Snapshot

Roger.

Davis continued on, feeling as if he were being pulled in the wake of the killer. The farther he walked, the more inevitable he realized it was. Of course the killer would turn toward Warsaw. Of course everything hinged on this point. Davis couldn’t have escaped it if he’d wanted.

Eventually, the Photographer turned up a set of steps into a townhouse in a row of old buildings pressed close to one another. They weren’t abandoned, just well used. Most had shingles worn off the roofs, making them look balding.

They’d found the killer’s real home. Davis stood there, looking up at it, bothered by how normal it seemed.

We’re one street over from Warsaw, Davis thought. Not on the side we were supposed to be on, for the domestic case. That would be two blocks away.

Though this wasn’t the exact same location where they would have gone if they hadn’t picked up this case, it was still eerily close. Davis checked his phone. 20:00 exactly. Seventeen minutes away.

Chaz caught up to him. They stood together, looking up at the narrow townhouse.

“So, we send Maria this address?” Chaz asked. “We’re done? They can go catch him here IRL?”

“I want more,” Davis said softly.

“More?”

“I need to talk to him.”

“I can go in and—”

“No,” Davis said, shocked by how firm he felt. “Watch outside. Catch him if he runs.”

“But—”

“Just do it, Chaz!” Davis said. “Stay out. Leave me alone.” At least until 20:17 had passed.

The other man stepped back, surprised.

It isn’t inevitable, Davis thought forcefully, walking up the steps. Was that how all the dupes felt? That their lives were their own? Never knowing that circumstances, replicated at the start of the day, would send them down exactly the same path?

He stepped up to the door, feeling his partner’s eyes on his back. Chaz would have kicked in the front door.

Davis knocked.

Such a courteous request of a serial killer with blood on his hands, but there it was. Davis knocked again, politely.

The Photographer opened the door.





Nine





Even having heard the description and having glimpsed the killer earlier, Davis found the man younger than he’d anticipated. He couldn’t be more than twenty-two or twenty-three. So young to have caused so much horror in his life.

“What do you want?” the Photographer asked, looking Davis up and down.

Davis held up his reality badge.

The Photographer saw it, eyes widening. Then he smiled. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

“I need to—” Davis began.

The Photographer tried to slam the door. Davis got his foot between it and the frame, moving by instinct to block it from being shut. In the rush of the moment, he didn’t even feel the pain. The Photographer turned and scrambled away.

“Davis!” Chaz called.

“Run around to the back door!” Davis shouted, shoving into the townhouse. He didn’t think. He was proud that he didn’t tremble. Yes, maybe his time in the Snapshot had changed him.

Inside, the walls were painted a homey shade of peach and the wooden floors were bare and polished. The Photographer ducked around a corner, and his feet thumped up a set of stairs. Davis followed in a rush, yanking his gun out.

He passed suitcases set along the wall. Packed, a part of him noticed. He’s leaving. This address is useless. They’ll find him gone IRL when they come here. The Photographer had indeed been spooked by the cops finding the pool earlier.

Davis dashed up the steps. Careful. Remember your training.

At the top of the steps, he checked his corners—right, then left—to make sure nobody was standing there ready to ambush him. Don’t let the runner draw you into being careless. Be quick, but efficient. Control the situation.

It was darker up here. No lights on. He continued forward, sweating, breathing in quick, sharp breaths. There were only two rooms in this hallway, which ended at a set of wooden steps pulled down from the ceiling, leading toward an attic.

Davis carefully checked one room, a bedroom, while trying to watch those steps ahead. The room was empty. He crossed the hallway and shoved open the other door, checking the corners.

No killer here either. But there was a captive.

An older Asian man sat on the ground, bound against the wall, weeping, with a gag over his mouth. On the floor in front of him was a series of cups that he’d barely be able to reach.

“I knew it,” a voice called from the hallway outside. From the direction of the wooden steps. “I knew it was a Snapshot. Nobody ever believed me. But I knew you’d come someday.”

Davis forced himself to ignore the captive. He stepped out into the hall again. The only light was what filtered up from the stairwell behind him, but it was enough to see that the hallway was completely normal. Pictures on the walls. A rug on the floor. The aroma of lemon-scented polish in the air.

And yet a kidnapped man wept to his right, and the icy voice of a madman floated down from the attic above.

Getting ready to flee out onto the roof maybe? Davis thought. These townhouses were built shoulder to shoulder; you could run across them. Davis would never chase down a younger man, in better shape, over that terrain.

“How did you know?” Davis called out, trying to think of something to stall the killer. “How did you figure out you were in a Snapshot?”

“The Deviations,” the Photographer called back. Yes, he’d climbed those wooden steps. He was right up there. Listening. “This life is too broken. Too many people gone wrong, too many neighborhoods left to rot. The Snapshot is . . . is falling apart. Too many Deviations.”

“You’re right,” Davis called. “Yeah, I’ve noticed too. We can’t let it happen. We’ve got to get rid of the Deviations, right? Keep the Snapshot stable?”

It was complete nonsense, but he could see how it might make sense.

“Why would you care?” the voice rasped.