Page 103 of Darkwater Lane

During the drive, I continue listening to Madison’s podcast and am only half-paying attention when I realize she just mentioned Melvin Royal’s grave.

I bolt upright in my seat. Surely, I didn’t hear that correctly. I press the back button before playing it again.

Madison’s voice echoes through the car. I turn up the volume. “You can be mistaken for missing it. Unlike other well-known serial killers, Melvin’s grave isn’t marked. It’s meant to be anonymous. Just a number: 820724. A simple gray stone in a sea of green grass. Though no secrets stay buried forever.”

My heart thumps erratically in my chest. That’s Melvin’s gravenumber; there’s no doubt about that. How does she know it? I feel sick to my stomach.

No secrets stay buried forever.

Those words can’t be a coincidence. It’s impossible. To the casual listener, that phrase would mean nothing. But when you know that Melvin’s grave was robbed—when you realize his body was dug up—it means everything.

When Madison recorded the podcast, she knew where Melvin’s grave was. More than that, she knew he was no longer buried there.

But when did she record this? Then I remember her mentioning the lush green grass. The grass today was brittle and yellow. Which means she was likely there in the summer or fall at the latest.

Before any of the sickos had been murdered.

I clamp a hand over my mouth.

The earliest anyone could have figured out that Melvin’s grave had been robbed was when that first bone was found in Cooper Kuntz’s throat. Even then, they didn’t figure out the bone belonged to Melvin until they ran the DNA tests this winter.

Madison couldn’t have known last summer about Melvin’s grave being robbed unless she was the one who robbed it.

It seems impossibly far-fetched. But the evidence is too strong to dismiss.

Madison Westcott is the sicko killer.

And she’s living right fucking next door to my family.

In a panic, I call Sam. He answers immediately. “Hey, honey, you almost back?”

At the sound of his voice, I have to swallow back tears at the sting of guilt that lances through me. How could I have ever suspected him of all those murders? How could I have believed he would do something like that and keep it from me.

“You and the kids safe?” I ask breathlessly. “Where are you?”

His voice pitches with alarm. “We’re all at Javi and Kez’s. Everyone’s fine. Is there something I need to know?”

I blow out a breath of relief that they’re not at home. I notice my hands are trembling and tighten them around the steering wheel to get them to stop.

“Are you armed?”

“You’re scaring me, Gwen.”

“It’s Madison Westcott,” I say.

I can hear his confusion. “Who is?”

“The sicko serial killer.”

There’s a long pause. “What? I think I missed something.”

“When I first met with her, she gave me a USB drive with her original podcast episodes on it. I forgot about them at first and was never super interested in listening because I thought the original podcast was vile enough. Why subject myself to more? But I ended up listening on the plane, and she mentioned Melvin’s grave.”

“Oookayyy.” It’s not that he doesn’t believe me. It’s that he doesn’t follow what I’m saying.

“When I talked to the caretaker at the cemetery, he said that a woman used to visit the grave a couple of years ago, right around the time the ground was salted and robbed. I know I said earlier it was Rowan, but what if it was Madison”

“Did you show them a picture of Madison and ask if they recognized her?”

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