Chapter One

Ethan Ellington stood outside his closed front door and pulled the keys from his pocket. His fingers trembled. An unusual tightness swelled in his stomach.

Why was his body reacting this way?

Safety lay behind the white-paneled door. Security. A sense of belonging.

The hour was late, and he was tired. But this was his home. He should’ve felt safe here.

And yet, when he pushed the key into the lock, his stomach cramped. Beneath the heel of his hand, the key chain swung. A piece of walnut in the shape of Lake Tahoe with half of a heart carved out of the middle. A souvenir bought during a boating trip with Sarah. One half of a matching pair. Together, the keys those chains held had secured and opened their house for almost a decade.

Now, behind that door was emptiness. Loneliness. An overpowering absence.

Despair.

That was why Ethan hadn’t come home immediately after he’d been discharged. The Steel Park Psychiatric Hospital was only a few miles away. Twenty minutes by bus.

And he’d only been away for a couple of weeks.

The house had stood empty during that time. Dark and unlit. Dust gathering on the windowsill and filling the spaces between the bristles on the welcome mat. The sinks dry, the shower unused. Lifeless for a month, as though its vitality had started to leave months earlier, when cancer had snuck through the walls, invaded his wife’s brain, and taken her away.

Slowly at first, then much too quickly.

The last time he’d been here, on the other side of that door, he’d sat in the armchair with the muzzle of his Smith & Wesson under his chin. She had been his life. And when she left, she took all of him with her. What he planned to do just made sense.

But he also wondered about the splatter his brain would make on the ceiling.

No doubt the bullet would leave a small hole too. Perhaps a large one. He really wasn’t sure. He just knew it wasn’t fair to mess up the house or his favorite chair like that. Someone would find him and be shocked. Someone else would have to pry bits of skull from the plaster, mop up brain from the carpet. That wasn’t right.

He’d thought of pills, but they took too long, and he might change his mind while waiting for them to kick in. And he didn’t have the courage to throw himself off a building, even if he could find one tall enough here in Steel Park. He’d never been very good with heights.

So he’d sat there with the gun in his hand, the picture of Sarah looking at him from the mantelpiece, and he’d cried. An hour he’d cried—maybe two—lowering the gun and lifting it again before he’d finally rested his weapon on the side of the armchair and called a suicide helpline.

He’d booked himself into the hospital that night and stayed there ever since.

One month of therapy and a new kind of oxygen treatment, talking and medicating, and he was supposed to be all right now. Ready to face the world again. Alone. Or at least all right enough to take Prozac and participate in outpatient treatment so that someone else could make use of the bed.

He didn’t want to go home, though. Didn’t want to be alone. And he certainly didn’t want to see that armchair again. Let alone sit in it.

Though Ethan had been released at three that afternoon, he’d spent the last seven hours making sure he was anywhere but home.

The park had been filled with happy people, enjoying the end of the holiday weekend. Flags flew from posts. Smoke drifted from the grills celebrating Independence Day early with meat and fire, even though the Fourth was still two days away. Joggers ran along the trails, and families picnicked on the grass, tossing balls and Frisbees to one another.

They looked so carefree.

He’d been just like them one year ago. Before Sarah’s diagnosis. There was no returning to those joyous days. Not without Sarah. Not for him. But it gratified Ethan to see there was still some joy in the world, if only for others.

He’d sat on a bench and called his father.

They hadn’t spoken while he’d been in the hospital or for the two days before that. Ethan couldn’t face the conversation. The commiseration. The exhortation to keep his chin up and give it time.

“You’ll get through it.” That was what his dad always said every time something bad happened.

He’d get through it.

Unless he didn’t.

During the phone call on the park bench, they arranged to meet for lunch in a couple of days. Ethan was even looking forward to it. A new start on another day.

After the park, he’d gone to Big Blue Coffee for dinner and stayed there until they started putting chairs on top of tables. And now he was here.

Home.

At last.

With a deep breath, Ethan pushed the key fully into the lock and turned.

The door creaked and cracked as though the paint conspired to keep him out. He stepped inside. The place was dark, dead, until he turned on the light.

And there was the living room. The blank TV. The glass of what he’d thought would be his last bourbon still on the table. The inside was probably sticky by now, and the dirt on the dishes in the dishwasher must’ve hardened into stone.

He picked up the cup, took it to the kitchen, placed it on the top dishwasher rack, filled the tiny compartment with detergent, and turned the machine on.

The rush of water and the rumble of the rotary arms brought life back into the house. It wasn’t much, but it was something. The old food in the fridge could wait.

He’d got through the day. Tomorrow was another. He’d get through that one, too, with luck and grit.

In the living room, Sarah watched him from the frame on the mantelpiece as he skirted the armchair and dropped onto the end of the sofa. He kicked off his shoes and curled up. Maybe he’d sleep here tonight. The bed was still too big and empty, the bedroom a challenge he couldn’t yet face. Not tonight. He was already wearing shorts and a t-shirt. He didn’t even need to change. He closed his eyes.

The doorbell rang.

Ethan’s eyes snapped open.

No one should be ringing his doorbell, certainly not at ten o’clock at night. He wanted life in the house, but that didn’t mean he was ready for company.

It was probably Mrs. Eastman from across the road, who’d seen him come home and wanted to make sure he was all right. She seemed to spend half her life peeping through the curtains and watching the world go by outside. He’d get rid of her.

Ethan uncurled himself and opened the door.

It wasn’t Mrs. Eastman. Or any of the other neighbors. The face that greeted him was friendly and kind. He knew it well, having seen it every day for the past month. He attempted to remember a name and was embarrassed when it didn’t come immediately to mind.

“How are you doing, Ethan? I just wanted to make sure you made it home okay and were settling back in.”

“I’m…” His throat was drier than he expected. Aside from the phone call with his dad, he hadn’t spoken a word in the last seven hours. He coughed and tried again. “I’m okay.”

His surprise visitor rubbed Ethan’s arm and smiled. Ethan warmed. He hadn’t been touched for so long.

“Would you like to come in?”

The visitor stepped inside, and as Ethan led the way to the living room, their hand landed on his shoulder, friendly, firm, and reassuring.

“Why don’t you take a seat?”

Ethan instinctually sat in the armchair.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

He tried to smile. “I’ll get through it.”

The visitor sighed and began to rub his shoulder. “I’d like to believe that. Really, I would. But modern psychiatry is so limited. Sometimes, I think we’re still in the Dark Ages, just applying leeches to wounds we can’t heal. What we really need to do is relieve the pain. I can do that. I can give you the mercy of release.”

What the hell?

“The mercy of release? What does that mean?”

“It’s a novel treatment from Taiwan, a true breakthrough in science. Here, let me show you.”

His visitor opened a light jacket, removed their hand from Ethan’s shoulder, and withdrew a syringe from an inside pocket.

Before he could stop it, there was a pinch. One second, the syringe had been in his visitor’s hand, the next, the needle was in his arm. The plunger went down, and a bolt of electricity shot up Ethan’s shoulder and down to his fingers.

He lurched to his feet and immediately regretted the sudden movement. As he staggered, his leg struck the side of the armchair, and he dropped onto the cushions again, the syringe still stuck in his bicep. Ethan yanked it out.

“What…what’s in this?”

His head spun. The walls melted. The sofa across the room bent and twisted and dripped as though it was a chocolate bar left out in the sun.

The empty syringe dropped from Ethan’s fingers. Somewhere in the depths of his brain, he watched it float like a leaf to settle into the cloud-cushions of the armchair.

A voice spoke, a soft echo. “There, there. All will be well soon. You’ll be free.”

Splashing came next, reminding Ethan of the beach at Lake Tahoe, of paddling in the waves with Sarah, of her elegant dive from the pier into the lake’s cold waters. She never minded the cold. A smile crept across his face. Actually, she loved it. He’d be back on the pier shivering in his towel while she splashed and gamboled like a baby dolphin.

In the next moment, Ethan was filling up the car at the gas station, ready to begin their trip home. The scent of gasoline was strong as he tucked the nozzle back into the pump. Sarah laughed on her way out of the store, holding up a pair of kitschy key chains.

A crack and a fizz. A birthday and candles and flames that wouldn’t blow out no matter how hard Sarah puffed. She could barely breathe at the end.

And a whoosh.

The visitor was gone. Hot flames raced across the carpet. They melted the chocolate sofa. They climbed the mantelpiece, kissed Sarah’s cheek, and embraced her fully.

And at last, as Ethan closed his eyes to the inferno surrounding him, fire engulfed the armchair.

Chapter Two

Aaron Harris, a high-ranking member of The Chosen and currently living as a hermit in a tiny cabin in the middle of Allegheny National Forest, was even less impressive than FBI Special Agent Journey Russo had expected.

He looked older than his sixty-one years, as he sat at the table in the interrogation room in the Pittsburgh FBI field office, one hand resting on the back of the other. His fingers were long and thin, like twigs protruding from the end of a slender branch. The pocket of his faded lumberjack shirt was torn, the collar frayed. Above his scrubby beard, a skinny, beak-like nose perched. His halo of graying brown hair had seen neither a barber nor a comb in far too long.

And the stale odor that greeted Journey and her partner, Special Agent Lucas Sullivan, as they entered the interrogation room made her wonder about the last time Harris had seen soap. Life in a shack in the Allegheny Forest might’ve been good for Harris’s survival techniques, but it had done nothing for his social skills or hygiene.

Journey waited for Lucas to close the door before taking a seat. Having been cleared of the officer-involved shooting investigation from their previous case, it felt so good to be back on active duty, Harris’s stank notwithstanding.

Harris lifted his chin. His dark eyes were watery, his long eyebrows wild and unkempt, and heavy bags rested on the tops of his cheeks. As soon as those eyes met Journey’s, he looked away. The tips of his long fingers tapped on the surface of the table.

He barely looked at Lucas. He sat with his back straight, his gaze fixed on the edge of the table.

Journey had often seen criminals who thought they could outwit the Feds slouch in these chairs as though they were lounging in their own living rooms. The attitude rarely lasted long. Harris’s mood was different.

He was nervous.

The FBI could have that effect, even on witnesses who’d done no wrong. An interview room, a couple of suited law enforcement officers, recording machines, and notebooks all combined to turn what should’ve been a friendly conversation into something that felt dangerous.

But Harris wasn’t innocent. He was a long way from it. He was a high-ranking affiliate of The Chosen, a criminal cult that preyed on its members.

Journey had met him before, when she’d worked undercover to investigate them. On that operation, she’d managed to bring down Bryce Faulkner, one of the cult’s leaders—and nearly lost her life in the process. She’d hoped the arrest would allow her to crack the group open entirely and sweep up the rest of his team.

But Bryce had chosen silence. He rejected every deal they offered, spurned the advice of his lawyers, and was still sitting in a prison cell while The Chosen continued its activities.

Here, Journey had a second chance. Harris was related to a murderous teenager with a fondness for archery who she and Lucas had picked up on a previous case. Help from the teen’s parents regarding Harris’s location had gotten the kid a reduced charge.

Now Journey had to make the deal pay off.

Harris was supposed to have ties to The Chosen’s financial affairs. If he spilled, they might be able to grab the cult by the purse strings, the place that would hurt them most. Rolling up the leadership would become a lot easier.

If Harris talked.

Journey glanced at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. The light was on. The device was recording.

“It’s Wednesday, July the fifth, and the time is nine thirty in the morning. Mr. Aaron Harris, good morning. I’m Special Agent Journey Russo. This is Special Agent Lucas Sullivan.”

Harris’s eyes narrowed at the mention of her name. For the first time since she’d entered the room, he made eye contact and held it just long enough to make Journey shift in her seat.

She wasn’t sure if it meant that he remembered her from when she worked undercover and infiltrated The Chosen. The case went beyond the call of duty. On the one hand, her parents had, for a time, been members of The Chosen. On the other, Journey was almost killed by its members so they could cash in a life insurance policy they’d made her take out.

She didn’t look away. “You know who I am?”

His gaze dropped back to the edge of the table. “A Fed. Like him.” He lifted his chin toward Lucas.

“We’re federal agents. That’s right. But do you know who I am?”

“Uh-uh.” A denial, but it didn’t come right away. The hesitation was brief, but Journey was sure it was there.

“You’re certain? I don’t look familiar to you or anything?”

“Why should you? You a celebrity or something? I don’t own a TV.”

They needed to move on. If Journey’s name had sparked something in Harris, it wasn’t important now. “I understand you’re a member of The Chosen, Mr. Harris. Let’s start with—”

“I’m a member of the what now?”

Lucas cracked his knuckles. “Don’t give us that crap.” His voice was sharp. “We know who you are, and we know what you do. So don’t play us for fools.”

Harris shrugged.

Journey leaned toward him. “You hear what my partner said? Don’t play us for fools. We don’t like it. We know you’re involved with The Chosen. Aren’t you interested in how we know? And how we found you?”

Harris stopped tapping the table. He didn’t answer, but he held his gaze on Journey, which was all the answer she needed.

She sat back in the chair and stretched her legs. “Your niece told us.” She smiled.
“Family can be a bitch, huh? If you hadn’t taught her son how to kill people with a bow, she might not have been so eager to put her uncle in our hands. But you make your mistakes, and you pay the price. That’s how life works.” Journey cocked her head. “She’s helping her son. You’ve been charged with second-degree murder. Now you get a chance to help yourself.”

Harris licked his lips. Where the tips of his mustache overhung his mouth, his tongue darkened the bristles. He spoke quietly. “I live in a shack in the middle of the forest. I not only don’t own a TV, I don’t have a telephone or access to the internet. Unless you’re talking about the New World Order, I don’t know what the heck you’re on about. Never will.”

Had she known less, Journey might’ve been willing to accept his denial. With his wild hair and beard, his dirty clothes, and the smell of mold rising from his pores, Harris could plausibly have moved to the forest to protect himself from the rise of some new global government coming to take his freedom. He looked just nuts enough to do that.

Still, the second-degree murder charge was a reach. Any half-decent lawyer could make a case that Harris had only taught his young relative to hunt with a bow. If the boy had chosen to hunt humans, that was on him, not Harris.

But it might be enough to scare Harris into cooperating. Journey hoped it would be.

Harris’s face tensed. His watery eyes hardened into ice. His jaw moved as though he were gnashing gum in his teeth, and for a moment, Journey wondered whether he wouldn’t have liked to chew her up as well. He didn’t speak.

Journey pushed on. “Your niece says you were involved in The Chosen’s insurance scams. She says you worked with Bryce Faulkner. Is she right?”

Harris’s face paled, his mouth contorting into a wince. The mention of Faulkner’s name clearly had an effect. His fingers closed around the back of his hand. “Don’t know anyone like that.”

He was clamming up.

Lucas leaned closer. “We know how it works. Connor Leopold makes you persuade some new member to take out a ton of life insurance, leaving everything to The Chosen. Then…whoops, their house burns down with them in it. Or their car wraps itself around a tree. Or they stab themselves seventeen times in the back while dropping their crafting scissors.”

Harris dragged his hands back from the table. He ran his fingers over his beard and exhaled slowly.

Journey braced herself. He wanted to talk. It was coming. The information she needed to bring in Connor Leopold at last.

His eyes flitted from Journey to Lucas and back again.

“The Chosen. Connor, he…” Harris stopped. The mention of Leopold’s name seemed to have triggered something, brought him up short. He folded his arms over his chest and licked his lips again. “I want my lawyer. And I ain’t saying nothing.”

A flame lit in Journey’s guts. He’d remembered something that had scared him. She needed to be scarier. “You do know what you’re in for, right? You know what could happen to you if you’re found guilty.”

Harris shook his head. “I won’t be found guilty. The D.A. will drop the charges long before they reach court. You’re grasping at straws. There’s nothing you can do to me.” Despite his hard words, he seemed distracted. Perhaps he was hiding something. Mostly he seemed weary. “So if you’ve got anything else to say, you get me a lawyer. Otherwise, you can take me back to my cell until it’s time for me to go home.”

Clenching her fists to stop her hands from shaking in anger and frustration, Journey nudged Lucas and led him into the hall.

Lucas pulled the door closed and folded his arms. He looked as frustrated as she felt. “He’s not wrong. We only got those charges because the D.A. thought we could negotiate something more realistic. If he doesn’t talk, he’ll walk.”

Journey nodded. “He’s frightened.”

“Not of us.”

“No.” Journey glanced at the closed door. “He’s frightened of Connor Leopold, whether he’s aware of it or not. Even if they are supposedly on good terms, as his grandnephew claimed. Frightened enough to hide himself away in the woods and hope no one ever finds him.”

Lucas rubbed the scruff on his jaw. “If he’s secretly in trouble with The Chosen, you’d think he’d want to work with us to bring them down.”

“If he’s in trouble with The Chosen in any way, I think he’d want to get as far away as possible. And he’d know that if he ends up in prison, they’ll find him. Plenty of people in the penitentiary with links to Connor Leopold.”

Lucas paced down the corridor. He stopped after three long steps and turned around. “If we’re going to crack The Chosen, we need him to talk. Frightened or not.”

Journey agreed. What they really needed was to frighten Harris more than The Chosen could.

“We need something that’ll give him real prison time.”

“Something that isn’t a reach.”

“Yeah, something that would actually convict him, and he knows it. If he really thinks he’s going to jail, he’ll talk, if only because he knows he’ll meet The Chosen in prison. We need to—”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor behind Journey, the rapid click-clack of Victoria Keller’s heels. The Supervisory Special Agent had a quick pace and the kind of shoes that could make noise on a muddy, dirt path. “There you are. They told me you two were down here. Any luck with Harris?”

Journey shook her head. “Not yet.”

“We’re not scary enough.” Lucas jammed his hands into his pockets and cocked his head toward Journey. “So he’s got to be medal-of-honor brave, because she scares the crap out of me.”

Journey bumped him lightly with her elbow. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me. What can we do for you, Victoria?”

Victoria pulled a folder from under her arm. “Find me a killer.”

A weight settled into Journey’s gut. Another killer. More bodies. More victims. She took the file.

Lucas took a step closer. “What are we looking at?”

“We got a call from police in Steel Park.”

Journey opened the folder and closed it again almost immediately. The picture was of a burned shell of a house. If they were looking for a killer, the next pictures would be of a corpse. And if there was a fire, that corpse wouldn’t be pretty.

She braced herself. “That’s a suburb just south of Pittsburgh, right? Think I drove through it once.”

Victoria nodded. “Yeah. They’ve got a psychiatric hospital there. A former patient has been found dead in his burned-out house. He’d just been discharged.”

Journey opened the folder again, skipping the first page. There was the patient, or what was left of him. His flesh had been roasted off his bones, which were astonishingly white. His teeth were exposed, and the fire had burned away part of his scalp to reveal a patch of bare skull. Journey’s stomach flip-flopped. She hadn’t braced herself hard enough. It was horrible.

Don’t think about fire. Don’t do it.

She turned to the next page. “This says he wasn’t the first.”

“No. Looks like there’ve been two others who’ve died in similar circumstances. Patients burning themselves to death as soon as they’re released from Steel Park Psychiatric Hospital. The same day.”

“Yuck.” Journey flicked to the next page. “And weird.”

“Yeah. It’s enough to make the cops think the staff at the hospital might include a killer. They’ve asked for our help. They’ll give you all the details.”

Journey closed the folder with a snap. Frightening Harris would have to wait. Even if the charges weren’t dropped, he’d make bail. But they knew where to find him. His little hideaway in the woods wasn’t a secret anymore.