In another life, I might have prided myself in worming my way out of trouble. But time and time again, I was proven to be an absolute numbskull when it mattered most. Case in point: It'd have probably been in my best interest to provide an answer for my mother, and fast. Time was ticking as was her patience. But truth be told, I didn't have an answer.

Well, not one that I was willing to give.

So, what did I do? The only thing I could think to do. I stood patiently, my fingers recoiling into my itchy palms, while I desperately searched for a way out of this conversation. The relentless questioning never ended—spitting out like rapid fire aimed to wound. She paced the kitchen, the bridge of her nose pinched tight between two of her fingers. Her glasses raised atop her forehead, forgotten and of no use. Finally, she dragged her hands down her face and turned.

"There's been a strange person stalking my house, is what you're saying?" she said.

"Yes, I think so." The more I repeated it, the worse it sounded.

"Nope." She laughed and flung her hands in the air. "I'm too sober for this." She then brought them back down, a loud slap echoing off her thighs. Her legs moved fast as she set her sights on the cabinets, rummaging through for a bottle of her strongest wine. The wine glass followed.

My chest tightened. I swallowed and licked my chapped lips, my fingernails scraping against my palm now. But the pressure eased some when I saw she only filled a quarter of the glass. She took a long sip of the velvet-red substance. Her eyes drifted closed, then flickered back open.

"How long has this been going on?" she asked, more calmly.

"It hasn't even been a week," I said.

That seemed to calm her nerves some. "And Christian? How long did he know?"

"He only found out yesterday. After we left the house."

"And when was I going to find out?" She massaged her temples as if she was in pain. It might've been a headache coming along. I gave her a lot of those.

"Today. Christian said there will be police officers patrolling our house from now on. It's only temporary, I think," I mumbled and picked at my chipped fingernails, "he was going to tell you himself a little before the police arrived."

"Does your father know what's going on?"

"Not yet. Should I call him and tell him?" I winced.

"No"—she held her hand up—"I'll handle it." I could tell she didn't want to. For the most part, they'd been civil these last couple of months. There hadn't been any arguments. Not even a minor disagreement. They avoided each other unless me and Junior were involved, and it was best that way. But this situation was yet again inching into dangerous trenches between them.

It wasn't all of my fault though. For once, at least.

My mother cried, "Why the hell is this happening?"

I refused to speak. If I did that long enough, maybe my guilt would subside.

"Mommy? Tyler? Is something wrong?" We'd been occupied with our conversation for so long, we hadn't noticed Junior's footsteps creeping into the kitchen. His Spongebob pajamas clung to him, his TV remote dangling in his hand.

"No, baby," my mother cooed. "Are you done cleaning your room?"

"Yeah." He nodded eagerly. "Can I watch TV now?"

"Go for it, champ." She smiled and shooed him away.

When his footsteps were nothing more than faint echoes retreating upstairs, my mother let out the breath she'd been suppressing.

"This"—she pointed to the box—"what are you supposed to do with it? I know Christian must have given you some sort of instructions." She knew Christian well then. The agreed upon routine from now on, for whenever I got mail, was for him to take it in for investigation.

"He told me to tell him whenever I received mail. He'll take it."

"Okay." She inhaled.

"I need to see what's inside though." She must have heard the plea in my voice because I heard the legs of the nearest chair scraping along the kitchen floor. She sat down and leaned back, her right leg crossed over the other.

"Open it," she demanded.

I gave the box one more glance over before tearing it apart. My eagerness enveloped my bones, setting my fingers into motion. There was a hitch in my throat and my jaw fell slack. I'd never been a fan of Chess. Didn't even know the first thing about it. So, it was no surprise when I failed to decipher the meaning behind thirteen chess pieces sitting in the box.

Twelve white pieces—four of which were painted red (at least, I hoped that was paint). One black piece. And no further explanation. I had no idea what any of this crap meant.

"Um, mom. You've played Chess, right?"

"Sure. Why?"

I dumped the pieces on the table. "Any idea what these mean?" She stiffened as the chess pieces rolled their separate directions. A scrunch formed between her eyebrows.

"The king. . ." she said, picking up one of the pieces. "The queen. . . The rooks. . ." By the time she finished listing them off, I'd counted one king, one queen, two rooks, one bishop, one knight, and seven pawns. One of the pawns was the black piece. The king, both of the rooks, and one of the white pawns were the pieces in red.

"I'm still confused. . ." I sighed.

"Well here, look." My mother lifted the queen. "The queen is the most powerful piece on the board; with the ability to do whatever she wants. Meaning, she can move in any direction, can be ruthless, and play freely. The king is another one of the most powerful pieces.

"While not as powerful as the queen, he requires the most protection. The bishop carries the most influence, being the third most powerful piece on the board. The rooks are the barriers that form protection for the royal court. Like a castle.

"Lastly, the knight is self-explanatory, as are the pawns. But think of the knights as warriors that protect and serve. A soldier, if needed. Odd though. There are pieces missing." My mother lined the pieces up side by side, as if they were on a chess board as we spoke.

"There are?" I frowned.

"Sixteen white pieces and sixteen black pieces make up a chess board," she said.

My eyes widened. Her words drove me to my phone. I opened Google, asking into the microphone, "How many kids are typically found in a group home setting?" Seven to twelve popped up at the top of the search results. Thirteen pieces. Close enough.

"So, there's symbolism here. . ." I whispered.

Nathan, Fiona, Reggie, and Kane are dead. The number of victims matched the number of pieces painted red. Holy shit. Possibly, this was a clue—as to how many residents we needed to find and who they were. But if the king and a part of his royal court are already dead . . . then that means the queen is still standing. But the lone black piece concerned me the most.

Because that might've been who I was looking for.

* * *

It felt like eons ago, I'd last heard Patty's voice. When really, that wasn't the case at all. My intention wasn't to tune her voice out as she expressed her concerns (rather obnoxiously), and lectured me about safety protocols (as if she'd ever had a stalker before). But I'd have been lying if I said I didn't tap out of the conversation a long time ago.

"You're not even listening to me, Loftman!" she huffed.

"Blasphemy!" I feigned shock. "I heard you loud and clear."

She sighed, loudly. "You are a pain in the butt, you know that?"

"Sure, sure. Seriously though. I heard you the first three times, okay?" I shifted the phone so that it was next to my ear. Her voice bled through the microphone, set to speaker mode, while I sat at the foot of my bed. Hues of yellow highlighted me from the window. An hour ago, I called Patty, after my mother settled down. The day was now stretching into late afternoon.

"Fine," she groaned.

"I don't think we should hang out for now. Not until I know the coast is clear. I won't risk putting you in danger again. So, we'll stick to talking on the phone."

"Fair enough. So, what happens now?"

"I'm waiting for an officer to stop by and escort me to the police station. I need to bring the chess pieces to Christian, and they're going to start watching the house today."

"I thought Christian was stopping by?" she said, more like a question.

"My mother kind of called and chewed him out already. . ." I winced. "But he's also stuck at the station. So, guess I have to go to him."

Patty whistled. "Loftman brothers are made for trouble, am I right?"

"Shut up," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Hey, what about your talks with Mr. Jefferson?"

"I guess they'll have to wait until I have time. It's not like I'm a prisoner. I'm just under twenty-four-hour surveillance . . . so, sort of like a prisoner." I was reluctant to say I had a lot to talk with Mr. Jefferson about.

Truthfully, I didn't feel like I was any closer to discovering the origins of the gift. The nightmares weren't very helpful anymore. But I felt a shift. In my visions, that was. Something had changed. I didn't realize it until I met Adam. My visions were centered around the victims less and the people involved in their lives more. As if my ability grew a mind of its own.

"Tyler!" My mother's voice rattled my bedroom door, which had been shut.

I grabbed my phone and rushed out, "Got to go. The officer's here."

"Call you later?"

"Yeah. Later, Patty." The call ended.

I met my mother at the bottom of the stairs. Three uniformed police officers were stationed at the beginning of our living room. One woman—tall, dark hair, maybe mid-thirties. Two men—one of them: short and balding, the other: tall, lanky, and possibly the youngest.

"Would either of you like anything? Some coffee, maybe?" My mother shuffled through the kitchen, gathering mugs. "It's the least I can do since you'll be sitting outside my house all day."

"It's okay. Really, Ms. Davis. That isn't necessary," said the short officer. The lanky officer, however, seemed inclined to take the offer.

"Hey there, Tyler? I presume." The woman officer noticed me and smiled.

"Oh!" My mother dropped the mugs and joined us. "There you are. Yes, this is Tyler. My oldest son. Junior, my youngest son is upstairs. Probably sleeping."

"Officer Phillips." Officer Phillips extended her hand. I shook it. She pointed to the short officer, then the lanky one, listing them off in that order, "This is officer Delaney and officer Baring. They'll be surveilling your house from now on." My mother nodded along, no doubt trying to seem like she was keeping her shit together. I could tell she wasn't though.

Officer Phillips pointed to herself. "I'm here to escort you to detective Loftman."

"Okay. I'm ready," I said.

Officer Phillips was kind enough to let me sit up front with her. For most of the ride, she let me keep to myself. Only speaking when she felt she needed to fill me in on what to expect.

Officer Phillips, opening Christian's office door, tossed me a glance over her shoulder, then nodded inside the empty office. "He stepped out. Just for a moment. But you can wait here." She pointed to the vacant seat across from his desk. Once inside, she bowed out of the office.

I made myself comfortable (well, as comfortable as the solid, hard chair could get), and fixed the box of chess pieces on my lap. My hands folded over the edges in a secure grip.

The door opened and closed. "I heard you received another package."

Christian's voice.

"Chess pieces," I corrected him. "Where'd you go?"

"You have the authority to question me now?" Chrsitian's eyebrows flung up as he took a seat behind his desk. I shrugged causing him to roll his eyes. "I went to the bathroom. Now, give it here." I slid the box across the desk.

"What the hell?" he murmured, sifting through the box. "This is it?"

"I told you. It's just chess pieces. After you dropped me off earlier, mom said this was waiting for me. The mailman delivered it while I was with you."

"Four of them are painted red?"

"Nathan, Fiona, Reggie, and Kane. Adds up, doesn't it?"

He stood the red-painted pieces in front of him. "So, you think these represent the victims."

"I think this black piece could be your suspect too."

"More clues," Christian breathed out. "There are specific pieces in here."

"Yeah. I asked mom what all of them meant."

"King, queen, rooks, knight, and pawns."

"You know chess too?"

"A little bit," answered Christian.

"I also compared the number of pieces to the number of kids in typical group home settings. There are thirteen pieces here. Group homes house between seven and twelve kids. Typically."

Christian caught on immediately. "A possible hint to our targets, hmm. But why include themselves in this list. . . Is this a game or is this something else?" he hummed to himself.

"Hey, Christian." A knock. Then, Logan peeked his head in. "Can you break free for a minute? Got some girls here making a report. Thought you might want to hear it."

Christian scooted his chair back, standing. "A report?"

Logan nodded. "See for yourself."

"Okay. We're just about done here, anyway. Let's go, Tyler."

As the three of us exited Christian's office, a woman berating another woman could be heard seeping out of the station's main lobby. The woman on the receiving end of the berating, focused her eyes anywhere but the other woman's face, clearly uncomfortable. A few strands of the long black dreadlocks—styled in a messy ponytail and ornamented with beads—swept her face.

"Nina, come on. Chill. . ." She pushed the strands out of her eye, shifting on her feet. Her hands snaked around her arms in a protective stance.

"Yasmine, I just don't understand. Why didn't you tell your brother!?" Nina gawked.

"Because I don't want him to like . . . freak out or anything."

"Someone could be watching him too. What if he's in danger? Has he said anything?"

I caught Christian rolling his neck from the corner of my eyes. His shoulders were tense. He must have felt my staring because his eyes drifted towards me. We shared a look only I was able to decipher—could this be the same person? He wanted to voice our thoughts.

"One: I'm not one-hundred-percent sure someone is watching me. And two: no, he hasn't said anything to me. He's been acting pretty normal. Drop it already, Nina. You're annoying me."

Nina scoffed and folded her arms. "I'm just worried. Sheesh. Sue me."

"It's just . . . I already have a headache, and I don't want to be here. Could you just calm down for a minute? Please? Loretta's funeral is in a few days. That's stressful enough."

Christian's eyes narrowed.

He heard it too. The infamous Loretta and the funeral from Adam's memory. Yasmine had mentioned them in the same breath. This was no coincidence.

Nina's face softened. "Yeah, yeah. Okay. I'm sorry." Nina, unlike Yasmine, was a short woman. Her brown skin was a few tones lighter than Yasmine's but just as clear and glowing.

"Think we might need their assistance?" I could hear Logan whispering to Christian.

"Let's see what's up first," he whispered back.

Christian cleared his throat, then stepped into view. "Hello ladies. What seems to be the problem here?" Yasmine opened her mouth but Nina beat her to it. I stood off to the corner.

"She thinks someone has been stalking her!" she said.

"Care to elaborate on that please?" asked Logan.

A frown sculpted Yasmine's lips. "Is all of this really necessary for a report?"

Nina, ever so eager, ignored Yasmine's comments, chiming in with her own two cents again, "My friend says she heard someone following her last night. It's been more frequent now."

"Were you alone?" Christian asked.

"Mhm. I was coming back from the store," Yasmine answered.

"You mentioned it's been frequent. When did this start?"

"About a week or so after we arrived in Lake Bellinor," Nina said. I sucked in a breath.

That long?

Logan proceeded with caution. "After you arrived?"

"Yeah, we're just in town for a few weeks," Nina added.

"Excuse me, but if I may, I overheard you mentioning a funeral? Is that why you're in town?" Christian was treading a fine line, and no doubt Yasmine was catching on. I knew that look. The kind of look people wore when they were inching into defense mode.

"Um, yes," Yasmine hesitated, her frown growing. "But really, it's nothing that serious. I'm not even sure if it's true. I've been a little paranoid lately. That's all."

"We'd just like to get a better understanding—" Logan started only to be interrupted.

"You know what? I think I'd rather forget the report. Can I go now? I'm done here." Yasmine turned and headed for the exit. Nina hissed, then called for her. But when she realized Yasmine had already left, she threw her hands in the air and rolled her eyes.

I knew a liar when I saw one. Hell, I was a liar. Sometimes.

But something, for sure, was up.