That dress was her favorite.

  Over the years, the dress would have faded and started to look worn, the floral pattern becoming more muted and the fibers loosening and becoming weaker with every wash and wear. But that made it perfect for the day when she cut it up and added it to her bag to stitch it into a quilt.

  My mind goes to the quilt in the laundry basket, and the pair of pants discarded beside it. The tips of my fingers can still feel the sharp point of metal under the seat that snagged my pants. That piece of metal could cause a serious injury to the back of the leg of someone dragged out of the passenger seat.

  Better to have your good memories than someone around who doesn't want to make any more of them.

  I take off into the woods, heading directly for the path that leads to the railroad tracks.

  How much of it was real? How much was his fantasy?

  It wasn't coincidences. The cabin didn't just seem familiar or sound like the stories Jake told. It was his grandmother's cabin. It was the place where he hid and found comfort when he was a child. The woods where he played with his siblings.

  But was it? There are no graves, no history. No one has mentioned his family except for his father. What is real, and what did he create?

  My head spins as I make it to the path. I know what it's like to not be able to trust my own mind. I know I can’t rely on what I think are my memories. For every story of what happened to my mother or where my father might have gone, there was another one to contradict the first, and a third to retell the second. Sometimes, I never know what's really real. Could that be what's happening with Jake? Does he know what he's crafted in his mind? He convinced himself so much of the life he told me about, enough to go after Cole Barnes, threatening to tear him to pieces with his bare hands. All based on the kind of man he told himself his father was.

  But could that have fed him into the hands of a killer? What did he retell, what did he change or uncover that made it necessary to silence him? What story would end that way? If I can figure that out, maybe I can find him and the others. Maybe no one else has to die.

  Rather than heading down the path toward the train tracks, I start in the direction I've never gone. It weaves deep into the woods, quickly becoming narrower and more neglected the further I walk. The path seems to go on for miles but isn't leading anywhere. It twists and dips, occasionally turning back on itself for a few paces before bending around again. I want to give up, but I can't. I've come this far, and I need to see what's on the other end. Finally, ahead of me, the thick trees start to thin out. I can see what looks like a clearing. When I get to the end of the path, I immediately feel like I've stepped back in time.

  The house in front of me is nothing like anything I've ever seen in real life. It's sagging and dilapidated, but through the rot and neglect, I can see what a strong and beautifully built home it was once. I don't know how long it's been standing here, but it looks like it's seen centuries. The area surrounding it holds similar remnants of another time. An unusable, rusted pump sits at the edge of a well. A trough once filled with food for animals of some kind is now filled with grime and fallen leaves.

  I take out my phone and call LaRoche.

  “Have you found him?” I ask.

  “Have you left Feathered Nest?” he asks.

  “Have you found Jake?”

  “I told you to stay out of our way, Emma.”

  “There's a house in the woods behind the cabin.”

  “It's been searched,” he tells me.

  “What is this place?” I ask.

  “It used to be a house. It was there long before the town even was. I can't ever remember someone living there. It was abandoned a long time ago and then condemned. No one lives there. No one goes there,” he explains.

  “Where did Jake grow up?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Where did Jake grow up? One of the bartenders at Teddy's told me he knew him when he was much younger, but he never went to visit his house or anything. He didn't mention his siblings.”

  “I didn't know Jake had any siblings. All I knew of him was he was John's son. I always knew of them living in the apartment up over the tavern.”

  “How about his grandmother? Did you know her?”

  “What grandmother?” LaRoche asks.

  “He never told you about his grandmother?”

  “No. Like I said, all I knew of him was he was John's son. It was just the two of them. He didn't talk much when he was young, but sometimes when he did, he would mention his mother. It was always in passing and sometimes sounded like he was talking about the past. We all just assumed his mother died when he was really little, and he hadn't quite gotten over it.”

  “Thanks. Tell me if you find out anything,” I say.

  My phone starts to crackle. The connection is becoming weaker, the closer I get to the house. It's like the years looming around the place are sucking me in, closing out everything from the outside world.

  “You are not a part of this investigation. You still need to leave Feathered Nest,” LaRoche says.

  I hang up and look around. Jake told me so much about playing in the woods when he was younger. There's no way he could have been so active if he really did spend all his time in the apartment over the tavern. I notice details about the house that remind me of stories he told me and the memories he shared. They don't sit well with me. Some of his memories are concrete, like the stories of the cabin and the details of this house. But others are fleeting, not seeming to have any anchor in reality.

  I think back on everything Jake told me, trying to pinpoint anything that might help. I let the stories of his childhood home draw me into the house. This is where he lived, hidden away from the rest of a world that barely even knew he existed. I know when I get through the front door, there will be an entryway and then a sitting room to one side.

  The door gives way after only a firm push. I step into the damp, musty interior of the house. It's obvious no one has lived in this home for many years. Old furniture and belongings scatter rooms caked in dust and dirt. In some places, the forest has started reclaiming the house. Vines grow along the walls, and trees sprout up in between the cushions of a couch. Somewhere in the distance, a skittering sound tells me animals are more than happy to claim this as their space.

  There are a few signs of a cursory search by the local police. It's not a surprise that it wasn’t very thorough. They know this place from one perspective, and that perspective keeps them from considering anything any different. They are exceptional to work with when it comes to local places and people because they know well enough to notice when things are amiss. But they can also rely too heavily on this knowledge and stop, not thinking to go any further.

  But I won't stop. This is where I'm supposed to be. Jake's stories brought me here. Now they'll tell me why.

  As I make my way through the rooms, I try to find details or places that spark memories of comments he made or stories he told me. So many of these stories were told about the woods outside. There’s not much to go on inside.

  But I eventually find a door leading down into the basement. The heavy, dank smell is oppressive. An uncomfortable chill rolls through me. I hold my breath and tense myself, trying to keep my wits about me. My phone provides enough light to get me through the dirty space. Cobweb-encrusted shelves sag under the weight of ancient cans and bottles of food. Crates and boxes hunker in the corners, their contents unknown.

  Whenever it felt like it was all too much, and I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts, I used to hide in my secret room. It was like a fort, only so much better.

  This basement can't possibly be it. There's nothing comforting or fort-like about it, and it's certainly not secret. There has to be another place, a secret compartment or hidden room. This is a very old house, and it's not unheard of for places like this to have secret rooms, tunnels, and compartments. They were used for all kinds of purposes but were often forgotten when those purposes were no longer important. That left only the family and those very familiar with the house to know the hidden places were even there.

  I keep walking through, my ears straining for any sound more than the occasional scuttle of rodent feet and the drip of water from where raindrops have worn the structure down over the years and finally broken through. Toward the back of the basement, I find a large wardrobe pushed up against the wall. It seems so out of place I can't resist walking up to it. The streaked mirror shows the reflection of my flashlight and my scrutinizing eyes. There has to be something more to this piece of furniture than just a wardrobe.

  I run my hands along the edge of the base, then up over the curved top. My fingertips hit something uneven, and I move it until it shifts and depresses down into the wood. With a slight creak, the wardrobe moves out of place just a few inches. I grab onto the edge and pull it away from the wall.

  Right in front of me is a narrow door built into the wall. It opens to a set of steps leading down into a sub-basement, possibly a storm cellar designed to be out of the way. At the bottom of the steps is another door. But I immediately recognize that this door is not original to the rest of the house. It's newer, added to the end of the steps to create a separation between the entry and what lies beyond.

  My hand hesitates on the doorknob for only a few breaths before I push it open. The smell knocks me back onto the steps, and I sag against them, trying to catch my breath, trying to wrap my head around what I saw in the brief instant I stood in the sub-basement.

  In that instant, I know what happened to all the missing people.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  My hands grip the step on either side of me, squeezing hard enough to make my knuckles ache. I'm shaking as I draw in a breath, trying to ignore the thick smell that comes along with the air. It forces itself heavily into my lungs and stings at the back of my throat. My stomach turns, rolling until I think I'll be sick, but I force it down. I have to stay in control. This is why I'm here. It's why I was sent. I have to know the truth.

  Holding my phone tightly, I stand and open the door again. I take measured, cautious steps into the room. I need to be careful, aware of my surroundings, so I don't possibly damage or contaminate anything. Almost as soon as I'm all the way in the room, the door behind me automatically swings shut. The sound of it clicking into place hits me in the center of the chest, and I throw myself against it, desperately grasping the knob on this side. It doesn't move. Unlocked on the outside, this door is designed to lock anyone who steps past it inside the room.

  I wonder if that's what happened to any of the missing people who are no longer missing.

  In a structure this old, I don't think I can hope for a simple light switch beside the door to give me any light. Instead, I shine the flashlight of my phone up above my head and sweep it back and forth. The light catches a variety of strange objects before it finally finds what I was looking for. The beaded metal strand hangs just low enough for me to catch it with the tips of my fingers if I stand as high on my toes as I can possibly reach. Even at my height, it was designed to be turned on by someone taller.

  Pulling the chain doesn't just turn on the single bulb overhead. It also activates several strands of Christmas lights, a lamp, and a vintage Lite Brite game set up on a table several paces away from me. The room is larger than I would have anticipated, and the light creates a brighter pool in the middle before melting out to shadows at the edges and corners.

  And all around me, the light illuminates the bodies.

  I've walked into scenes of corpses many times. I've reported to mass burials, bodies hidden away in walls, and those long dead strewn across fields, streets, and floors. But I've never experienced anything like this. The bodies aren't just lying on the floor or on tables. They haven't been stored here. They've been posed.

  All around the room, more than a dozen bodies have been taxidermized and manipulated into poses creating vignettes of everyday life.

  In one corner, four sit and stand around a Christmas tree. A middle-aged man has his hand rested against the branches of the tree as if setting an ornament into place, while a woman sits on a chair at his side, poised as if ready to hand him the next decoration. A young man and woman are on a shaggy rug wrapping a gift.

  Several feet away, another version of the family sits around a dining room table, frozen around a meal. Fighting to control my revulsion, I walk up to the table and touch the loaf of bread sitting among platters of food. The wood is hard and cold beneath my touch.

  I'm suddenly aware of the weight of my phone still in my hand. I turn off the flashlight and try to dial for help. There's nothing. I put in Eric's number, but it still won't connect. I have no service down here. Fear starts to sink into my mind, taking over my thoughts. I'm locked down in this hidden basement room with corpses crafted into some mind-boggling playland. Without phone service. Without anything to save me.

  I have to stay calm. I turn on the camera on my phone and start taking pictures of everything I see, starting with the vision of Christmas. Forcing my emotions down and pulling the trained agent up to the surface, I block out the grisly reality of what is around me and break it down into its elements, turning it into evidence and exhibits. This lets me step up close to each of the bodies and take pictures of their faces, their hands, the wire contraptions supporting them in their chosen positions. Some of the bodies are far older than others and are starting to degrade despite the efforts at preserving them. Their features are warped, and their hair replaced by wigs.

  But I can still recognize them. As I move from the Christmas scene to the dinner, the images of the missing people I've stared at for weeks flash through my head. I see them smiling in life, living moments that belonged to them, and superimpose those images onto the cold, taut faces forced into these false realities.

  From the dinner scene, I move to an older man and young man playing a board game. From there, an older woman and younger woman holding teacups as they lean toward each other as if in conversation. I take picture after picture, needing to record every inch of this place. It's the last of the scenes, the smallest and simplest, that is the most horrifying to me. In this vignette, a young woman who looks very different from the others sits in a rocking chair, cradling a wrapped baby in her arms. My hand shakes as I reach for the edge of the blanket. I don't want to see what's beneath it. It's horrific enough to see what he was capable of with the adults strewn around this room. To think he could kill an innocent baby just for the sake of using it as a prop creates a visceral reaction inside me.

  But I have to be able to photograph it. I need to record the proof and get it to someone else, so no matter what happens to me or to this room, someone else will know.

  In one movement, I pull the corner of the blanket away from the baby's head. A shock of bright blonde hair tied with a pink bow sits above wide, vibrant blue eyes. The breath I didn't even realize I was holding gushes out of me. It's a doll. The woman is cradling a doll.

  As the initial shock and horror of the discovery fades, and my mind clears, I start noticing odd features of some of the bodies. They don't look exactly right, as if parts of them are not proportioned correctly or are positioned oddly.

  When I've gotten all the way around the room and taken pictures of every one of the bodies, I attach them to an email to send to Eric.

  Without service, it doesn't send. I let out an exasperated sound.

  The smell of the room and the feeling of the cold air on my skin is getting into my mind again. It twists my thoughts and steals my control. Time keeps slipping by. I try the door again. Tugging and twisting at the doorknob is useless. It's securely locked. I try several hard kicks to the area around the lock. I try slamming my shoulder into the center of the door. None of it works. It’s solid and thick. It doesn't yield to me after several attempts, and finally, I step back, rubbing my throbbing shoulder as I look around the room for another option.

  There has to be a way to get out of here. This can't just be a sealed cube of stone.

  There are no windows. I'm far underground, beneath even the basement of the house. I look for another door, a vent, anything that might offer a way to either get out of the room or alert someone I'm here.

  An hour passes and then another. Every few seconds, I look down at my phone, hoping somehow my service will return, but no matter where I'm standing, there's nothing. No connection to the outside world.

  Another hour passes, and then a fourth. The day is slipping past. I wonder if anyone has noticed I'm gone. LaRoche told me to leave. Maybe not hearing from me or seeing me will tell him I did what he asked rather than raise any alarm.

  The fifth hour is coming to a close when I hear a sound above me. My heart jumps. The sound of footsteps on the stairs right outside the door is loud in my ears. The doorknob turns impossibly, torturously slow. I duck into the dark corner behind the Christmas tree. Out of sight. A scented ornament tucked deep into the branches is old and nearly dry, but gives off the very faint scent of pine, and I find refuge in it. From this vantage point, I can watch the door.

  The door opens, and Jake's tall silhouette appears in the doorway. His expression is frozen and unreadable as he turns his head slowly, sweeping his eyes across the entire room. I stay perfectly still, holding my breath and keeping my hands away from the tree, so I don't accidentally shake it. One hand keeps the door propped open as he looks around. It's only a few steps away. If I can distract him and move fast enough, I can get past him through the door and out of the basement.

  Moving as carefully as I possibly can, I slip one of the ornaments off the nearest tree branch. When his head turns in the opposite direction, I throw the ornament to the other side of the basement. It smashes against the wall in an impossibly loud shatter, and Jake's head snaps toward it. He takes a step in the direction of the sound but hesitates. His gaze scours the room again, searching each of his displays with the familiar, scrutinizing eye of an artist and the exacting precision of a butcher.