Page 176 of Chalk Outline
“What does he look like?” I hesitate.
“I don’t know,” she admits in a harsh tone. “I know his name is James. That’s all.”
James.
James…I heard that name before.
I gulp as I tiptoe toward her door. It’s closed, but her muffled shouts break the silence as I press my ear to the door and listen to her heated conversation.
“I didn’t turn my life upside down to watch Winona being taken by the evil bastards who took her in the first place.” Her tone is crisp and authoritative, yet impatient. “Winona was only twelve when the Halloween Killers started to kill for show. Do you think it was just serial killers having fun? It was a message to me. Someone ensured that a man was killed in front of my little girl, like an animal. I don’t care what you do or how you do it. Just find them. It’s been six years. They will come after her; it’s just a matter of time.”
Who was behind the clown mask in the circus?
They said they have a boss.
I round the tent, hiding behind a large sign with the circus logo—Carnage Trolls in cursive gold lettering—and a list of shows.
“James won’t be happy about this,” says one man to the other. “But he was a liability anyway. Now help me put him in a body bag.”
James... the guy Grandma was searching for.
That James…
They grab my chin roughly, forcing me to watch as the clown pours gasoline over my bodyguard and pulls a matchbox from his pocket.
“Doesn’t it look pretty?” he asks in a sadistic tone. “That’s not something you see every day. Enjoy the show.” He lights a match and flicks it at the body, setting it on fire.
Enjoy the show.
Those words.
All the hundreds of notes I collected are spread out on the counter. I sift through them until I find the one I’m looking for.
Flames licking the darkness of the night create the best final show.
Holy shit.
It was right in front of me.
“Is there an operator named James?” I ask Braxton, tapping my fingers on the counter. “Probably someone older than us.”
I watch the laptop screen as he enters his name into BLACKBIRD’s data software. The name appears with an old, pixelated picture—no last name.
“He’s probably someone from the force. Romina doesn’t update their information very often because she knows them personally. They usually work undercover, so she doesn’t make this info available to everyone,” Braxton says. “However, it does say he’s fifty-seven.”
“That’s gotta be him.” I move away from the counter, pacing back and forth as I replay the day Reeve died.
I go beneath the yellow tape, Police Line Do Not Cross. Titan walks beside me, alert.
The gritty feel of sand covers my skin.
Reeve’s burnt bike is gone. The grim parking lot looks like a set for an action movie scene that was shot last night and disappeared by morning.
Cinders cover the asphalt sporadically, ashes rolling around them.
He can’t be dead.
I don’t believe that.
