Page 11 of Darkwater Lane

The man looks toward the camera as he reaches for something in his front pocket. “Ms. Proctor? My name is Special Agent Amar Indiri. This is my colleague, Special Agent Lydia Wren. We’re with the FBI. Do you have a moment to answer some questions?”

4

GWEN

I stiffen, glad for the familiar comfort of my gun to ground me. They’re feds, so they’re not here to arrest Sam for Varrus’s murder. Still, I rack my brain, trying to figure out why two FBI agents would suddenly appear on my doorstep. If it had anything to do with the school shooting Connor witnessed, then Mike Lustig would have tipped us off.

“What’s this about?” I ask through the intercom.

“It would be easier to explain if you let us come inside,” the man says.

“I’m sure it would be,” I tell them.

They wait for me to say more or to open the door. When I don’t, they exchange a glance. The woman’s lips purse with frustration. “It involves your ex-husband, Melvin Royal.”

A bitter taste fills my mouth. Of course it does. Despite the man being dead, Melvin still finds a way to constantly interfere with my life. But they’re right; this isn’t a topic I want to discuss through my doorbell camera, where any of my neighbors can overhear us.

“Fine. You’ll forgive me if this comes off a bit paranoid, butcould you both please hold your IDs up to the camera so I can see them? I’m going to have to verify your identities before I let you in.”

Given that my family and I have been attacked in our own home by men posing as law enforcement, I don’t take chances.

The two agents exchange another glance but do as I ask. I keep my firearm nearby as I call Mike. After several rings, the call rolls over to an assistant, who informs me that Special Agent Lustig is out of the office, and she can’t give me any information about when he’ll return. However, she is able to run the two agents’ badge numbers and confirm their identities.

I end the call, stash my gun in the safe, and then disarm the alarm before opening the front door. The woman holds out her hand first. “I’m Special Agent Wren. Thanks for taking the time to talk with us.” Face-to-face, she’s smaller than I anticipated, but strong, judging by her grip as we shake hands. The man is quite a bit taller and very narrow. I notice a speck of blood on his neck from where he nicked himself shaving this morning.

I invite them in and lead them toward the kitchen. From the moment they step inside, their eyes are everywhere, sweeping across the living room, down the hallway, taking in everything. There’s nothing exciting for them to find—Connor left some of his textbooks piled on the coffee table next to several bottles of Lanny’s nail polish. About what you’d expect from a normal family home.

In the kitchen, I gesture toward the table and offer them coffee. “Please, thanks,” Special Agent Wren says. Special Agent Indiri nods his head in agreement. Wren takes my usual seat, the one with the best view of the front door. Indiri takes the chair opposite her so he has a clear shot down the hallway in case anyone else happens to be home.

Once I’ve filled three mugs and set them on the table, I take the seat between them. “So, what’s this about?”

“Are you familiar with the name Cooper Kuntz?” Special Agent Indiri asks.

“Can you give me any context?”

“You might also know him as CuckSucker,” he says. “That’s the name he goes by online.”

I think for a moment, trying to place the name, but come up with nothing. “Sorry, it’s still not familiar.”

“He’s sent you threatening emails in the past,” Wren adds. “Does that help you remember?”

I look at her, waiting for her to crack a smile. She has to be joking. Her expression remains serious, and I laugh. “Do you have any idea how many threatening emails I’ve gotten over the years? More than a hundred today alone. Thousands all told—probably tens of thousands. So, you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t remember the screen names of the senders of every single one of them. After a while, they tend to blur together.”

“Well, this one apparently stood out to you enough that you felt it necessary to forward it to the FBI.” She leans over and pulls a manila folder from her bag. Taking the top sheet from inside, she slides it across the table toward me. “Does this help jog your memory?”

It’s a printout of an email sent to me the year before. I only have to glance at the first line before the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. She’s right, I absolutely do remember this guy. He liked to discuss—in detail—the many depraved things he wanted to do to my daughter while forcing me to watch. What made it stand out was the photo of Lanny he included. It was blurry like it had been taken quickly and surreptitiously, and it was of her school.

Which meant he’d been in Knoxville. He’d been at my daughter’s school. He’d been within striking distance. I’d immediately forwarded the email on to the FBI and hadn’t let Lanny drive anywhere on her own for weeks. The FBI had given me the same response they usually did: they would look into it, but in themeantime let them know if I received any additional threats from the guy.

In other words, they’d add it to the pile of other emails and consider doing something if his behavior escalated. I remember the outrage I’d felt at the time.

I’d even called Mike to see if he could do anything. He’d tried, but had run into the same roadblocks I had. There just weren’t enough resources to go after every asshole making threats online. At least he was as frustrated about the whole thing as I was. He’d promised to refer the matter up the chain. Apparently, that seems to have worked.

I shove the email back across the table. “You’re just now following up on this? I guess better late than never. So, were you able to track this asshole down? Can we press charges against him?”

“We were able to track him down,” Wren informs me. “Unfortunately, pressing charges is out of the question.”

“And why is that, exactly?” I bite out angrily.

---