I let the last word hang there, begging to be rescued, until finally, Dad takes the photo from me, stares at his favorite memory, and says, “Okay.”

Chapter 10

You have to murder at least three people to be called a serial killer. The Magpie Man got there when I was nine.

The police hired profilers to paint a picture, to make clues when there were none, and I read every word. I became an expert in the one thing I truly hated.

They say he’s between twenty-five and fifty, with a job that allows him to travel. This was long after he added Sophie Cresswell and Georgina Carson to his list. The list that started with my mom.

They think he could be married, with a partner who is easily manipulated or away a lot. They say he’s likely to be ambivalent when the murders are reported and that he may make strange comments in a bid to secretly claim them as his own.

He’s a “charmer” who may coerce his victims into situations they cannot escape. Although that wasn’t the case with Mom.

That alley was her shortcut. She didn’t follow someone in. They followed her.

Most serial killers have below-average IQs, but not the Magpie Man. The profilers think he is smart, methodical, desperate not to be caught.

His first three murders were in Doveton, Chester, and Glasgow. He didn’t leave a single clue. Just a body and a number carved into their skin. That’s all he ever leaves, no matter how closely the police look, no matter how many security cameras they check and witness appeals they make. His crimes are usually nine months apart, and the most recent, the thirteenth, was in September. She was named Lucy Halpern, and they found her in a park. That was five months ago.

Some people online think he’s done now, because of the number. They think monsters finish when they reach a point made famous by horror stories. But I don’t believe that, because when you’ve killed that many people, you don’t stop.

It is only a matter of time before he kills again.

Chapter 11

“Are you excited?” Adrian asks, and I fake the biggest smile I can manage.

“More than you know.”

It’s Saturday. We’re in an elegant restaurant in London, and I’m the first to arrive.

I hand Adrian the paperwork, and he smiles, checks that every dotted line has been signed, then passes it to Lauren.

When you’re a kid, London is the place where all the best surprises are, like Hamleys and musicals and museums. But now, alone, it reminds me I’m not that kid anymore.

I didn’t sleep last night, worrying about who the other “stars” are and if their hooks are better than mine.

Lauren taps on her iPad while Adrian does a terrible job trying to keep me calm.