Smash
Homecoming
Dorothy absentmindedly bobbed her head to the beat of “Espresso” pounding from the car speakers. Her friends—Kianna, Zoe, and Gabby—hollered the lyrics, way off-key but not caring. Her forehead pressed against the window, Dorothy watched the towering redwoods blur by, pulling away each time the Lexus jounced over a pothole. Gabby never spotted them in time.
They’d just flown in from Princeton for summer break. The minute they landed, her friends pushed for a road trip. When they got an idea, they doubled down, and Dorothy didn’t have the fight in her. She wasn’t eager to be home anyway. The music, the cocktails, the laughter—it was fun for them, not her. For her, it only made the silence inside louder. Gabby’s reckless driving was one thing, but the closer they got to home, the antsier she became. It was the letters. One a month since she left for Princeton. Always the same words: It should have been you. No name. No return address. Just a reminder. Someone still remembered. Someone still blamed her.
They passed a sign that read WELCOME TO REDVALE. Another warned: SPEED BUMPS AHEAD, DRIVE SLOW.Dorothy didn’t even get the words out before it was too late. The front tires rolled over the bump, but the back ones dropped like a trapdoor, jarring the whole car. Her head knocked the glass, and she recoiled, colliding with Kianna.
Kianna’s PET cup went airborne, baptizing Dorothy with its contents.
“What the hell, Kiki?” Dorothy growled.
Kianna clamped a hand over her mouth. “I’m—oh my God—I’m sorry!” she spluttered, then lost it, chortling.
Zoe, in the passenger seat, turned, fighting a smile. “That’s one way to christen the trip.”
Kianna jutted out her lower lip. “It ain’t my fault!”
Zoe produced a tissue box from the glove compartment and tossed it back. “Here, gurl. Fix your life.”
Dorothy plucked a fistful of tissues, wiped her face, and flung the box at Gabby. “One more pothole and we’re toast.”
“Gurl, relax.” Zoe reached between Gabby’s thighs and chucked Kianna the box. “This cunt just drives like she’s got a death wish.”
Gabby sniggered in the rearview. “And we’re still alive, so you’re welcome.”
Dorothy only scowled, lifting her hair so Kianna could mop the froth from her neck.
“You good, D?” Kianna asked, wadding up the soggy tissues.
Dorothy let her hair fall back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Before Kianna could press, red-and-blue lights flooded the car. Sirens swelled, drowning out Sabrina Carpenter’s voice.
“Shit!” Gabby turned the music down and drummed her fingers on the wheel.
“Just relax,” Zoe said, holding up a hand. “Pull over.”
Gabby nodded, activated the turn signal, and eased onto the shoulder. The lampposts mocked their worried faces.
A cruiser rolled up behind them, siren dying, headlights bleaching the rear windshield. Not one of them moved as a broad-shouldered deputy strode up to the driver’s side, flashlight in hand, and rapped on the window. Gabby rolled it down all the way, cool air rushing in. The deputy bent close, and his face came into view.
“Evening . . . ladies,” he said.
Zoe arched a brow. “Well, well. Look who it is. Nate. Long time. I mean—Deputy Nate.”
His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Welcome back. Princeton treating you well?”
Dorothy rigidified. How did he know?
“Small town,” he added, like he’d read her mind. The others nodded in agreement. Dorothy didn’t.
Gabby’s smile was tight. “We’re not in trouble, are we, Deputy Nate?”
“Not at all. Just saw you hit that bump. Wanted to be sure you were okay.”
Kianna inched forward, voice syrupy. “Appreciate it, Deputy.”
He smiled, just a small upturn of his lips. “Storm’s rolling in fast. Best get off the road soon.” Thunder grumbled somewhere in the distance as if on cue.
“Then we’ll race it,” Gabby quipped with a broad grin.
Dorothy blurted before she could stop herself. “Sorry about Sandy.”
Silence wrapped the car. Nate lifted his head and met her eyes, and goosebumps broke out across her skin. The last time she’d seen those eyes, they were swollen red from crying.
Zoe threw in a theatrical cough. “R-right. Just . . . awful.”
The others’ faces softened with sympathy.
“She deserved better,” Nate muttered, straightening and adjusting his hat. “Get moving.”
“Night, Deputy Nate!” they chimed.
As Gabby pulled away, no one spoke.
Then Kianna sighed. “He’s . . . different.”
“Does anyone ever really get over something like that?” Dorothy said, watching him slip into the cruiser. She wasn’t sure if she meant Nate or herself.
Gabby snorted, breaking the mood. “Okay, but let’s be real—uniform kinda suits him.”
Zoe snapped her fingers. “Mm-hmm. Glowed up and knew it.”
Laughter rose, voices overlapping, until Gabby maneuvered the car into Dorothy’s parents’ driveway.
Dorothy exhaled. Home. She squared her shoulders and got out.
Kianna hopped out after her, lifting Dorothy’s box out of the trunk.
“Want me to stay till your folks get back?” Her brows were knotted in worry.
Dorothy shifted the box in her arms. “Nah. Don’t bother. I . . . I just need time alone.”
Zoe yelled from the car window, “Kiki! Come on, it’s late.”
Dorothy smothered Kianna’s comeback with a bear hug. “Text me as soon as you get home.”
Kianna patted her on the back. “I will.”
The car horn blared again and again, forcing Dorothy to let go sooner than she wanted. She stepped back, watching Kianna clamber back in. She waved as the car reversed out, waving until the taillight vanished around the curve at the end of the street.
Dorothy took one last look around before stepping onto the porch.
Inside, she kicked off her shoes, sighing as the cool marble kissed the ache in her feet. She fired off a quick “I’m home” text to her parents, peeling off her clothes. In the bathroom, she dumped a scoop of lavender bath salts into the rising water and slid in.
Reclining, the heat unknotted her muscles, but not her mind. Nate wouldn’t leave. The way he’d cradled Sandy that night, the high, grating sound he made—never left her. Burrowed down inside her bones. She squeezed her eyes tighter. This was on her. She had gone too far. Three years had dulled the guilt, rounded its edges. Until now.
A buzz yanked her back. Her phone blinked from the vanity. She splashed out, belted her bathrobe, and grabbed it. Caller ID: UNKNOWN. She hesitated, then thumbed it on. “Hello?”
A man’s voice stuttered through. “H-hi, D-dorothy. D-dorothy, right?”
Her brow furrowed. “Who’s asking?”
“Tariq here,” he said, too confident, like she should know him. “Uh, biostats lectures? We sat through those together, remember?”
She didn’t. And she damn sure hadn’t given her number to some stranger who thought midnight was the right time for small talk.
“Look, it’s late—”
Static hissed. Then his voice came back, distorted, darker. “Okay. You’re not buying that. So tell me—how’s it feel, being home again?”
“Who the hell is this?” she barked. “Is this some kind of sick prank?”
A laugh bled down the line. Weird. Too long. “That’s one way to show how freaked out you are, being back here after what you did.”
Her palms slicked with sweat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Let me jog your memory.” A pause. Then, sing-song, almost taunting: “Batwing Sandy—”
Dorothy ended the call and dropped her phone like it was burning hot. Her heartbeat was going wild. Then she heard it. Glass. Shattering. Too far away and too close at the same time. She froze, straining to make sure it had come from inside the house. Silence dragged long enough that her patience ran out. Snatching up her phone, she dashed into the hallway.
“Mom? Dad?” Her voice came out thinner than she wanted. “Is that you?”
No answer. Her parents weren’t due back from vacation until tomorrow. Maybe they’d come home early. Maybe they’d forgotten to call.
“Mom? Dad?” she tried again, creeping down the hallway.
Still nothing. Suddenly it clicked. A burglar. It had to be. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“I have a gun!” she shouted, dialing 911 with trembling fingers. A low-battery warning blinked. Then the screen went dark. Shit. Another phone shrilled, and she jumped. The landline. Downstairs.
Her feet moved before her mind caught up, carrying her down the stairs. Outside, rain battered the French windows, thunder crashing, yet the ringing rose above it all, relentless.
Cursing, she seized the receiver. “What the hell do you want from me?”
“Gurl, it’s Kiki. Chill! You took my box by mistake. I’m coming back for it,” Kianna gushed.
Dorothy’s throat cinched tight. “Kiki—someone’s in the house. Call 911!”
Movement at the corner of her eye registered. She swiveled, and something heavy slammed into her face. A thousand bulbs exploded behind her eyes. Her knees buckled, the receiver clattering to the floor.
A flash of lightning lit the room, and for a split second, she saw her attacker, only feet away. A nightmare in flesh. A porcelain mask. A hooded black robe. A steel bat in one gloved hand, dripping with blood. Her blood! Color drained from her face. All she could think was Sandy. Sandy sprawled on the lawn, bloodied. This was payback. The letters had grown a body, had come alive to finish the sentence: It should have been you.
The figure advanced, head cocked like it was studying her. Just as the room dimmed, the bat arced down. It missed her, shattering the spot where her head had just been. Had she not rolled, it would’ve been game over. She scrambled to her feet and sprinted for the front door. The figure beat her there, blocking her path. Whirling, she hurled herself up the stairs—three at a time—screaming.
At the landing, a glance over her shoulder showed him closing in. She lunged for the nearest door handle, but the figure tackled her. They went down in a tangle of limbs, her skull smacking against the floor. Pain spiked, but it didn’t stop her from clawing at the mask. It almost came off. A glimpse of skin, a jawline—someone she knew. Then the figure tore away. She followed with her knee, straight into its crotch. An ugly grunt, a sharp jerk back. Just enough time. She latched onto the railing and hauled herself upright, chest heaving.
WHAM. The bat drove into her ribs. For an instant, there was just a dull awareness that something had struck her. Then the fuse burned out, and pain detonated, merciless, through her side. Breath whooshed from her lungs. Another swing came for her head. She toppled over the railing. For one eternal moment, she was weightless—plummeting, shrieking, limbs flailing for an anchor that wasn’t there. She was out cold before her body hit the floor, face-first, with a sickening thud that rang through the house. A crimson puddle widened beneath her.
Three Years Before
The party’s music was a muffled thump-thump-thump inside the dim room. Dorothy knelt in front of Tyler, close enough to feel his heat. His breath came fast, uneven.
As she unzipped him, doubt bloomed. Why me? Why now? This was the boy who bragged about loving Sandy to the whole school, the boy who never even glanced at her. And now he wanted her? Maybe he’d been pretending to resist her all along. All she had to do now was make it count. She took him in whole, making him gasp. His head tipped back, fingers gripping a nearby shelf. She simpered, pleased with herself.
“D-Dorothy,” he stammered.
She hummed—then light shone in her eyes. She winced, shielding her face.
“What the hell, Tyler?”
He smirked, phone raised, camera app glowing. “Thought I’d get a quick snap. You know, a taste of your own medicine.”
“Bull,” she spat, springing to her feet. “You’re nuts.”
His smirk soured. The molly glaze in his eyes was gone. “I know you did it.”
Her brow wrinkled. He had deceived her. “Did what?”
“Sandy’s nudes. Prom night.” His eyes narrowed. “You knew how they got out, didn’t you?”
“For God’s sake, I told you—”
He stepped closer. “But you knew before anyone else, right?”
She glowered. “Why do you care? She was sending those pics to some other dude.”
“You had him leak it, didn’t you? Wreck her so you could have me.”
“Go to hell!”
He grappled her wrist and pressed it against his crotch. “Tell me you didn’t want this.”
She wrenched free and slapped him hard across the face. His head snapped sideways, but she didn’t wait for him to recover. She spun on her heels and stormed out, the door slam rattling the walls.
The hallway reeled with drunk bodies. A boy staggered past, nearly bowling her over, and she had to sidestep quickly to avoid him. Slouching against the wall, Dorothy fought for breath. She needed to leave. Needed her friends.
Pressing forward, she waded through sweaty bodies lost to the music’s pulse. Champagne glasses clinked in toasts to high school being over forever.
Nearby, a group chanted “Chug, chug, chug!” then erupted in cheers. The guy at the center wobbled, steadied, wobbled again, and threw up over a girl in a crop top. She shrieked. “Shit!” and “Damn!” scattered through the group.
Dorothy turned away and noticed Zoe, Gabby, and Kianna huddled in a far corner. She sashayed over, light with relief, right up until she saw their glares.
Dorothy threw up her hands. “It wasn’t what it looked like, okay?”
“Try again,” Zoe said flatly.
Tyler brushed past before she could answer, shoulder-checking her. She rolled her eyes. “Fine. It was stupid. Just a bj, though. He wasn’t even high. Then he started grilling me about Sandy’s pics.”
All three girls gasped.
Zoe flipped her ponytail, folding her arms. “Gurl. Don’t tell me you cracked.”
Kianna’s eyes practically popped out. “Oh my God, you ain’t tell him, right?”
Dorothy leaned in close. “I didn’t. But . . . he looked at me like he knew. Like it was stamped on my face.”
Gabby shook her head, sleek hair swinging. “Nah. There’s no such thing.”
The other two nodded, scrutinizing her. Dorothy was about to snarl at them to believe whatever they wanted when high-pitched screams spilled in from outside.
The music stopped. Heads turned.
“Is she still breathing?” someone shouted.
“It’s Batwing Sandy!” a girl shrieked.
Dorothy, grateful for the chaos, dashed ahead of her friends and joined the stampede of students cursing and jostling at the entrance. Her pulse hammered in her ears as she hurtled down the steps, her friends’ voices fading behind her. She elbowed through the crowd gathering in the front yard, pushed to the front, and halted, slack-jawed.
Right there, Tyler sat sprawled on the grass, rocking Sandy in his arms. His sweatshirt and jeans were soaked bright red. “Sandy! Stay with me!” he yelled. But she didn’t stir.
Dorothy slapped her palms over her mouth as the memory crashed in: Sandy cornering her earlier, makeup smudged, voice hoarse, accusing her of the leak. She said the pictures had ruined her mom’s campaign for county mayor, that everybody was laughing, that her life was over. But Dorothy had snickered in her face, told her to go home. Sandy had smiled that unsettling smile and said, “Maybe I will.”
Her eyes shot up to the roof. Tears stung. No one could survive that fall. All she’d wanted was for Sandy to be hurt a little, not dead.
Tyler’s head jerked up, eyes sweeping the stunned crowd until they locked on her. Dorothy stiffened. For a moment, they stared. Then, without a word, he went back to shaking Sandy.
“Where is my sister?” a voice boomed. Nate, the burly baseball star. The crowd parted as he and his clique charged forward. He scooped Sandy into his arms and sent a guttural wail skyward. The sound made the hair on Dorothy’s skin stand on end. Rooted in place, she watched him beg Sandy to stay. Watched his friends struggle to pry him away. Bit down on her tears. No one could see her cry.
Somewhere down the street, a siren howled closer by the second.
And now
Deputy Nate ushered Gabby, Zoe, and Kianna into the cold interrogation room, bare but for a table and a few chairs.
“Sheriff and the detective will be here any minute. Sit tight,” Nate said, pointing to the chairs. Zoe steered Kianna, who was shuddering and sobbing, into a chair and draped a comforting arm around her.
“I’m really sorry about Dorothy,” Deputy Nate added after a moment’s hesitation.
Gabby briefly touched his shoulder. “Thank you.” He stepped out, and she went to sit with her friends.
A few tense minutes passed before the door swung open. Sheriff Foster walked in first, followed by a middle-aged man with a cleft chin and a notepad in his hand.
“This is Detective O’Connell,” Foster said. “He’s leading the investigation.”
O’Connell took a chair opposite them, eyes flicking from face to face. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. You’re not in any trouble. We just need to ask a few questions. Won’t take long.”
Silence, broken only by his pen tapping the pad. “How long have you known Dorothy?” O’Connell asked.
Gabby straightened. “Since freshman year. We all got into Princeton together.”
O’Connell nodded. “Notice anything different about her lately?”
“On the ride back,” Kianna’s voice quavered, “she seemed . . . distant.”
O’Connell leaned in. “How so?”
Kianna sniffled. “She barely said a word. Not like her.”
“Yeah. She’s usually the one cracking us up,” Gabby added.
Zoe crossed her arms. “Totally checked out.”
O’Connell scribbled. “All right. Now, about the call you made to her right before what happened—” He turned to Kianna. “Can you walk me through that?”
Kianna closed her eyes, trying to remember. “We mixed up our boxes. I called her cell, but it went to voicemail, so I tried the landline. She answered and . . . she said someone was in the house. Told me to call 911. And that’s when the line went dead.”
O’Connell slid a piece of paper across the table. “This number called her, too. Any of you recognize it?”
They bent over it, shaking their heads.
O’Connell jotted something down. “Did you see anything unusual when you dropped her off?”
Gabby and Zoe shook their heads again.
“She wouldn’t let me stay with her.” Kianna burst into tears. “I really wanted to.”
O’Connell gave Zoe a minute to calm her down, then asked, “Anyone around here who might’ve wanted to hurt her?”
Silence. Longer this time. Finally, Kianna blurted, “Tyler.”
O’Connell’s brow ticked up. “Who’s Tyler?”
Gabby’s head snapped toward her. “Hold up—what?”
Zoe muttered, “Knew that boy was trouble.”
“Sandy’s ex,” Kianna said. “Dorothy had a major crush on him. But after Sandy took her own life . . . he went after Dorothy. Blamed her for some explicit photos that got out. The whole school gave her that nickname—”
“So you believe Tyler had a reason to hurt Dorothy?”
Kianna dabbed at her eyes with a tissue Zoe handed her. “He was convinced Dorothy was responsible. He stalked her before we left for Princeton. She told me he was sending her texts. Said she had to confess or he’d deal with her. Check her phone.”
Zoe and Gabby gawked, mouths agape.
O’Connell wrote fast, then pocketed his pad. “That’s all for now. We’ll be in touch.”
The girls stayed in their seats, stunned, long after the two men left the room.
Kianna woke up with a start. For a second, she couldn’t breathe, darkness pressing in from all sides. Her bedside clock glowed 8:00 p.m. Another nightmare. The third today. She massaged her temples, but the details were stubborn things—Dorothy falling. The pool of blood spreading. The exact sight they’d walked into that night. Zoe had driven as fast as she could, but it hadn’t mattered. They were too late. The police too.
The creaking of the bedroom door startled Kianna. A narrow beam of light cut across the room from the hallway, and then her mother, Shaniqua, poked her head in. “You up, baby?”
“Yeah,” Kianna croaked.
Shaniqua waltzed in, flipped the switch. The brightness was harsh, so Kianna had to squint. Her mother sat beside her, smoothing the blanket. “How you feeling, sweetheart?”
“Fair.”
“Fair don’t sound like my baby girl.”
“Mama, I’m fine. Stop worryin’ on me,” Kianna said, turning her head away.
Shaniqua clasped her hands anyway. “I know these past few days been tough.” She paused, cleared her throat. “Zoe and Gabby came by earlier, but I told ’em you was resting.”
Kianna shrugged. “I can’t deal with them right now. Acting like it’s some soap opera. Fake-ass clowns.”
Shaniqua tucked a stray strand of hair behind Kianna’s ear. “Honey, everyone grieves their own way. But I know you and Dorothy . . . y’all were like sisters.”
“I shoulda stayed with her.” Kianna choked up.
Shaniqua gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “Oh, baby. Stop that. Don’t go blaming yourself. You hear?” Kianna screwed her eyes shut, sure she had no tears left.
Shaniqua cleared her throat again, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “The girls said the detective found those messages on Dorothy’s phone from Tyler. The threatening ones.”
Kianna’s eyes flew open.
Shaniqua went on, “They raided his daddy’s place. Found a bloody bat and a mask in his Jeep. Lord, that boy done lost his mind.”
“Seriously?”
Shaniqua nodded. “He gon’ pay for what he did.” Kianna swallowed hard, but something about the news felt wrong, a piece that didn’t fit.
Shaniqua stood up, offering a hand. “C’mon, you been in bed all day. You gotta eat. I made bacon.”
Kianna whined, but she let her mother pull her to her feet.
Her father, Quincy, and her brother, Khalil, paused their banter about the Lakers when she stepped into the dining room.
“Hey, baby girl,” Quincy said, real soft. Then, when she slumped into a chair: “How you holdin’ up?”
Kianna murmured something useless, eyeing the plate of bacon strips in front of her. Khalil studied her for a second, then stretched across the table to swipe one.
Shaniqua turned from the sink and swatted him with a dish towel. “Boy, you gon’ let your sister eat or what?” That almost drew a smile from Kianna.
“Don’t you worry, baby,” Shaniqua said, rubbing her back. “Mac and cheese’s in the oven. Just the way you like it.” She glanced at the kitten’s food bowl in the corner. “Y’all seen Oreo?”
“Ain’t seen her. Not since ’bout noon,” Khalil said through a mouthful.
“I’m real sorry about Dorothy,” Quincy tried again, adjusting his glasses. “I know y’all was tight.”
Kianna glared. “Funny. You used to say she was no good.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was looking out for you.”
Kianna shoved her hands into her hoodie. “Yeah? Look how that turned out.”
“Y’all stop it!” Shaniqua snapped, brandishing a soapy wooden spoon like a gavel. “Kiki! I know they ain’t teaching you to talk down on your daddy up at Princeton. You ain’t gotta be mad at the whole world.”
Kianna pushed her chair back. “I need air.”
She picked up the trash bag by the counter and stalked out.
The night air slapped against her flushed skin. She stalled on the yard steps, breathing it in. The world was too quiet. The only sound was the rustle of dry leaves skittering across the ground.
The yard was well lit, but the light didn’t quite reach the hedges. Kianna hurried to the bin and tossed the bag in, grimacing and gagging at the rancid smell that clawed at her nose.
Halfway back to the door, she stopped short. A faint meow. “Oreo?” She scanned the yard. Nothing. Then another meow, muffled and weak. It was coming from the hedges that divided their yard from the neighbor’s.
Frowning, she peered into the dense branches. “Oreo?” A faint mewl answered. She scooched down and crawled into the small gap.
“Looks like you got stuck, huh?” she said, reaching for the kitten.
Leaves rustled, followed by the crunch of someone stepping on them.
Kianna stilled. “Dad?” No response. Her fingers closed around a rock. She counted one, two—then sprang up, arm swinging. Too late. The blow struck the side of her skull first. She crumpled and heard the snap of her wrist, pain lancing up her arm. Warm blood soaked her hoodie. The world narrowed to the sound of someone breathing over her and a gloved fist raising a bat, splattered red, for another strike. She barely had the strength to move.
The back door banged open. Her mother’s scream soared. “Kianna!” Quincy barreled out, rifle raised. “Get away from my baby!” Gunshots rang out into the night, dogs in the distance barking and yelling in chorus. The attacker jerked back as a bullet tore through their arm, stumbling into the hedges. Quincy leaped down the stairs, but by the time he arrived at the spot—gone.
Swearing, he scampered back to Shaniqua, who was cradling their daughter. “Kianna? Stay with me, baby.”
Kianna’s head lolled. She managed a small nod before darkness pulled her under.
Khalil trembled in the doorway. “Ma—”
Shaniqua whipped her head toward him, eyes wide with panic. “Call 911! Now!”
Deputy Donovan checked his wristwatch for the tenth time that night. It was only 10:00 p.m.—one lousy hour into patrol. He wanted to slam a fist against the steering wheel but didn’t. Instead, he downed the lukewarm coffee in one joyless gulp.
Beside him, Deputy Sterling gave a wordless nod. Said plenty. Yeah, me too. This sucks. A week ago, night shifts had been predictable. Not quiet, but they knew what to expect: bar fights over rigged poker games, some drunk pissing himself in an alley, a domestic bellowing match that always ended with promises it would never happen again (it always did).
Now, everything was different. They circled the same streets, staring into the dark, waiting for something to move. Because now there was a killer. And he’d done a fine job covering his tracks.
Tyler wasn’t their guy. His alibi was airtight: drinking with his father at a bar, celebrating his three-years-late USC acceptance. His Jeep hadn’t moved from the driveway. Which meant someone planted the bloody bat and mask in its trunk. The blood on the bat told the rest of the story. The girl had been whacked before being thrown over the railing. The papers had christened him the Smasher.
Donovan groaned, waving his phone screen in Sterling’s face. “Look at this, man. Missed dinner again. My wife’s about ready to serve me up to the Smasher herself.”
“What was it this time? Pot roast?”
“Homemade chicken pot pie. Damn best in Redvale. And I’m stuck with shitty coffee. Whole plate’s probably in the trash by now.”
“Tragic,” Sterling said, chuckling. “Keep that up, and someone else is gonna enjoy that pie for you.”
Donovan hissed. “Fuck you, man.”
Sterling’s guffaw trailed off as the radio crackled to life: “All units, all units—1847 Hudson. Homicide in progress. M.O. matches the Smasher. Possible copycat or escaped. Suspect masked, hooded, approx. six foot. Wounded in the arm. Last seen eastbound, Route 9. BOLO. Respond Code 3.”
Sterling grasped the mic. “Copy dispatch. Unit 12 en route. 1847 Hudson. BOLO on masked male, six foot, arm wound. Code 3.”
“Hold on tight.” Donovan hit the siren and stomped the gas. Tires screeched as he hooked a U-turn. Sterling braced himself, knuckles bone-white against the dash handle.
Something darted out of the darkness, directly into the headlights.
“Jesus Christ!” Sterling yelled.
Donovan yanked the wheel. The cruiser swerved, tires shrieking. BAM—the bumper clipped it. No mistaking that sound. His hands slipped on the wheel, the cruiser careening until he wrangled it to a stop.
Both men jumped out, guns drawn. Donovan kept a few yards behind and off to Sterling’s side. For all Sterling knew, they’d struck a Roosevelt elk that had strayed onto the highway. It lay ahead, motionless. But as he crept closer, the full moon gave away too much. Not an elk. A body. Clad in a black robe, a steel bat in one gloved hand, blood pooling across the asphalt.
“We got him!” Sterling called out, holstering his gun and dropping to a crouch. A quick look behind him confirmed that Donovan had him covered, gun leveled. Sterling sucked in a breath and rolled the body over. His palm came away wet from the arm. The porcelain mask stayed put.
“Check,” Donovan whispered.
Sterling tugged. The mask popped loose, tumbled once, and landed face-up in the road. Blank eyes glared up in the moonlight. Sterling staggered back. “Christ!”
“That’s—no. That can’t be,” Donovan stammered.
But it was. The dead eyes belonged to someone they’d both greeted a hundred mornings in uniform: Deputy Nate.