Christian aligned his car into the empty space alongside the curbside of the morgue, then switched the gear into park. I followed his hand to the radio as he turned it off. Neither of us made a move to leave though. I watched him—waiting for him to tell me the details of whatever information he'd been withholding from his phone call. Maybe then, I'd have some sort of logical explanation as to what the hell we were doing outside the morgue and not my house.

But it didn't seem like he was going to break first. So, I caved.

"Why are we here?" I chose the straight-forward tactic.

Christian removed his hands from the steering wheel, twisting in his seat. "I got a phone call from Logan." Wow, spare me the details.

I bit down on my tongue to refrain from speaking my thoughts. "And?"

"Remember when I asked him to run a background check on the group home?" Sure, I remembered. It was just before we left his apartment this morning. He phoned Logan to fill him in on what's been going on. Of course, the group home came up too. "He's having a hard time locating all the group home residents that were living there after 1999."

So," I tapped my chin, humming, "anyone living there between the years 2000 and 2001?"

"That's what I'm assuming," Christian nodded, adding, "He told me that the records from those years can't be found. Or so, that's how it seems."

"What? How?" I unbuckled my seatbelt, my face scrunching in disbelief.

Christian's face contorted as if he was thinking faster than his brain could physically handle. He rested one of his elbows on the steering wheel and propped his chin on top of his knuckles. I felt the silence washing over us in waves. "Well, there are two options here. We could assume those records were either lost . . . or they were destroyed after the group home's closing."

"Could either of those options have been accidental?"

His chuckle was light and airy. "You're asking me?"

"Right." I sighed.

"Now, about the morgue"—he too unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the door handle—"I need to see Tanya." Tanya? My body was quick to react; an eager spine straightening as I tried my best to dwindle my excitement down. To no avail, of course.

"Why? Did she find something?"

"A connection."

"A connection?" I frowned.

"Possibly." Christian's response was vague.

I blinked, my mind caught in a buffer as I tried to decode his ominous words. Meanwhile, Christian exited the car without so much as an explanation. He walked up to the passenger door, then gave the window two soft knocks.

"You coming?" I could hear him through the glass.

Still feeling eager, I fumbled with the door handle, nearly throwing myself out of the car when it finally budged, and followed him into the morgue. My knees were almost touching the back of his legs. That's the amount of distance I maintained between us. I probably looked like a lost puppy with its tail caught between its legs. But it wasn't on purpose. It was this building.

This was officially my second time in the morgue. While it wasn't as paranoid inducing as it felt the first time, it surely served the same impact. In giving me the heeby-jeebies, that was. Damn, I totally did not miss the errieness of this dreadful place.

When we reached the room Tanya was in, Christian stopped short. His head whipped around, his eyes finding mine. "Stay right here and just . . . do whatever you do, I guess."

I scowled, offended. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Don't act like I don't know you like to eavesdrop."

"I don't know what you're talking about." I feigned ignorance.

"Yeah, yeah. Sure, whatever. Just sit tight and make sure you learn something." As he waved me off, he knocked on the door with his other hand. A loud voice telling him to come in could be heard from the other side. He pushed in the door and it shut behind him.

I was quick to approach the door as I'd done once before. Tanya and Christian were foggy images through the blurry glass window. Still, I could make out three decaying corpses lying on the flat metal tables towards the middle of the room. Fiona. Reggie. Kane. They were placed in that order, and their bodies were bare with just a white sheet covering them from chest down.

"Christian." There was a short pause after Tanya spoke his name as though she took a deep breath. "Thank you for coming. I'm glad you could make it on such short notice."

"Logan called and said it was urgent." Christian folded his arms, an eyebrow raised in interest. "Said you needed to show us something?"

"Correct." She extended her arms over Fiona's body, revealing a pale yellow folder in her hands. Christian stared at the folder as she waited for him to take it. He then untangled his arms, pulling the folder into his grasp. Tanya made what sounded like a noise of approval, before talking again, "This, here, is Nathan Narvaez."

"Nathan Narvaez?" A frown sported Christian's face as he flipped through what I could only think were pictures of a dead body.

"Victim of a brutal cold case back in 2005."

"Huh? This case is over a decade old."

"Precisely. Nathan Narvaez's murder went unsolved for thirteen years up until recently, as it was eventually closed a few months ago. Notice anything peculiar?"

"Not really. Should I?" Christian's voice dripped with confusion.

"I want you to take a good look at his injuries."

"Hmm"—Christian's eyes darted between all four victims—"his injuries look almost identical to our victims here, I think."

"Bingo!" Tanya snapped her fingers.

"Couldn't that be a coincidence?" asked Christian, unsure.

"Sure, but allow me to show you why I don't think it is." Tanya's heels clicked against the floor as she walked to a nearby desk. After pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves, she returned to Christian and the corpses. "Nathan was found with a few broken bones along the lower half of his body. It looked like someone busted his kneecaps with a hammer or another heavy object."

My breath hitched.

A hammer? I vaguely remembered the feeling of the painful strike Fiona received in the lakehouse that day. It could've been a sledgehammer, a claw hammer, a club hammer. I didn't know which but I knew it hurt like hell.

"Fiona had the same kind of injuries. Nathan's bruises are also very similar to Reggies and Kane's. In both size and area. Makes me wonder if that was intentional. And of course, there's the slash across all of their necks."

Christian nodded along, tracing Tanya's every movement. She grabbed Fiona's chin, tilting her head back just enough to show the wound.

"They're of the same length and width. I believe the same objects were used in all of their murders. For the slashes, the bruises, and so on. But most importantly—" Tanya peeled Fiona's lips apart, touching the root of her mouth.

"Their tongues were found in their hands. . ." I heard Christian's sharp intake of breath as he froze. His eyes were fixed on one of the pictures, then the inside of Fiona's mouth. When he'd had enough, he let out a breath of amazement, handing the folder back to Tanya, and folding his arms again. "Even within all the similarities they share, they all have something different to show for. . . Still."

"And that's the biggest similarity of all." Tanya sighed.

"How old was Nathan at the time of his death?"

"Early 20's. About twenty-two or twenty-three, I believe."

"Then, that puts him around the same age as our current victims."

I whispered to myself, moving back from the door, "The same person could have killed them?" That didn't make sense, did it? But no, it could have.

Nathan was murdered, what? Four years after the group home's closing? I'd like to think my basic math was up to par, so yeah. But what, thirteen years before Fiona, Reggie, and Kane? Even though the timeline was out of whack, their deaths suggested otherwise. Same age. Same torment. The connections were too good to be true. What caused Nathan and whoever killed him to cross paths in 2005 though? The possibilities could've been endless.

Curses. That stupid decade gap was leaving a gap in my thoughts.

"I think you and Logan should take a look at Nathan's case. If there's even a slim chance that the same person is involved, it needs to be reopened." Tanya's heels were back on the move.

I peeked through the window again to find that Christian was hot on her trail as they walked in my direction. Oh shoot.

He smiled and said, "Thank you, Tanya. I'll make sure to be in contact with you about this moving forward. You've been a great help as always."

I turned to make a beeline away from the door. But when I heard the door handle jiggle, I panicked and collapsed onto the nearest seat—my butt earning a painful sting in the process.

"Son of a—" I sucked in my hiss when the door opened.

"You're too kind, Christian." Tanya had just finished brushing his compliment off. She sent me a wide smile when she noticed me, then waved two of her fingers. "Afternoon, Tyler. Good to see you."

A small smile formed through my pain but that was all. Christian noticed but didn't comment. As many times as I did something weird or gotten myself into trouble, it was no surprise he chose to turn a blind eye at this point. He had to learn the hard way that some questions were better left unanswered when it involved me and my shenanigans.

"Anyway, you two gentlemen should be on your way now," she said.

"Thank you again, Tanya. Let's go, Tyler." Christian sure didn't have to tell me twice. I was up and out of my seat before he could express another coherent thought.

* * *

I stood at the living room window, my eyes on Christian's car proceeding down the street in the blink of an eye, along with an ounce of my frustration. Even after all of that, I forgot to tell him about Adam. It'd dawned on me after the fact, and I hated myself even more for not realizing sooner. But it was whatever. There was always later, I hoped.

I pressed my hand to the window and sighed.

Then again, come later today—according to Christian's parting words—there was going to be a police officer or two patrolling our house from now on (all the way til sun down). And my poor mother had no idea about the shit storm we were about to enter. Just my luck, of course. But better to leave it to Christian. On second thought, I was better off sending him a text.

I yanked my phone out and let my fingers go to work; typing out a lengthy message, including my vision about Adam, Adam and the guy he was with, as well as Loretta's funeral.

"Tyler?" I knew an alarmed voice when I heard it. Surely enough, when I turned, my mother's face was just that. She carried a book in one hand. And her reading glasses hung for dear life on the tip of her nose. "Did you just come in?" she asked, her shoulders relaxing.

"Yeah, Christian dropped me off."

"Next time you want to announce yourself, yeah?"

I smiled sheepishly. "Ah right, sorry."

"You got a package, by the way."

"What?" My blood ran cold.

She flicked her thumb back and nodded. "It's on the dining table."

Oh crap.

I took off before she could utter another word. Her protests were loud behind me but the package was the only thing I cared about. There it was—a small, alluring brown box just like the last package. And, of course, what do you know? Another anonymous sender too.

I could hear my mother's footsteps gaining speed as she joined me in the kitchen. I raised the box off the dining table and shook it. The inside rattled. What the heck was in this thing? A bunch of small objects? That's what it sounded like. The box wasn't very heavy. It felt like it weighed about the same as the tape recorder alone, if not less.

"It came in the mail, right? Did you notice anyone else except Byron? Maybe someone lurking about the neighborhood or whatever?"

My mother held up her hands and gestured for me to pause. "Whoa. Okay, so I'm going to need you to take deep breaths, Tyler. Slow down, please?"

"Sorry, sorry. This is just really important," I stressed.

"Tyler"—she put a hand on her hip, giving me the look only a mother could give—"you want to tell me what's going on?"

I swallowed.

No, was what I wanted to say.

I wasn't supposed to be the one to give her an explanation, though it probably should have been me. Christian volunteered to do it. But later. Not right now. Oh, please don't let me have to do this right now. Hell, I could give her a million excuses as to why telling her right now would be a bad idea. As much as I hated to admit it though, it was probably better to get it over with sooner than later. She was going to find out today anyway. I just hated that it had to be me to tell.

"Stop stalling." My mother snapped her fingers.

I pursed my lips and grimaced. "I don't know who sent me this. . ."

"You don't know?" She frowned.

"Someone's been sending me anonymous packages." She looked like a bobblehead trying to understand what I meant. Her head moved up and down, slowly nodding along. "Christian and I think I have a stalker . . . a stalker who also may or may not be a murderer."

My nervous chuckle was meant to soften the blow. Just a little something to allow her time to process and form a (preferably empathetic) response before she lost her shit. To say my method didn't work would be an understatement. If looks could kill, I'd be drowning under six feet of rage, worry, and a dire need for answers. Answers that she was going to get whether she had to force them out of me, I was sure.