never came back. I found out later about the kayaking accident.”
“He’s buried in Oregon, right?” More important, are you sure he’s actually dead and buried?
“Yes, in Oregon, next to his parents.”
Oregon . . . Wait a minute, that’s where one of the decapitations occurred. “Did you both live on base?” Come on, Mom, mention 4 Buchold Place.
“We had separate places.”
“And he had no other family, right?”
“Right.” Mom’s cell conveniently buzzes and she checks it. “Watch the bacon for me,” she tells me, and heads to her office.
Worst-case scenario: My real dad is alive, is the Decapitator, and wants to meet me.
Best-case scenario: My real dad is dead, someone else is the Decapitator, and I’m normal.
I spent my whole life thinking something in the environment made me into who I am, but if my real dad is the Decapitator, then I inherited this darkness in me.
Oh. My. God.
ANY LUCK W/ MOM? Reggie interrupts my panicked thought.
NO.
SORRY, BUT I’M NOT HACKING HER PC!
I KNOW . . .
WANT ME 2 DIG INTO DAD? she offers.
YES, I immediately type back. Clearly, it’s the only way I’m going to find something out.
I turn the heat down on the bacon and stand for a second, digesting: If my real dad is the Decapitator, then I inherited this darkness in me. I can’t quite wrap my brain around that enormous thought. This changes everything I’ve ever thought about myself.
My mom charges out of her office and straight over to the TV. She flips it on, and scrolling across the bottom is:
DECAPITATOR CAUGHT. DETAILS TO FOLLOW.
Wait a minute! What?
She snatches her purse up, making it more than obvious she’s irritated. “I swear, you’d think with me being the lead on this case someone would contact me before it hits the news.”
“Maybe you should sleep at headquarters until this is all over. So you don’t miss anything else.”
“That’s not a half-bad idea.” She motions to the bacon. “Got that? I won’t be home till late.”
I nod. “Justin and I’ll be fine.”
She races out and I turn back to the TV. This can’t be. How does this even make sense?
Chapter Twenty-Two
BY MONDAY IT’S ALL OVER the news.
DECAPITATOR CAUGHT!
His name is James Donner. He is from Alaska. He is sixty-five years old and works as a traveling plumber. He has proof he lived in each state where the serial decapitations occurred.
He commits the crimes only once a year in September to mourn the loss of his wife, who was brutally murdered by a man who hacked her up with a knife.
His wife had been blond and worked as a preschool teacher. This, of course, explains how James picks his victims.
He’s textbook.
Too perfect if you ask me.
The question from every reporter: Why turn yourself in now?
James Donner’s response: It was time.
Personally I’m just relieved it’s not my real father.
I’ve been researching James Donner pretty much nonstop since he came forward. If he truly is the Decapitator, then I should be connected to him in some way. Otherwise why send me the messages?
And why when I look at his image don’t I sense some sort of link?
I’m dying to know what my mom thinks. What the FBI thinks.
The girl sitting beside me redirects my attention when I hear her say, “You know all those flyers that were hanging up for the missing cocker spaniel? I heard the guy that took it is that disturbed dude. He lives a few blocks over. What’s his name?”
“Marco? Ugh. He’s awful.”
I tune in to their conversation. We have a substitute today in AP English, and she’s letting us do pretty much whatever.
“He went to school here,” the first girl says.
“Didn’t he get expelled?” the second girl asks.
Marco. I remember him. Senior when I was a sophomore. Did get expelled for bringing a knife on campus. I thought he was in jail for mistreatment of animals. Clearly, I thought wrong.
“He carved some weird Nazi symbol in the cocker spaniel’s back.”
The second girl
“He’s buried in Oregon, right?” More important, are you sure he’s actually dead and buried?
“Yes, in Oregon, next to his parents.”
Oregon . . . Wait a minute, that’s where one of the decapitations occurred. “Did you both live on base?” Come on, Mom, mention 4 Buchold Place.
“We had separate places.”
“And he had no other family, right?”
“Right.” Mom’s cell conveniently buzzes and she checks it. “Watch the bacon for me,” she tells me, and heads to her office.
Worst-case scenario: My real dad is alive, is the Decapitator, and wants to meet me.
Best-case scenario: My real dad is dead, someone else is the Decapitator, and I’m normal.
I spent my whole life thinking something in the environment made me into who I am, but if my real dad is the Decapitator, then I inherited this darkness in me.
Oh. My. God.
ANY LUCK W/ MOM? Reggie interrupts my panicked thought.
NO.
SORRY, BUT I’M NOT HACKING HER PC!
I KNOW . . .
WANT ME 2 DIG INTO DAD? she offers.
YES, I immediately type back. Clearly, it’s the only way I’m going to find something out.
I turn the heat down on the bacon and stand for a second, digesting: If my real dad is the Decapitator, then I inherited this darkness in me. I can’t quite wrap my brain around that enormous thought. This changes everything I’ve ever thought about myself.
My mom charges out of her office and straight over to the TV. She flips it on, and scrolling across the bottom is:
DECAPITATOR CAUGHT. DETAILS TO FOLLOW.
Wait a minute! What?
She snatches her purse up, making it more than obvious she’s irritated. “I swear, you’d think with me being the lead on this case someone would contact me before it hits the news.”
“Maybe you should sleep at headquarters until this is all over. So you don’t miss anything else.”
“That’s not a half-bad idea.” She motions to the bacon. “Got that? I won’t be home till late.”
I nod. “Justin and I’ll be fine.”
She races out and I turn back to the TV. This can’t be. How does this even make sense?
Chapter Twenty-Two
BY MONDAY IT’S ALL OVER the news.
DECAPITATOR CAUGHT!
His name is James Donner. He is from Alaska. He is sixty-five years old and works as a traveling plumber. He has proof he lived in each state where the serial decapitations occurred.
He commits the crimes only once a year in September to mourn the loss of his wife, who was brutally murdered by a man who hacked her up with a knife.
His wife had been blond and worked as a preschool teacher. This, of course, explains how James picks his victims.
He’s textbook.
Too perfect if you ask me.
The question from every reporter: Why turn yourself in now?
James Donner’s response: It was time.
Personally I’m just relieved it’s not my real father.
I’ve been researching James Donner pretty much nonstop since he came forward. If he truly is the Decapitator, then I should be connected to him in some way. Otherwise why send me the messages?
And why when I look at his image don’t I sense some sort of link?
I’m dying to know what my mom thinks. What the FBI thinks.
The girl sitting beside me redirects my attention when I hear her say, “You know all those flyers that were hanging up for the missing cocker spaniel? I heard the guy that took it is that disturbed dude. He lives a few blocks over. What’s his name?”
“Marco? Ugh. He’s awful.”
I tune in to their conversation. We have a substitute today in AP English, and she’s letting us do pretty much whatever.
“He went to school here,” the first girl says.
“Didn’t he get expelled?” the second girl asks.
Marco. I remember him. Senior when I was a sophomore. Did get expelled for bringing a knife on campus. I thought he was in jail for mistreatment of animals. Clearly, I thought wrong.
“He carved some weird Nazi symbol in the cocker spaniel’s back.”
The second girl
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