” she told him. “I have a question regarding one of the people who once did.”

"You'll have to be more specific than that, considering there have been a few."

“Mark Haddonfield,” she said. “I need you to let me know if anything new crops up with him.”

“Why would anything crop up?” Moore asked. “He’s dead.”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “He asked for some cryptic message to be passed along to me. He left me that godforsaken box of his personal effects. I know I’m probably grasping at straws here, but I feel like there’s another shoe that’s going to drop with him.”

“From beyond the grave?”

“With that guy, you never know,” she said. “Would you just let me know if you hear anything unusual, whether it be from an inmate, a guard—whoever?”

“Will do,” he said, seemingly unfazed by the request, before he had to get in a final dig. “And if you bump into his ghost, you be sure to let me know.”

She heard him chuckling as he hung up.