Page 1 of Fatal Fame
PROLOGUE
Ten years ago
Walter Hale had never been a man to panic. Thirty-two years on the floor at Adirondack Manufacturing had taught him that problems had solutions, and solutions needed a steady hand. When the crane cable snapped in ’97, dropping two tons of steel less than a foot from his boots, he’d simply stepped back, wiped the sweat from his neck, and called the supervisor.
But the call he got that Monday morning made his stomach tighten in a way no snapped cable ever had.
“Mr. Hale? This is Janet Morrison from High Peaks High School.”
Walter pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder, eyeing the clock on the wall: 10:47 AM. The maple outside his kitchen window had gone full blaze, the leaves scarlet against a low gray sky. “Yes, Janet. What’s going on?”
“It’s Rebecca. She didn’t show up for her first class. No call, no message, nothing. That’s… well, it’s not like her.” Janet’svoice was full of concern that wasn’t quite panic, but close. “You’re listed as her emergency contact, so I thought I’d check with you.”
Walter’s brow furrowed. “She was at the church potluck Saturday night. Seemed fine. Maybe Jacob’s sick.”
“Even if he was, she would have called,” Janet said. “Becca always calls.”
Always. That was true. Rebecca was thirty-nine years old and still called if she was running five minutes late, and still sent thank-you notes for birthday presents. She was a teacher, reliable to her core. If anything defined his daughter, it was her sense of responsibility.
“I’ll give her a ring,” Walter said, ending the call.
He tried Rebecca’s number first. Three rings, then her recorded voice:Hi, you’ve reached Becca Hale. If this is about Jacob’s homework, try bribing him with pizza. If this is about anything else, leave a message and I’ll get back to you.
The lighthearted joke made his lips twitch despite the unease crawling over him. Jacob was fifteen now, tall, mouthy, and bright, the spitting image of his mother at that age.
“Denise,” Walter called to his wife, who was folding laundry in the next room. “School can’t reach Becca.”
Denise appeared in the doorway, towels in her arms, reading his face. “Did you try her cell?”
“It went straight to voicemail.”
“Maybe Jacob’s sick and she forgot to call in.”
Walter nodded like he believed it, then tried Jacob’s number. Same result: voicemail. He thumbed out a quick text,Call me. School’s looking for you.
Ten minutes. No response.
By then Walter’s coat was already in his hand. “I’ll drive over.”
The trip took twelve minutes, just long enough for him to cycle through excuses. Maybe they’d gone to urgent care. Maybe her phone died. Maybe the car wouldn’t start. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Rebecca’s street was quiet, as Mondays always were. Kids were in school, parents at work, only the leaves skittered across the pavement in the October wind. Her Honda CR-V sat in the driveway, dew beading on the hood beneath golden leaves. If she’d gone anywhere, she would’ve taken it.
Max, her golden retriever, bounded toward him from the side yard, tail wagging, ears back. Walter bent to scratch behind his ears, then frowned. The dog should have been inside.
The porch steps creaked as he climbed them. Saturday’s paper still sat in its wrapper on the porch swing. Sunday’s too. The mailbox was crammed with circulars. He rapped hard on the door. “Becca? Jacob? It’s Dad.”
Nothing.
All the curtains were drawn. Rebecca hated closed curtains, she loved light, loved mornings. This house looked like it was still asleep.
Walter found the spare key on his ring, the one she’d given him years ago when Jacob started staying home alone after school. He slid it into the lock, hand suddenly slick with sweat.
The door opened on silence. Not the benign quiet of an empty house, but something dense and wrong, like the air itself was holding its breath.
“Becca?” His voice sounded thin. “Jacob?”
The living room was dim. Walter took one step inside and froze.
