“Of course we can. It’s brilliant.”

“One other thing,” I say. “Do we have a budget?”

Danny laughs. “How much are we talking?”

“Enough to make a statement.”

Then I call Ross, and we figure out specifics. It’s hard not to tell Emily or Hanna, but the best shocks catch everyone by surprise, and I want theirs to be genuine. We need to do this now. We need to go to the next level before the Magpie Man strikes again.

The woman in the photograph was Sandra Stoneham, number 12 on his list.

The police haven’t found any DNA, but they know more than they used to. They know he keeps pictures of his victims. Now they are calling him a collector, the search narrowing to people with a passion for Polaroid cameras, for those who see beauty in horror.

I’ve thought of Mom’s Polaroid so many times, wondering if I’ll ever see it, wondering if I want to. But seeing Sandra Stoneham’s body and the message that went with it, I know it’s time for the next part of the plan.

I’ve got his attention. Now I need to catch him.

Chapter 95

On Sunday night, Ross calls and tells me everyone is ready. He asks how I’m feeling, and with a wave of nausea creeping up my throat, I pretend I’m absolutely fine.

I can’t sleep. But I must have dozed off, because when my alarm wakes me at 6:00 a.m., I jump up in a panic like I’ve missed the whole thing.

“Okay,” I whisper. “It’s showtime.”

I should eat breakfast, because it’s going to be a busy morning, but the thought makes my stomach turn. I’m too anxious about what we’re going to do to think about cereal. Instead, I shower, get dressed, and wait for the doorbell to ring.

I pause for a second before opening it, worried what I might see, then I turn and pull, and Ross is standing there with a huge smile on his face.

“We’re here,” he says, and I can’t believe my eyes.

There must be at least thirty people, and when Ross catches me staring, he says, “Forty-three,” and then, “I’ve been busy.”

I smile and step aside, letting stranger after stranger into my house. Only they aren’t strangers.

I recognize so many of their faces from newspaper clippings and television reports, from social media appeals and my own dusty dreams. These are the left behind, the parents and grandparents and brothers and sisters and children of the Magpie Man’s victims.

Don’t ask me how, but Ross got them all to agree. He found me…and then he found everyone else.

Last in, hanging back, is Frances Banks.

“I’m glad you came,” I say, and she nods.

“I had to.”

Chapter 96