Suddenly, everything that has been scaring the shit out of me is standing right there, in the package of six feet of lean muscle, tanned skin, black stubble, and the most brilliant green eyes I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure what most stalkers look like, but they can’t all look like him.

As I’m standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, he stares back at me, and I’m frozen. Those are the same eyes that have been watching me all this time. The same deep green ones I stared into on the beach that day. Oh, sweet Jesus. I can add that day to the list of times this guy—this stranger—has saved my life. I don’t know why I didn’t put it together until now. And to think I was disappointed he disappeared.

I follow him, still shaky from what almost happened.

That should infuriate me too, that I had to put myself at risk in order to bring him out of the shadows. It doesn’t though. He risked his life in order to save mine. For one brief, but terrifying moment, I didn’t think I would make it. I shouldn’t feel grateful, but I do.

He holds the door open, and I step inside the diner, noticing straightaway how crowded it is. At least I don’t have to worry about being alone with this guy.

“Oh, lovely. You’re back,” says a waitress wearing a white apron, her short jet-black hair braided into pigtails. Her face is molded into the same irritated look Penelope wears when we’ve been slammed for several hours.

My stalker clears his throat uncomfortably. “Couldn’t resist trying those banana pancakes.”

The baritone of his voice is deep and gruff for someone who looks so young. He can’t be more than a few years older than me, but his voice makes him sound much older. Sexy, older.

God, did I really just have that thought? What the hell is wrong with me?

The waitress nods to the far-right window. “Your table was never bussed. It’s still available.”

“Thanks.”

I clench my hands into fists. Outside that window is a perfect view of the entrance to the Oltek building. While I was interviewing for the job, he was here. Waiting for me.

We sit across from each other, the scent of stale coffee lingering in the air. As I’m settling into the plush booth, shoving the painting underneath the table, my attention is drawn across the street. Oltek’s large glass windows reveal nearly the entire lobby. He probably saw me with Ethan…my stomach turns over.

This is so incredibly wrong.

I should go straight to the police. Why am I not going straight to the police?

“You look pale. Are you okay?” He eyes me with what I assume is fake concern.

“No, I’m not okay,” I snap. Even mixed in with the humdrum of diner chatter, I sound pretty dang loud.

I don’t like that he looks worried. Humanity isn’t something I want to associate with this, this—creep. I just want to know why he was following me. Then I can decide what to do from there, whether to go to the police, get a restraining order, or maybe even buy a gun.

“All of this, it’s not what you think.”

Shifting in his seat, he rests his elbows on the table, his hands locked in a fist. So he’s nervous. Good. If he’s nervous, it means he’s probably going to tell me the truth instead of some half-baked lie.

Seeing him in person makes it hard to believe he’s the guy that’s been following me around. Nothing about him screams icky stalker or gives off bad vibes. The more I look at him, the more I lose my grip on the anger, slipping back into a slightly dazed state again. Everything about him fascinates me. How strange it is, to find one person both fearsome and fascinating in equal proportions. Like standing on a cliff and wanting to jump for no apparent reason.

L’appel du vide.

Gran told me it’s a French saying, meaning the call of the void. It makes you want to do insane things for no reason. That’s exactly what I feel when I look at him.

“What’s your name?” I ask, trying to shake away the strange feeling.

“Casper North.” He takes his wallet out of his back pocket, removes his driver’s license, then slides it across the table like an offering or a token of trust.

I pick it up, scanning his pic and info.

State of New York. Birthday: March 2. He’s twenty-seven. Organ donor. Safe driver. Unless it’s a fake, this guy’s name is really Casper North. My friendly ghost.

Ugh, as if the situation isn’t spooky enough.

“Why are you following me, Casper?”

“There’s a really long and difficult answer to that question.”

I drum my fingers along the table, letting him know I’m waiting, and not too patiently.

He rakes his hands through his black hair, which falls just below his ears. “I didn’t expect to tell you all of this. I had a job to do, and this wasn’t part of it.”

“A job?” That genuinely surprises me. “Are you saying you were hired to stalk me?”

“Stalk is kind of a harsh word.”

Harsh?

“And what would you call it?”

I’ve been out of my mind, wondering if I’m delusional or right, and he considers it a harsh word? The nerve of this guy.

“I don’t know, keeping a watchful eye?”

Steam pours out of me. Pure steam.

He starts again. “Let me back up.”

“Wonderful idea.”

“This was more a favor than a job. My father and your father are best friends. They have been ever since they were kids.”

Oh, God. Don’t tell me this guy has been stalking me because of a misunderstanding.

“You’ve got the wrong girl. My father is dead.”

Casper slowly shakes his head. “A lie to keep you from looking for him.”

I blink several times. That can’t be true.

“You’re lying.”

But I’m not sure that he is lying.

For years, Gran refused to tell me anything. She was secretive about the past, and she went rigid anytime I mentioned my parents. We almost never talked about them.

The possibility of finding out anything, a crumb, a morsel of information makes my whole body lean forward in my seat. If there’s even a possibility…

Casper lets out a long breath. “I’m sorry you’re hearing this from me, but it’s the truth. One that can easily be proven.”

“You’re saying my father is alive and well?” I need him to be perfectly clear.

Casper nods. “He’s the one who asked me to come here.”

My mind replays all the times I asked Gran about my parents. All the times I begged her to tell me about them. Your parents’ deaths were tragedies, sweetie. Let’s not live in the past.

“You don’t know anything about your family history, do you?”

I glance away, shaking my head, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth.

That topic is forbidden.

Or at least, that’s the way Gran wanted it to be. She left me a clueless fool, swearing I was better off. Now look at me. Sitting here, talking to a stranger who seems to know more about my family than I do.

I hate her for that.

“Why did you think you were living with your grandmother in Florida? Didn’t you ask her why the two of you dropped everything and changed your last names to De Palma?”

“Changed my…” My sentence trails off as what he says sinks in. Blood drains from my face. “What did my last name used to be?”

“Christ, you really don’t know anything.” He lets out a ragged breath. “Your last name, your real last name, is Serra.”

The album.

It really was a name—my name. And short of breaking into my house, there’s no way he could have known about it.

The room starts to spin. I grab hold of the edge of the table to steady myself. Dimly, I hear Casper shouting for the waitress. “Orange juice, quick!”

At first she looks like she’s going to lay into him for barking his order, but then she notices my face, and rushes away. It’s only a matter of moments before she’s back with his request.

“You’re going into shock.” He pushes the glass into my hands. “Probably a mixture of adrenaline from the close call with the semi, then hearing this news. And if you can’t handle this, you sure as hell won’t be able to handle the rest of what I’m about to tell you.”

I swallow down some OJ. My whole body is trembling, blood still pumping fast through my veins. It feels like a betrayal. All the secrecy. All the lies. How could she do this to me?

I take a few deep breaths before speaking again. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“Guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”

I level him with a glare that lets him know I will not be doing any such thing.

He releases a frustrated sigh. “I’ll ask your dad to send me some documents, your original birth certificate, social security card, maybe a few baby pictures. Would that be enough?”

He makes the offer too easily.

It’s clear he really doesn’t want to be in this situation, and not for the reasons I first assumed. He’s not nervous because he was caught following me; he’s nervous because of whatever he knows.

Too bad for him, I’m not letting him out of my sight until he tells me everything.

“Assuming what you’ve told me is true, why did my father ask you to follow me? Am I in some kind of trouble?”

“Take it easy, Mila. I’m getting there.” His gruff voice carries an odd warmth to it.

“My name is Amelia.”

“Yeah, I know.” He averts his gaze. “It’s just, well your dad refers to you as Mila so often, it’s ingrained.”

Hearing my dad is out there, alive and well, referring to me by a nickname I’ve never heard is almost too much for me to digest. Hundreds of questions race through my head. So many, I struggle to put one into words. “My mom? Is she alive too?”

He slowly shakes his head.

So my mom is dead. My chest tightens. Was it from a drug overdose like Gran said? I hate not knowing anything about her, that a stranger knows more about my family than I do.

“Do me a favor, okay? Before you ask more questions, order something to eat.”

A difficult task. But maybe he’s right; I need a few minutes to calm down. A few minutes to process everything.

When the waitress returns, we both order food; Casper the pancakes, and I order lunch, a turkey sandwich. We both wait in heavy, awkward silence. Between us, anyway. In the background, people chatter, tableware clinks, the register slides open and close, among dozens of other mundane noises. It all fades until I can’t hear anything. Until I’m trapped in my own head. All I can think about is that photo album. The faces of the people I’ve never met. My gran’s voice drifts in and out, reminding me to keep the past locked away.

Not this time, Gran.

We get our food, take a few bites, then I start again with the questions, too impatient to wait any longer. “How long have you been watching me?”

Casper pours a puddle of maple syrup over his pancakes. “Almost two months.”

Two months. Shortly after Gran passed. “Why?”

“Your dad trusts me.”

“No, I mean what’s the reason you’re watching me?”

He swallows his food, washing it down with a glass of milk. “You sure you’re ready to hear this?”

My heart rate is slower, and I feel calmer than I did ten minutes ago. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

Casper glances at the ceiling, then directly at me. “Amelia, your family, the Serra family, is cursed.”

He says it so seriously and with so much conviction. I arch a brow, wondering if he takes me for some kind of fool.

“Not in the magical, hex-on-you, voodoo sense of the word. Here, I’ll show you.” Moving his plate aside, he unfolds a napkin, smoothing it out across the table. “Do you have a pen?”

I reach into my purse and pull one out for him, curious where this is leading.

He begins outlining something on the napkin. “Your family is a target in the most literal sense. Every few years, one of your relatives turns up missing or dead, the majority of those deaths ruled as homicides. Hence, the family curse.”

The words missing and dead and homicides ring loudly in my ears.

Those words aren’t familiar. Those are the kind of terrifying words linked to other people, the kind on news broadcasts and TV shows and precautionary tales. Definitely not words associated with me and my comfy, drama-free life.

“It’s been going on since the late eighties.” As he speaks, Casper writes several names, drawing lines to connect them—a family tree. “Someone, or possibly multiple people, have been slaughtering the Serras for decades. The first few were considered tragic coincidences. Then, as the deaths continued, it put the whole family on edge. The investigations never led police to one common suspect. And before you ask whether they tried other means, believe me, they did everything they could. Your dad, Lorenzo Serra, has spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on private investigators. None of them ever led to answers. Whoever is behind this just might be one of the most intelligent serial killers the world has ever known.”

He pauses to look up at me, gauging my reaction.

I’m speechless. There’s always been something missing, pieces of myself I knew weren’t quite whole. I could feel those broken pieces every time I wondered about my parents. About my past. Now this.

It feels like a semi really did hit me.

If what he’s saying is true, it means someone is responsible, that someone did this. It means the people who should’ve known me and loved me and watched me grow up were stolen. I almost hope he’s lying.

Casper’s gaze travels back to the napkin. “Your family used to be a lot bigger.” He scratches his jaw, thinking. “I can’t remember all of the names. Nowadays most of the Serras are spread across Europe, living under various aliases, all thanks to your dad. After your mother was killed, he ordered everyone to run and hide. Fewer deaths have occurred as a result, but they do still occur.”

Once he’s done writing the names he remembers, Casper begins marking x’s through several of them.

Oh God. He’s crossing out the ones who are dead.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Amelia?” He looks up at me. “Are you okay? Need a break?”

He’s dropped several bombs. I probably need a moment to simply breathe and take it all in, but I shake my head. “I’m fine. Keep going.”

Casper turns the napkin around. At the top of the family tree are two names, Michael Serra and Judith Serra. My grandparents.

“Your grandfather was the first to go. His was the most brutal Serra death, too. Found on his sailboat, stabbed thirty-seven times with a kitchen knife. The only time the killer got messy. From then on, many of the deaths were made to look like accidents, your mother’s included. She was found hanging from a chain in her bedroom, a suicide note at her feet. But anyone who knew her also knew how much she loved her family. She would have never taken her own life.”

Closing my eyes for just a second, I open them again to look at Casper. “Gran told me she died of a drug overdose.”

“I’m sorry, Mil—Amelia. That’s not true. You don’t even need me to prove this one for you. You can google your mom’s name, Carly Serra, and you’ll probably find old news articles about her death.”

I press my lips together to stop myself from crying out. This whole time, I’d thought my mother was the selfish kind of person who chose drugs over everyone. The kind of person who neglected her own baby. And my grandmother let me think that about her!

“Why would Gran lie?” I say it more for myself than for Casper.

He answers me anyway. “My guess? She knew if you saw your mother in a negative light, you wouldn’t care about the details. You wouldn’t ask too many questions. Safer for both of you that way.”

I didn’t ask about the details. Not often anyway. My parents were wolves. Gran painted that picture of them since before I can remember. She and I were our own flock of sheep, innocent, and needing to stay far away from the threatening woods where the wolves stalked us, planning our downfall. Sheep didn’t question why they stayed away from the wolves. It was simply a need for survival.

“Well it worked—I didn’t care.”

Knowing the truth is physically painful. My stomach is clenching, and I feel like I might be sick.

“Do you want to stop?” Casper asks.

I look down at my half-eaten turkey sandwich. “You said my mother loved her family.”

“She did.”

“And you’re one hundred percent certain she would never commit suicide? Lots of people hide their depression, you know.”

“Not your mom. Even I remember how full of love she was for her husband and her kids. Her whole face would light up around you guys. She wouldn’t go out that way.”

“Her kids?” I squeak out. “I have siblings? Or are they dead too?”

Casper blinks, and for a moment, I think I see his eyes go glassy. It could just be the lighting. “Let’s pause for a sec, before my pancakes get cold. You should finish your food, too.”

I inhale sharply. He’s trying to stall. Spare me from the never-ending blows. My eyes drift down to the family tree he sketched, but he catches me and quickly flips the napkin over. “Two deaths are enough for now. This can’t be easy for you. Eat.”

I don’t like the way he’s ordering me around, or the way he’s taking control of the situation when I should be controlling it.

I shove a few French fries in my mouth. Everything Casper has told me is tragic, and morbid, and it hurts to hear about my family members’ deaths, but I want to hear about them. I need to know. Which means I need to keep him talking.

After the majority of my plate is cleared, I say, “The rest will be easier.”

Casper doesn’t look reassured. He pushes his empty plate to the end of the table while keeping his gaze fixed on me. “How can you know that?”

“Hearing about my parents…I’ll admit, that was hard to swallow. But until today, I didn’t even know I had sisters or brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles or whatever—my point is that it provides some disconnection. You can tell me the rest without fearing I’ll pass out or have a panic attack.”

One corner of his mouth quirks up, but then he coughs, and his face turns serious again. I think I’m amusing him. I almost wish he would laugh to break the tension, if nothing else. I also really want to see what he looks like when he’s full-on smiling. He has the makings of dimples.

Our waitress comes by the table to drop off the check, exchanging it for our dishes. “Feeling better, honey?” she asks, sweetly.

“Yes, thank you.”

Before I can say anything, Casper shoves a few bills inside the checkbook, then hands it back to the waitress. As soon as she’s gone, he flips the napkin back over. “You had three siblings.”

Four separate lines connect to my parents’ names, mine being the last.

“I’m the youngest?”

He nods. “The baby, their last girl. One time they jokingly told my dad they had their first three kids on purpose; they were strict with them, never letting them get away with crap. You, on the other hand, they had on accident, their surprise baby. They planned to spoil you rotten and enjoy every second of it.”

An unexpected smile forms at my lips, but it fades just as quickly. Until I can confirm whether Casper is telling me the truth, I don’t want him to know he’s playing on my emotions.

I look down at the napkin again. There’s an X through the first child’s name, a brother. Lorenzo, Jr. I touch the name with my index finger, wondering what he was like. Chubby cheeks and sparkly brown eyes flash through my mind.

A memory?

Or my mind playing tricks on me?

“How old was he?” I ask, still touching his name.

“Fifteen.” Casper clears his throat, pausing. His green eyes tighten around the name. “It was later, after the four of you had been relocated.”

“Doesn’t seem like the relocation idea worked.”

“It has, and it hasn’t. The deaths have slowed down significantly. It makes things that much harder for the killer.” His voice tightens. “Junior’s death was an evil, twisted need for spite. He shouldn’t have died.”

“You were close to him, weren’t you?” I ask, connecting the dots.

Casper nods. “I’ve known your family my whole life. He was a good friend.”

“I’m…sorry.”

He shifts in his seat. “I’m the one that’s sorry. You never got the chance to know him.”

I twist my bracelet around, absently fidgeting with the charms. I’m trying to put it together, what all these deaths mean, and that’s when it finally clicks into place. Last night, someone tried to break into my house. Before that, someone tampered with the brakes on my car.

“Oh, my God. That’s why you’re here.” I look at my own name in the family tree. Amelia Serra, not De Palma. “I’m next, aren’t I?”

Casper shakes his head. “We don’t know anything for sure—”

“Did they kill Gran too?”

His voice remains steady. “Your grandmother died of natural causes. We had it checked out.”

Thank God. “Then why are you here?”

“To make sure Judy’s death was legit, which it was, and that you’re safe.”

“Am I?” I tilt my head to the side. “Safe?”

He lets out the breath he was holding. “I don’t know—”

“Just be honest, Casper.”

“No.”

He says it with so much finality we both go silent.

Well, I did ask for honesty. I just wasn’t prepared for how I would feel when I got it.

At this very moment, someone is out there, plotting to kill me.

Me.

My skin breaks out into a cold sweat. Never in my life have I felt uncomfortable being myself, living in this skin, but suddenly I want to be someone else, to jump out of this body, to escape this identity.

Casper’s warm hand stills mine, stopping me from fidgeting. I meet his gaze, torn between pushing his hand away, or simply letting him hold mine.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, pushing the napkin away. “I’ll walk you to your car, and you can get some fresh air.”

“You didn’t finish the list.”

“Do you really need to know which aunts, uncles, and cousins of yours that you never met were murdered? Or can we save a few tragedies for tomorrow?”

I look down at his hand covering mine and nod. I don’t have it in me to listen anyway. What I really want to do is curl up in my bed and cry for hours. Days, maybe.

Outside it’s hot, and the air is thick with humidity, but I fill my lungs with several deep breaths. My steps feel heavier as we stroll along the sidewalk.

“I’ll ask your dad to overnight the things we talked about. Here, I’ll carry that for you.”

“No, it’s okay—”

Casper seizes my painting and carries it effortlessly under his arm.

“Did you, ah, have anything to do with that?” I ask, suspecting he’s the anonymous buyer.

“What do you mean?” He gives me a strange look, and I already feel awkward enough.

“Never mind.”

“Are you going to be all right, Mila?”

I don’t bother correcting him. He doesn’t even notice what he called me. What did he say earlier? It’s ingrained. And I kind of like it anyway. When he calls me Mila, I feel like he knows a secret side of me, someone I’ve never met before. In a strange way, I guess he does.

“I’ll be fine. Are you still planning to watch me?”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Yes.”

“But what if—”

“I can take care of myself, Casper.” I’m lying through my teeth, but I still don’t like the idea of him invading my privacy.

“I’m the one who has to answer to your father,” he says, his tone edged with frustration. “The guy has moved mountains trying to make sure your life turns out differently. Don’t make me be the one who has to tell him it was all for nothing.”

“There’s still no verifiable proof of anything you told me today. I’m not gullible enough to fall for anything a stranger tells me.” Even as I say the words, they sound ridiculous. Like looking at a blue sky and swearing it’s green. Deep down, I know everything Casper has told me is true, but I can’t bring myself to tell him that. Not just yet.

He tightens his jaw, appearing insulted. “You think I made up an elaborate story so I can spend my days and nights watching you? That I don’t have anything better to do?”

I press my lips together. “If it’s such an inconvenience, I’m doing you a favor.”

He stops walking, forcing me to stop too. “That’s not what I said.”

“Now you can enjoy your free time. Let me know when you have the documents. We’ll talk then.” I step around him. “You don’t have to walk with me. My car isn’t parked far from here.”

In a few strides, he catches up. “I’ll respect your wishes, but I’m damn well making sure you get to your car safely.”

I don’t argue with him.

We walk the rest of the way to the parking garage in silence, stopping in front of the silver three-year-old Honda Accord I inherited from Gran. Casper carefully lays the painting along the floor of the trunk.

He gives one last parting warning. “The Serra killer likes to terrorize their victims before killing them. I left that part out because I didn’t want to scare you. That’s what they’ve been doing, terrorizing you. When they finally go in for the kill, it will be too late.”

Casper is gone before I have a chance to respond. I shut myself inside the car, pressing the lock button a little too quickly.

Terrorizing me? My car, my house—so those events were meant to provoke fear?

Well, it worked.

And now, I’ve told the one person who was keeping me safe to stop.