Six months later, her burial plot in a graveyard in Allenhurst was discovered to have been excavated, her coffin stolen. The shocking story made network morning shows, and her bereaved parents suffered a second time. While the crime was never officially solved, Odessa found a subsequent story about a narcotics ring being broken up, which mentioned a link to recent grave desecrations, citing Baby Mia’s and the theft of the corpse of a man who died in 1977 from a Long Island cemetery.

Odessa scanned other accounts of corpses being stolen and mausoleums broken into. A surprising number of cases. Grave robbing? In New Jersey? News at eleven. She finally pulled herself out of the internet wormhole, trying to make sense of what she had learned.

Why would someone desecrate a child’s grave? Her first thought was a religious cult, a strain of voodoo. Narcotics rings often venerated certain dark saints or superstitious occult deities for “protection” from arrest. Santeria was the best known.

But what did this have to do with rampage killings? She X’d out of her browser more confused than ever. None of it made sense to her…and yet she was left with a chill deep in her core. It meant something. But what?

Odessa sipped at her seltzer, tinged with lime. Dennis the fish swam about in fresh water in the clean bowl in the center of the table. His delicate-looking fins appeared faded, the maroon of his body looking more orange. She wondered how close the fish had come to death, waiting for its owner to return home. She remembered Agent Solomon being wheeled away, close to the end himself. Dennis appeared to be looking at Odessa, swimming in place a moment before resuming his circling.

Odessa made a decision and got up.

She had a letter to write.

Chapter

To Hugo Blackwood, Esq.

My name is Odessa Hardwicke. I am a special agent with the FBI working out of the New Jersey Field Office, currently on special assignment.

A fellow agent, Earl Solomon, suggested that I write to you to request your assistance on a pressing investigatory matter. This is an unusual and unorthodox act on the part of an FBI agent, but Mr. Solomon insists, and presently the investigation is at a standstill.

I am writing you concerning two separate and seemingly unrelated rampage killings recently in the news, one in Montclair, New Jersey, the other in Little Brook, Long Island.

Any assistance would be greatly appreciated.

Chapter

Odessa sat on a subway seat near the center door, the handwritten note sealed inside a six-by-nine manila envelope as instructed, addressed to “Hugo Blackwood.” She had folded it once, only once. The envelope lay facedown on her lap. The subway car rolled under the Hudson River, carrying late-arriving morning commuters from New Jersey into Lower Manhattan.