Chapter Two Dallas, Texas

Present Emma pried open one eye. Her head was splitting, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
She felt like she had licked the bottom of a dirty shoeafter the shoe had been dragged through a puddle
of bourbon. She eased up on an elbow. The room tilted, her stomach giving a sickly lurch.
She wasnt alone in bed. There was a guy next to her. Snoring.
Vaguely she remembered having bought street tacos outside the bar from a girl with an Igloo cooler. At
the time, it seemed like a solid idea. Emma had many solid ideas when she was drunk. The tacos,
involving a meat substance of unknown origin, did not seem so solid at the moment.
Her reason for being at that particular downtown Dallas bar wasnt scoring high points, either. Another
dead end, it turned out. But Emma kept at things, because you just never knew. Cold trails turned warmer.
Hopes bloomed, well, hopefully. Things happened. People came and went.
Girls disappeared on their way home and later turned up dead. There had been a rash of kidnappings and
murders, or at least Emma saw it as a rash, given her, well, uniquely expansive view of time. It was a
decades-long rash, a near-century- long rash. Crimes spread apart by a dozen years and thousands of
miles, not close enough together in any reasonable sense for the cops to see a patternand who could
blame them?
But recently, there had been a subtle uptick. That first girl, Allie Golden, in Rio Rancho, north of
Albuquerque, four years ago. Then six months back, one outside of Fort Worth. Karissa Isaacs, twenty
years old. Both living near Emma, their deaths following her as she moved east. Both kidnapped and
poisoned and dumped.
And now the third in four years, right here in Dallas. Elodie Callahan, just sixteen.
There might have been more. Emma guessed there were more. She would like to think she was certain
about that; she still prized certainty. But shed learned many lifetimes ago that certainty was a luxury.
You could shrug off the pattern, chalk the atrocities up to coincidence. A long time ago, Emma had tried
that very thing.
Or you could leap into the fray and see where it led you. Move to Dallas. Poke and prod. Hone your
investigative skills. See if the pattern was indeed what you feared.
Now, in the much-too-bright light of yet another day, on the cusp of yet another new year, Emma pressed
her knuckles to her aching eyes. The tacos were about to make a messy reversal unless she got herself
under control. Her commitment to staying off the grid? Blown to hell and back. Emma ONeill had let
herself surface once again and now she was paying the price.
So were the dead girls.
And the guy, snoringMason, maybe? Mike?legs tangled in her comforter, mouth hanging open
well, he had to go.
Shit. She elbowed him, hard, in the ribs. Wake up. Get out.

She smoothed her hands over her rumpled red minidress. Right now it felt like one of those old burlap
sacks her father had used to store feed in St. Augustine. Between the tacos and the bourbon, it didnt
smell much better.
At least the dress was still on her.
Mason/Mike was shirtless, but he was still wearing his pants.
If theyd done anything, they could have only done so much. She hoped.
Mmphff, he mumbled. Then belched.
Jesus.
Out, Emma said, rising, pulling herself together. You. Rise and shine. Go away. She wasnt always
this inhospitable. But Mason/Mike was an error in judgment, not company. Emma didnt mind company.
She did attempt to avoid errors in judgment, but over time, over history, they were inevitable. The trick
was to act fast and stay pleasant about it.
He opened his eyesblue, bloodshotand grinned at her. How the hell do you still look so good? he
drawled.
Matt. His name was Matt.
Habit, she told him, pushing harder now until he rolled off the bed and hit the floor with a thump. She
didnt need a glimpse in the mirror to know they were both right. Emma ONeill might be a tad rumpled
and head-throbby right this second, but that would fade soon enough. A hangover would never make a
dent in the overall picture. Toxins of any kind didnt have any real effect beyond an initial jolt or a groggy
wake-up. Even toxins less pleasant than questionable street tacos. Hadnt in longer than she preferred to
remember.
Matt sat up, rubbing his backside. Now whyd you go and do that? He scratched the side of his face.
His gaze was bleary. He was cutethick blond hair and a stubbly chin but pasty under his tan.
Hed looked better last night. They all had.
Emma thought of her friends, Coral and Hugo. Well, mostly Coral. Coral Ballard. The girl who looked
like the other girls. The girl who looked like Emma.
THEIR MEETING HAD been a random thing.
The Ballard familyCoral and her little brother and her parents and a mop-like mutt named Bernie
lived in a one story house down the block from Emmas apartment. Emma might not even have spoken to
Coral had it not been for Bernie. Stupid cute dog.
Emma had always wanted one, but a dog was a responsibility she couldnt assume. A dog might call
attention where she needed anonymity. Even if it was lovable. Even if it was loyal, which dogs mostly
were, unlike lovable humans, who had a bad habit of betraying girls they were supposed to love.

Maybe she was over-identifying on that last one.

Either way, a dog was just one more thing that would die before she did.
The pup padded closer and sat on her foot.
You live around here? the girl asked.
Emmas gaze shifted. Coral, she noted now, was medium height, like she was. Pale like Emma, too. A
slew of brightly colored vintage pottery bracelets adorned her milky arms. Her wavy hair was streaked
with lots of red and a bit of blue. Underneath it looked to be blonde . . . maybe. But even, then Emma
suspected it could have been brown. Like hers, too.
Yeah, Emma said. The pup was still sprawled across her foot. She hoped he wasnt about to pee. Over
there. She waved toward the bits of downtown Dallas skyline visible beyond the trees on her left.
The girl yanked on the leash until the puppy moved. Sorry about that. He likes you. You should be
flattered. Bernies particular. He doesnt like a lot of people.
Good to know. Emma turned and nearly bumped into a boy.
Hugo! Coral scolded, but she was smiling. She turned to Emma. He never watches where hes going.
Hugo had a big grin. Gangly, black-haired, Latino. And friendly. Before Emma knew it, they were
introducing themselves. Hugo Alvarez and Coral Ballard were both seniors at North Dallas High School.
And Emma could see: Both were funny and quirky and very much in love. It was that last part that
slipped through her defenses. The way Hugo casually rested a hand on the small of Corals back. The way
their closeness reminded her of a closeness shed once had.
Coral tapped a painted nail on her chin. Look at her, Hugo. We could be. . .
Sisters, Hugo and she finished at the same time. They giggled.
Bernie nudged Emmas hand, then signed happily as she stroked his head.
Seriously, though, Coral went on, if I let my hair go back to its own color, which I totally wontbut
if I did . . . Dont we look alike, Hugo?
He nodded.
Emma shrugged. Maybe. She rolled her eyes to make it not true. But it was true. And acknowledging
thateven silentlyawakened in her a fierce and sudden protectiveness she hadnt been able to quell
since. So she told Coral and Hugo that she was a freshman at Brookhaven Community College studying
for a nursing degree. It was the lie shed chosen for herself upon moving to Dallas.
But occasionally, shed wished that this were true: that she was studying to become someone who could
maybe save a life.

UNFORTUNATE THAT CORAL and Hugo had chosen last nightof all nightsto sneak into that
same neighborhood bar.
But thats what happened when you made friends. You ran into them.
Emma kept one eye on the guy shed followed, and the other on Matt, whom she matched bourbon for
bourbon. She didnt indulge that often, but it was the holidays, and he was cute enough. Besides, the guy
shed followed, one of Elodie Callahans classmates, seemed to be guilty only of a bad fake ID. Like
shed figured: a dead-end. And the bourbon was reminding Emma that at the end of the dayin point of
fact, a century of daysshe was still alone in all this.
A potent combination.
She should have left the moment Coral and Hugo sauntered in. Or told them to leave. They were
underage, after all. She didnt. Among a long list of reasons why: they thought she was underage, too. (In
a way, she was.) And cute-enough Matt? He thought otherwise. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. Or sit on
your foot, like Bernie.
You like him, Coral whispered to Emma after bourbon number four. Or five. Dont you? Coral was a
romantic like that.
Hes all right, Emma whispered back.
Youre cute, too, Matt said, leaning across Emma to wink at Coral. Hed heard them, obviously. Then
he pressed his mouth close to Emmas ear. It had been a long time since shed felt a boys lips brush her
skin. But not as cute as you.
She should have known better. She did know better. Just sometimes . . .
At least Coral and Hugo hadnt stayed long. A party somewhere, Coral said, eyes brightand then they
were gone. Emma told her to have a nice holiday if she didnt see her; Emma was going to be spending it
with some of her fellow nursing students, studying for their practicums. (Translation: investigating why a
girl named Elodie Callahan had been murdered.)
It was just Emma and Matt after that, his arm draped casually over her shoulders, and some mixture of
anthem rock and Christmas songs . . . and four or five bourbons too many. Matt was not Charlie. Could
never be Charlie. But Matt was there. Sometimes there was enough.
And now here they were.