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“Near the woods on your property. I’m heading for cover.” I bolt for the trees.

The line crackles. “—house. I’m coming⁠—”

The house is a half mile away. More hail attacks me as I run, but through the trees I make out a larger dark shape. “Gage, can you hear me? I found an old shed.”

Silence. I reach the nearest tree just as his voice explodes through the static. “Jules—Jub—lee! Not—the—” The call chops into digital garbage.

“Gage!” Nothing.

The hail comes harder, slashing through the canopy. Fuck this. I shove the phone into my pocket and make a beeline for the shed. By the time I reach it, my plaid shirt is plastered to my skin, my braid has half unraveled, and cold water streams down my cheeks.

I wrench open the door and stumble inside. “What the hell?”

This does not belong to Gage Cannon. Not when his chicken coop is an Airbnb for poultry. Even his gardening tools have designated hooks. But this place seems abandoned: rust-stained farm tools, a cracked workbench, dusty shelves, and enough cobwebs to suggest the spiders pay property taxes.

I remove my helmet and shiver as thunder shakes the walls. I pull my phone out. One bar. I try calling again. Nothing. “Fantastic.”

Hail rattles the roof, but at least there are no windows. My wet boots thud across the warped floorboards, leaving muddy prints until—thunk. I stop. From thuds to a thunk. I tap my heel again. The section beneath me is undoubtedly hollow.

The rational side of my brain tells me to mind my own business. The suspicious side wakes up immediately and has never been particularly good at losing arguments. Crouching, I run my fingers over the floor, finding nothing but old boards, dust, and the edge of a worn rubber mat.

Another crack of thunder rattles the shed as I drag the mat aside. The boards beneath it don’t quite match the others.

I press along the edge. Nothing. “Okay, Nancy Drew. Maybe we stop,” I say right before my fingers catch against a groove beneath the lip of the workbench. A click. I freeze just as the floor shifts. “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.”

A section of boards lifts just enough to expose darkness underneath. For several seconds, I only stare before lifting the hatch. Cold air rises from below. A narrow staircase disappears underground.

“Gage Cannon, if this is your rich-guy apocalypse bunker, I swear to God.”

I thumb on my phone’s flashlight and start down. The storm fades with every step until the hail becomes a distant metallic roar. When my light reaches the bottom, I stop breathing.

This is not an apocalypse bunker.

The underground room is immaculate. Dark cabinets line one wall. Maps cover another, colored thread connecting marked locations. Photographs and newspaper clippings sit beside handwritten names, dates, and aliases. Red Xs slashed across some. All men. My very bone marrow turns to ice. Predator. Trafficking. Missing girls. Three victims. Five victims. Children.

Next, I see the weapons—and choke on my own breath. Scythes. Sickles. Knives. All cleaned, displayed, and catalogued. Hooded black coats hang from hooks nearby.

My chest caves in. “No,” I whisper as my breath speeds up.

I back away from the board and bump into a cabinet, and my hand hits an item resting on top of it. Brown leather, old and cracked. A wallet. Two faded initials press into one corner. J.R.

My pulse stutters. Ricketts. Joshua Ricketts. I reach for it, my fingers shaking so badly, I nearly drop it. The wallet falls open, revealing old identification. Jacob Elias Ricketts.

The face is older than most of my memories. Different hair. A different name. But I know him. I’ll always know him. “Oh, God.”

Behind the identification is a photograph. I pull it free, and my knees almost give out. I’m maybe eleven, sitting astride a dark bay horse in one of my stupid fairy dresses, long, wavy hair streaming down my back. Dad stands at the horse’s shoulder, one hand on my knee, and I’m grinning at the camera like nothing bad will ever happen to me. My dad.

The picture shakes violently between my fingers. A sound catches in my throat that doesn’t resemble anything human.

“No.” My vision blurs. The room tilts. I grip onto the cabinet. “Three. Fif—” My eyes squeeze shut. I try again. “Three. Fifty-nine. Seven. Eighty-three. Eleven.” I can hear Gage telling me to count beside a dead body.

A dead body—he knew exactly how to bury.

Footsteps hammer down the stairs. I spin. Gage appears at the bottom, his black shirt soaked and clinging to his chest and shoulders, water running from his hair and beard. His ribs heave beneath the fabric like he ran the entire distance from the house.

All his focus trains on me and what I’m holding, and everything inside him stops. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them. But underneath the darkness, a worse emotion rises. Remorse. Deep enough for me to understand exactly why.

My throat closes. “Why do you have my father’s wallet, Gage?” He doesn’t move. I take in the room again. “What the hell is this place?”