“Fair warning,” the bartender said as they settled in a few seats down from me, “this lot’s going to keep me busy awhile.” I ordered an Irish cream ale and thanked her for her candor. I could have used something stronger, but I wanted to stay sharp. The bartender filled my glass and rolled her eyes while heading off to take a drink order she clearly thought belonged in a dance club in Bushwick.

The creamy froth atop my beer gave way to liquid the color of rust. The effect was like fast-moving storm clouds, and then the beer was empty and I could see straight through the glass. What did I know that could help me find Bram? His victims all met him at a bar, according to the friends they’d left behind, but never the same place twice. His dating-app profile painted the picture of a good guy from a small town—a safe choice for a city girl on the hunt for a husband. The more I thought about it, the surer I felt that Swanton was the key.

When I initially heard about Bram, the first thing I did was call my mother. Dad’s newer to Swanton, but Mom’s a born-and-raised townie who’d spent decades collecting local gossip. Like any small, working-class town, Swanton had a few shady characters and an underbelly smeared with dirt. Domestic disputes and drugs weren’t uncommon. Some of its troubles hit close to home. My mom’s family had its share of black sheep. When I was thirteen a cousin was missing for days until the cops found her by a creek in the woods with her head bashed in. She tested positive for meth and was never the same again. But the police didn’t manage to establish who hurt her, and Mom said she couldn’t think of a single person who could possibly grow up to be a serial killer, not even when, with a wiggle in her voice, she mentioned how I got my scar.

Again and again, the pub door swung open. Crammed with bodies, the place was starting to heat up. I took a swallow of beer and returned my attention to the case. We’d circulated Bram’s profile photo around the neighborhood but got nowhere with that. There were dozens of men like him roaming the streets—attractive enough, easy to forget. Often the nastiest people are the ones you’d never suspect, the sweet neighbors and pleasant coworkers. They put on a mask and move among us so we don’t notice when they start to circle their prey.

I heard an explosion of laughter nearby and took another sip of beer. The throng of bodies that had formed behind me shifted, and as the rim of the glass touched my bottom teeth a stray elbow made contact with my lower back. The shove pitched me forward against the bar. When I pulled myself up, all I was left with was a half-empty pint and a cold, wet sweater that clung uncomfortably to my skin.