The official texts, emails, and voicemails all repeated this same illogical and clunky phrase. No information was provided regarding the third victim, but the town’s collective mind was many tentacled and far-reaching. The Morales family had neighbors, several of whom had been startled awake by flashing police lights shortly after 2:00 a.m.
At breakfast, everybody followed the story on two screens—phone and television. Makani jumped as a plate was set down in front of her. She’d only been tangentially aware of Grandma Young, still in her pajamas and plush robe, mixing ingredients and cooking on the stovetop. Makani blinked at the short stack of pancakes.
“Oatmeal pumpkin,” her grandmother said.
Their usual breakfast was whole-wheat toast or a bowl of fiber cereal. Makani didn’t need to ask why the change. Pancakes kept her grandmother occupied while they waited for information. Pancakes gave her a task to do with her hands in a world that seemed more and more out of her control. And pancakes showed Makani that, even though the world was frightening, she was loved.
If only Makani had an appetite. The cloying sweetness of the maple syrup made her nose ache and her stomach turn.
Rodrigo.
That was the rumor. The guy who’d insulted her five days ago on the quad. The guy she’d spoken to three days ago in physics class. Alex’s weird crush.
Rodrigo.
He couldn’t be dead, because he was still so alive in her mind.
Makani had already texted Alex. It was her first attempt to contact her since Darby’s confrontation, and she had yet to receive a reply. Now she felt guilty for ignoring their texts over the weekend.
“Well?” Grandma Young asked.
“Thank you,” Makani said automatically. She’d forgotten about the pancakes.
“I meant, is there anything new?”
“—just in, we can confirm a third victim in the Osborne slayings . . .” Creston Howard said from the living room, and they lunged toward him. “. . . a seventeen-year-old senior, Rodrigo Ramón Morales Ontiveros.”
His full name. Makani’s knees buckled.
He would never be just Rodrigo again.
“Oh Lord.” Grandma Young covered her mouth with both hands.
The news showed live footage from the crime scene. Two officers in heavy coats stood outside of a one-story rancher with a frosted lawn, discussing something with crossed arms. Neighbors huddled in the foggy street behind a banner of yellow tape.
Creston spoke over the feed. “The boy’s parents discovered his body in the early hours of the morning after returning home from a weekend trip to Las Vegas. Police say it appears that he died from knife-related trauma, which has led them to believe the case is connected, though they have yet to disclose if his body faced similar mutilation.”
Makani lowered herself, stunned, into the easy chair.
Her grandmother placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Hang on,” Dianne Platte said, and the screen cut back to Creston’s coanchor in the studio. “We’ve just received word that all Osborne schools are now closed for the day. Parents of middle and elementary school students are being asked to pick up their children immediately, and the police have issued a warning for them to not be left unsupervised until whoever is responsible has been taken into custody.”
Grandma Young’s willowy hand clenched into a hard grip.
Makani stared at the television in despair, but she could no longer see it. Her vision swam. His family. His friends. Alex.
Oh my God, Alex.
“I taught his sisters.” Her grandmother’s voice cracked. “I can’t—”
Makani stood to embrace her, choking back tears as Grandma Young collapsed into her arms. Creston and Dianne repeated their updates. Makani peered over her grandmother’s shoulder and out the large window that looked across their front lawn. She scanned the yards for the boogeyman, the Babadook, Ted Bundy.
The street was empty.
A misty chill radiated from the windowpane. Had it been this cold when the killer slipped away from Rodrigo’s house? Had the killer finally left behind some evidence in the frost? Makani’s bare feet were almost numb. Her hope felt even colder.
The ice crystals melted from the vegetation, but the morning remained bleak. Businesses switched their open signs to closed. Parents stayed at home and locked their doors. Fear clouded the air as panic threatened to storm.
Everyone had known Matt, and plenty had known Haley, but few had known Rodrigo. He wasn’t popular. Most people remembered him as a smart-ass who actually happened to be smart. He’d never had a girlfriend, and his small group of friends rarely socialized with other groups.
Overnight, every student had become a potential target.
The story went national. Three murders had given Osborne a serial killer. And not just any serial killer, but the media’s favorite kind—someone who committed heinous acts on attractive teenagers. The news spread like wildfire. Makani heard Chief Pilger’s official statement during a rundown on CNN: The Osborne PD is pursuing several leads. The killer will be apprehended, and he or she will face the full punishment of the law. If anyone has any information regarding these crimes, please call this number . . .
Ollie called around noon. Grandma Young was in her bedroom on the phone with a church friend, and Makani was still parked in front of the television. Ollie was at the police station, performing menial tasks for his brother. Chris didn’t want him to be alone, but it was also a punishment for ditching school on Friday. Ollie was stuck there until his afternoon shift at Greeley’s. Assuming the grocery store stayed open.
Makani pressed him for details. “Is it true that they have some leads?”
“Sort of,” Ollie said. “The police don’t want to reveal too much to the public, but the killer left behind two imprints in the blood on the Moraleses’ living room rug—a partial of a boot and a partial of the seat of his jeans, which included fibers.”
He paused. Makani could tell he was holding something back.
“It’s sick,” he said, lowering his voice, “but after the murder, he stayed to play Battleground Apocalypse on Rodrigo’s PlayStation.”
Makani’s heart picked up speed. “He?”
“Sorry. That’s still speculation. It’s just the most likely possibility.”
Backtracking, her mind finally absorbed his previous statement. “The killer stayed at the crime scene . . . to play a video game?”
“Yep. They sat in Rodrigo’s blood—right beside his dead body—and played Rodrigo’s game for five hours.”
“Five hours?”
“Five hours.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” It was impossible to imagine. “That might be the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever heard.”
“At least it means the killer was finally careless and left something behind.”
“There weren’t any fingerprints on the controller?”
“No. And most of Rodrigo’s were smudged off. The killer probably wears gloves, but the police had already guessed that.”