Page 1 of Unmasked Legacy

PROLOGUE

TEN YEARS EARLIER

Isit cross-legged on the floor of my father's study, surrounded by a mess of book reports and assignments I can't seem to finish. The sound of a distant storm rolling in continues to distract me. The soft rain falling on the roof seems to be lulling me into a daze and causing my mind to wander, focusing on anything but what I’m meant to be doing.

My thoughts keep drifting to Jace, the boy from school with sandy blond hair and piercing blue eyes who consumes my every thought. His unexpected text last night still sends a thrill through me. He hasn’t spoken to me before, and then, out of the blue, he messaged me. The butterflies are still swimming around my tummy when I think of how that made me feel.

Is there a possibility that he likes me?

At fifteen, I know my father wouldn’t agree, but I have had a crush on Jace for as long as I can remember.

A sharp exhale escapes me, a reminder to focus. The end of term is far too close, and I'm drowning in overdue work. I sift through my father's extensive collection of books, sure he owns something useful. Although I'm not supposed to be in here, I just know he has something that might be able to help me finish this work before I fall too far behind.

As I toss a few books out of an old, dusty box, an unmarked envelope slips to the floor. Curious, I pick it up, eyeing the dusty encyclopedia it fell from—a relic of a time before Google. I can’t believe this is all they used to use. Curiosity piqued, I open theenvelope and pull out a stack of photographs. My breath catches, and my body tenses. These aren't family snapshots—they’re crime scene photos so graphic they make my skin crawl.

I recognize them instantly. Everyone would. The horrific work of the Shadow Butcher, whose terror has gripped our state for over five years now, making every parent fearful for their loved ones. A man who has escaped police capture and managed to continue the nightmare. Why does my father have these unblurred images? We’ve all seen them, of course, but the media is very careful to black out anything too graphic to be shown on television and news articles.

Unable to stop myself, I flip through the photos, a cold dread settling in my stomach. The last moments of the victims captured are beyond comprehension, too awful for me to stare at for another minute. I shove them back into the envelope, but something else grabs my attention, more papers shoved into the middle of the book —maps and notes meticulously detailing each murder. Their locations, the victims' details, scrawled in a handwriting I know all too well:my father's.

The familiar rumble of thunder outside mirrors the chaos inside me. Papers scatter as I fumble in disbelief, desperately trying to shove them all back before anyone finds me in here. The evidence before me is glaringly real, yet I cling to the hope that there's an explanation, something that makes this nightmare untrue.

There is no way. No way in the world that the man I have loved my entire life is a monster – isthismonster.

The squeaking sound of the garage door has me jerking upright—he's home. Panicked, I shove the items into my backpack and quickly put everything back into the box, returning it to its spot before taking my spot back on the floor with my papers, desperately pleading with my heart to stop pounding.

Footsteps echo in the hallway, and he calls my name, his voice warm and tender, exactly as it has always been. But now, that voice feels tainted, and a fear washes through me, a fear I can’t quite put my finger on. Is it fear of the truth, or fear of the man I have trusted my entire life with?

"Mera, sweetheart, what are you doing in my study?"

His sky-blue eyes and crooked smile are the first thing I see when I look up to see him standing in the doorway, and my heart skips a beat. There is no way this man could be the one they’re all looking for. Not this kind, compassionate man who raised me when my mother died years long ago. He is my entire world.

It’s simply not possible.

I force a smile, my voice shaky. "I hoped you had a reference book for my assignment. Sorry, I know I shouldn't be here. I haven't found one yet, I’m really not sure what I’m looking for.”

He sits beside me, placing his briefcase down, his eyes mirroring mine—a sight that used to soothe me now sends chills down my spine. Can someone so loving be capable of such horror? Is it even possible? I don’t believe it. I won’t. I have spent my life with this man.

"I can help. What's your paper about?"

It's a misunderstanding; it has to be. But, fear knots in my stomach, even though I beg it not to. I am trying to wrap my mind around why he would have those papers, those precise details, things that I’m not even certain the police have. Has he just taken a great interest in the case and managed to gather them? Is it even possible to have such a detailed list?

It has to be the reason.

It’s the only one I’ll accept.

Yet I put that evidence in my bag anyway. But why? Is it because deep down, I just want to prove it isn’t him? Or is it something worse, something so deep it’s crippling –my father is a serial killer.

1

NOW – MERA

Climbing out of the taxi, I aimlessly hand the man my card, listening to the distant beep as he taps it. I’m not focusing on him; instead, my eyes are trained at the town before me, the streets lined with people, the bustling place that was once the home of my worst nightmares.

I didn’t want to come back here—hell, I would have spent the rest of my life running—but I knew it wasn’t going to help me move forward. Ten years later, and this place still makes my blood run cold. My therapist told me the only way to accept the past is to go back and answer the questions that remain unanswered.

Ten years ago, to the day, I was packed up in a police car as my father was arrested, and I never looked back. I could never face the people in this town when they found out he was a murderer, a brutal killer. It’s a fact that I still haven’t accepted, and I’m certain I never will.

But it’s time for answers, answers that I don’t necessarily want, but I know I need.

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