Page 121 of Darkwater Lane

This time, though, I brace myself. The door clatters open, and the motion sensor light inside flickers on. It casts everything in a dull, sickly yellow. But it’s bright enough that I can see most of the locker with one sweep of my eyes.

The déjà vu is instant. The layout of the locker is almost exactly as it was the first time I visited: Stacks of plastic storage bins line the wall on the left side while the right side contains cubbies piled with a bizarre array of personal effects. In the center, sitting on a table, is a neat stack of journals.

If I hadn’t known that Melvin’s locker had been emptied after it was turned over to the authorities, I’d have sworn this was his. The storage bins with trophies, the journals on the table, the cubbies. It’s all the same.

I nearly vomit at the recognition.

“How is this possible?” I ask out loud.

It occurs to me that they showed photos of Melvin’s locker at his trial, since it was where they uncovered evidence of his other murders. Madison must have seen them and copied them when setting up her own trophy room. It’s creepy as fuck and causes my skin to crawl.

The back wall, though, is different from Melvin’s. There are two enormous corkboards mounted side by side. One is covered with photographs of me along with dozens of notecards filled with writing. In the center is a photoshopped image of Madison and me, side by side, our arms around each other like we’re best friends.

Partners in Crimeis written across the bottom in bold Sharpie. I shudder at the thought and turn my attention to the othercorkboard. This one is filled with photos of Sam. His eyes have been gouged out in every one.

I move deeper into the locker, careful not to touch anything, and take a closer look. Sam’s work schedule is pinned to the board, along with a list of planned flights. Several are circled in red, with names scribbled in the margins.

I recognize the names instantly: Cooper Kuntz. Forrester Blakeny. Devin Pedowitz.

All in Madison’s handwriting. In fact, all the notes pinned to the board are in her handwriting. I recognize it from the notepad she’d used to write down questions for our podcast interview.

Then I see another set of images that make me so nauseous I’m afraid I might actually puke. They’re photos of our rental house in Knoxville—theinsideof it. The angles are a little weird, and it takes me a moment to realize why: They were taken from outside, through the windows.

I pull my sleeve over my hand to cover my fingers as I push the top several photos aside. There are dozens more, maybe a hundred. All taken over the course of weeks. Several are shots of the alarm system keypad in the front hall.

With a sinking stomach, I suddenly understand how she figured out our alarm code. She hid a camera and watched through the window, waiting for one of us to shift to the side just enough to get a view of our fingers punching in the code.

Once she got that, she had full access to our lives. She could come and go in our house as she pleased. My knees feel weak, and my breathing suddenly turns shallow. How many times did she enter our home without us knowing? What information had she gotten access to this way?

I think of my office, the window behind the desk. It would have been easy for her to hide a tiny camera up in the eaves. With that, she’d have seen everything on my screen. She’d have been able towatch me work, sort through Sicko Patrol, text Sam, check his work schedule.

She’d have even been able to watch me digging into her past after I called her—the hours I spent analyzing her Instagram account, tracking down her old college articles on my trial, all of it.

Still stunned by the revelation, I turn to the journals stacked on the table. Keeping my hand tucked in my sleeve, I start flipping through them. They’re filled with her dense, familiar handwriting, and it only takes reading a couple of passages for me to realize that they’re a complete fucking roadmap to everything.

I shake my head, nearly laughing with disbelief at the arrogance of it all. She wrote down everything: her obsession with me, her desire to prove herself worthy of being my partner, her plans to take out my enemies and set Sam up to take the fall.

It’s stunning. I wouldn’t believe it if Melvin hadn’t done the same damn thing. He’d had a table in this exact storage unit, the top of it covered with journals that chronicled every detail of every murder. It’s what eventually took him down.

The same way these will take Madison down.

Sam will finally be exonerated.

Will it be enough to clear my name?

That depends on the Norton DA. It’s going to be hard for him to get much sympathy for Madison’s death after all of this comes to light. A jury would be more likely to thank me than convict me.

I’m turning to leave, already pulling out my phone to call Mike to report to the FBI what I’ve found, when something on a shelf by the door catches my eye.

It’s a skull. I know immediately who it belongs to. Melvin fucking Royal. There are three neat little bullet holes in the forehead. I’m the one who put them there.

Gutierrez mentioned they’d recovered only partial human remains from our burned out rental. It would have been nice if he’dnoted they were missing the skull. Clearly, Madison had kept that for herself.

My stomach roils with disgust at the sight, but still, I force myself to approach him. It’s the closest I’ve come to Melvin Royal since I shot him dead. I take a moment to consider him. To think about all the turmoil he’s caused in my life.

But there’s been good too.

I’m the one who’s thriving. I’m the one who gets to feel the love of an amazing man and watch my two incredible kids grow up and live beautiful lives.

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