He hit me with both hands, knocking me to the floor. I landed on the broken glass and felt it bite into my bare arms. As I scrambled up, he grabbed a shard, gripping it so hard blood welled up through his fingers. He swung it at me. I caught his arm. It wasn’t hard to stop him—he was an old man. When he snarled, I dug my fingers in until he let out a hiss of pain and dropped the glass.
I glowered at him. “If you think I’m my parents’ daughter, then you don’t want to do that. You really don’t.”
Silence. Stunned silence. For a second, I thought, I’ve done it. They’ll leave now. Then I saw the shock in the old man’s eyes, and knew in that instant that I’d made a very big mistake. That’s when the cameras started to flash again. I let the old man go.
“Olivia . . .” My mother’s voice from the foot of the stairs.
I wrenched my gaze from the intruders and blinked hard, and when I did, it was like breaking a spell. Suddenly, I was lost in a roar of voices.
“Mr. Gunderson!” someone shouted. “Niles Gunderson!”
“Sir, can we ask about your daughter? About Jan. Does this bring it all back?”
I froze. Gunderson. Jan Gunderson. The Larsens’ last victim.
I turned back to the old man. “I—”
He slapped my face so hard I reeled back.
“I know you, Pamela Larsen,” he snarled as he came after me. “I don’t care what you’re calling yourself these days or what color you dye your hair. I know you.”
My mother screamed. Howard shoved me behind him as he shouted for my mother to get back upstairs.
A stampede of feet clattered across the patio. People were shoving past the journalists—a greasy-haired man with a ragged notebook, a college kid with a video camera. Not real journalists. Just people hoping to sell a picture or a firsthand account. The kind who didn’t know that chasing me into my house was against the law. Or the kind who didn’t care.
“Miss Larsen?”
“Eden! Look over here!”
“Mrs. Taylor?”
The kid with the video camera rushed past me toward my mother. Mum started up the stairs. The kid reached over the railing and caught her sleeve.
The rip of tearing fabric. A gasp. A thump as she tripped, falling down the steps and landing in a heap at the base.
I shoved past two reporters and scooped her up.
“The car!” I yelled to Howard. “Get your car!”
I half dragged, half carried my mother to the garage. Cameras flashed. Voices shouted. Hands grabbed for us. I kept plowing through, oblivious.
When I got into the garage, Howard was already in his Mercedes, engine running. I pushed Mum forward.
“Get in the car!” I yelled.
She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even look back.
Howard hit the button to open the garage door. I shouted to wait until I was in, but the door was rising and I could make out the legs of people outside waiting for it to open. Someone shoved a video camera underneath.
My mother’s face was stark with terror. There was a bloody print on her shoulder, from my cut hand. I saw her face and I saw that blood, and I realized I couldn’t get into Howard’s car. If I did, the reporters would never let it out of the garage.
I had to protect my mother. I’d promised Dad.
I waved at Howard. “Go! Get her out of here.”
He didn’t need any more prompting. I was probably lucky he didn’t throw open the door and shove my mother out in his haste to escape.
He put the car into reverse. My mother just sat in the backseat. I told myself she was in shock, but it looked like simple relief. She’d gotten away. As for me . . . ? Well, I could look after myself.
The Mercedes reversed down the driveway, sending the onlookers scattering like bowling pins. No one tried to stop Howard. Their prey was still in the garage, alone and defenseless.
I ran. No choice really. Well, there was. I could grab the pruning shears and attack anyone who came near me. I considered it. Even wondered whether I could get away with a self-defense plea. I might have done it, too, if I hadn’t just discovered who I was and realized that slicing someone up really wouldn’t be the way to prove I wasn’t truly the Larsens’ daughter.
I darted inside my dad’s workshop and threw the dead bolt. I took a quick look around at the tools. The heavy tools. The sharp tools. The lethal tools.
A longing look. Then a queasy look, before I raced out the back door. A glance around. No one in sight yet. I followed the line of trees across the property and took off.
THE PRODUCT OF MONSTERS
The college student huddled behind the tree, listening to the cacophony of voices inside the house. Dear God, had they actually broken in? She rubbed her arms against the night’s chill. Her fingers brushed the strap around her neck, and she looked down at the camera, hanging there like an albatross.
It had seemed so simple when he phoned. She hadn’t heard from him since school broke for exams. He’d said he’d call, but he hadn’t. Then he did.
“Hey,” he’d said. “You live in Chicago, right?”
She told herself it wasn’t really a question. Of course he remembered where she lived.
She’d said yes, and he’d said, “Good. ’Cause there’s this story about to break. I got a heads-up from a buddy of mine. It’s leaked on the Internet, but not far, meaning it’s still fresh, and it’s taking place right there in Chicago. Do you know where Kenilworth is?”
She did. Not that she’d ever been there. People in her neighborhood didn’t know those in Kenilworth unless they worked for them.
“Perfect,” he’d said. “I need you to snap a couple pictures of a girl who lives there. You can do that, right?”
Of course she could. She was a photographer. That’s how they’d met—working for the school paper. While she hadn’t liked the idea of sneaking onto private property—especially in Kenilworth—she’d do it for him.
Turned out, trespassing wasn’t really an issue, considering she hadn’t been the first one there. The others were mainly bloggers and small press, maybe not as concerned about the law as they should be. She thought they might try to run her off, but they just let her hang out with them at the back door.
That’s when she’d found out who the girl was.
“Todd and Pam Larsen’s kid,” one of the older journalists said, his breath reeking of garlic. “Can you believe that? Everyone figured they’d shipped her off for adoption in Australia, and she ends up here. She grew up as the daughter of that department store family.”
I glowered at him. “If you think I’m my parents’ daughter, then you don’t want to do that. You really don’t.”
Silence. Stunned silence. For a second, I thought, I’ve done it. They’ll leave now. Then I saw the shock in the old man’s eyes, and knew in that instant that I’d made a very big mistake. That’s when the cameras started to flash again. I let the old man go.
“Olivia . . .” My mother’s voice from the foot of the stairs.
I wrenched my gaze from the intruders and blinked hard, and when I did, it was like breaking a spell. Suddenly, I was lost in a roar of voices.
“Mr. Gunderson!” someone shouted. “Niles Gunderson!”
“Sir, can we ask about your daughter? About Jan. Does this bring it all back?”
I froze. Gunderson. Jan Gunderson. The Larsens’ last victim.
I turned back to the old man. “I—”
He slapped my face so hard I reeled back.
“I know you, Pamela Larsen,” he snarled as he came after me. “I don’t care what you’re calling yourself these days or what color you dye your hair. I know you.”
My mother screamed. Howard shoved me behind him as he shouted for my mother to get back upstairs.
A stampede of feet clattered across the patio. People were shoving past the journalists—a greasy-haired man with a ragged notebook, a college kid with a video camera. Not real journalists. Just people hoping to sell a picture or a firsthand account. The kind who didn’t know that chasing me into my house was against the law. Or the kind who didn’t care.
“Miss Larsen?”
“Eden! Look over here!”
“Mrs. Taylor?”
The kid with the video camera rushed past me toward my mother. Mum started up the stairs. The kid reached over the railing and caught her sleeve.
The rip of tearing fabric. A gasp. A thump as she tripped, falling down the steps and landing in a heap at the base.
I shoved past two reporters and scooped her up.
“The car!” I yelled to Howard. “Get your car!”
I half dragged, half carried my mother to the garage. Cameras flashed. Voices shouted. Hands grabbed for us. I kept plowing through, oblivious.
When I got into the garage, Howard was already in his Mercedes, engine running. I pushed Mum forward.
“Get in the car!” I yelled.
She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even look back.
Howard hit the button to open the garage door. I shouted to wait until I was in, but the door was rising and I could make out the legs of people outside waiting for it to open. Someone shoved a video camera underneath.
My mother’s face was stark with terror. There was a bloody print on her shoulder, from my cut hand. I saw her face and I saw that blood, and I realized I couldn’t get into Howard’s car. If I did, the reporters would never let it out of the garage.
I had to protect my mother. I’d promised Dad.
I waved at Howard. “Go! Get her out of here.”
He didn’t need any more prompting. I was probably lucky he didn’t throw open the door and shove my mother out in his haste to escape.
He put the car into reverse. My mother just sat in the backseat. I told myself she was in shock, but it looked like simple relief. She’d gotten away. As for me . . . ? Well, I could look after myself.
The Mercedes reversed down the driveway, sending the onlookers scattering like bowling pins. No one tried to stop Howard. Their prey was still in the garage, alone and defenseless.
I ran. No choice really. Well, there was. I could grab the pruning shears and attack anyone who came near me. I considered it. Even wondered whether I could get away with a self-defense plea. I might have done it, too, if I hadn’t just discovered who I was and realized that slicing someone up really wouldn’t be the way to prove I wasn’t truly the Larsens’ daughter.
I darted inside my dad’s workshop and threw the dead bolt. I took a quick look around at the tools. The heavy tools. The sharp tools. The lethal tools.
A longing look. Then a queasy look, before I raced out the back door. A glance around. No one in sight yet. I followed the line of trees across the property and took off.
THE PRODUCT OF MONSTERS
The college student huddled behind the tree, listening to the cacophony of voices inside the house. Dear God, had they actually broken in? She rubbed her arms against the night’s chill. Her fingers brushed the strap around her neck, and she looked down at the camera, hanging there like an albatross.
It had seemed so simple when he phoned. She hadn’t heard from him since school broke for exams. He’d said he’d call, but he hadn’t. Then he did.
“Hey,” he’d said. “You live in Chicago, right?”
She told herself it wasn’t really a question. Of course he remembered where she lived.
She’d said yes, and he’d said, “Good. ’Cause there’s this story about to break. I got a heads-up from a buddy of mine. It’s leaked on the Internet, but not far, meaning it’s still fresh, and it’s taking place right there in Chicago. Do you know where Kenilworth is?”
She did. Not that she’d ever been there. People in her neighborhood didn’t know those in Kenilworth unless they worked for them.
“Perfect,” he’d said. “I need you to snap a couple pictures of a girl who lives there. You can do that, right?”
Of course she could. She was a photographer. That’s how they’d met—working for the school paper. While she hadn’t liked the idea of sneaking onto private property—especially in Kenilworth—she’d do it for him.
Turned out, trespassing wasn’t really an issue, considering she hadn’t been the first one there. The others were mainly bloggers and small press, maybe not as concerned about the law as they should be. She thought they might try to run her off, but they just let her hang out with them at the back door.
That’s when she’d found out who the girl was.
“Todd and Pam Larsen’s kid,” one of the older journalists said, his breath reeking of garlic. “Can you believe that? Everyone figured they’d shipped her off for adoption in Australia, and she ends up here. She grew up as the daughter of that department store family.”
