Amelia sleeps nearly the entire flight, and she sleeps hard. I get the sense she needed rest more than anything. I’m hoping by the time she wakes up, she’ll change her mind about meeting Leo and Viv. I was against it at first, but I’m starting to believe unity could be the answer. There’s power in numbers. Maybe Renzo’s biggest mistake was to split up the family.

Since I’m wide awake, I try to make use of my time by diagramming a new Serra family tree. This one with as many details as I can remember about each of the members, especially the victims. I know most of their names and ages, but I need to ask my dad for more details. Connections, timing, locations of death—anything other than the fact that they’re related.

So far, I haven’t found one shred of information to connect them. Their ages, genders, occupations are all different. Even changing their last names doesn’t save them. If the victim was born a Serra, it seems they fit the killer’s bill of requirements. There is one small exception though. Amelia’s aunt, Alessandra, married into another family, and so did one of Amelia’s female cousins. Both changed their last names through marriage. Both women are still alive. Does the killer spare the women who marry into other families? Or is it just a coincidence? There are only two of them, so it’s hard to know for sure.

It’s probably a waste of energy; this has been done by police and private investigators hundreds of times, but I won’t let it stop me from trying.

Because it’s Amelia.

Knowing she’s next gives the whole situation a new sense of urgency. What happened to the others can’t happen to her.

Fuck, how did I get to this place? When did I suddenly care so much?

Amelia repositions herself in her sleep, curling into the crook of my arm. My body stiffens, then I notice how peaceful she looks. Seeing her like this, all the worry and tension of these last few weeks gone, is nice. Her hair smells flowery, and I can’t help but run my fingers through the silky locks. She sighs, and the sound is so relaxed, I refuse to move a muscle except to lift the armrest between us so she can snuggle closer against me. I may not ever be able to identify the Serra killer, but I’ll be her damn pillow anytime.

Putting away my notebook, I try to get some rest too. I plug in my earbuds, zoning out during the in-flight movie.

“How long have I been out?” Amelia asks a few hours later, appearing slightly embarrassed. She slips out of my arms, back into her seat.

“Almost the entire flight.” I remove my earbuds. “We land in forty-five minutes.”

She rubs her arms, stretching. “Sorry for, you know…” She looks at my chest. “Sleeping on you.”

“You’re welcome to do it again anytime.” I wink at her. “I don’t even mind that you snore.”

Her cheeks flush with color. “I don’t—oh God.” She holds up a compact mirror she extracted from her purse. “I’m a mess. Do you mind? I should use the restroom before we land.”

I stand to give her access to the aisle. She keeps her head down, making her way to the bathroom. I don’t know why she’s making such a big deal about the way she looks. Sure, her hair is tangled, her doe-eyes are smudged with mascara, but it makes her look like a sultry vixen who’s been in bed for hours having the best sex of her life.

Great—now I’m picturing her like that. I shut my eyes, trying to erase the image from my mind. Being stuck here in this tiny airplane seat doesn’t help. I shift and adjust, trying to think of something else. Anything else. British phone booths. The Royal Guard. Fucking fish and chips.

Amelia’s a nice girl; I want to keep her safe, but I’m not sure how much longer I can be around her without giving in to temptation. Her eyes sometimes roam over me, and that’s when it gets worse.

Renzo’s daughter, remember?

He’s already going to kill me for flat-out refusing him. If I try anything with Amelia, he’ll make it a slow, torturous death.

A few minutes later, she’s back, her hair combed into a tight bun, makeup freshly applied to her face, and a minty scent to her breath.

The flight attendant announces we’re half an hour away from landing, then goes over exit procedures when we arrive in Gatwick…wait.

Gatwick? I thought I booked Heathrow. I’d been in such a rush while booking, I saw London, and didn’t pay attention to which airport I’d chosen.

“Shit,” I mutter, hiding my face with my hands.

“Ah, Casper?” Amelia asks, hesitant.

“Yeah, you heard them correctly.”

“Why aren’t we in London?”

“I must’ve booked the wrong airport.” This is the kind of stuff my dad was talking about. I hate that he called me out on it. “The good news is, we’re not far. It’s only about thirty-minute train ride into the city.”

I look up to find her smiling at me. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” She leafs through the airline’s magazine, a smirk lingering on her lips. “Just wondering how you managed to graduate from law school, that’s all.”

Holy shit, she’s teasing me. I wasn’t sure she had it in her.

“So my knack for detail is subpar—who fucking cares. I’m the absent-minded kind of genius.” If my dad heard me say that, he’d be rolling on the floor. I’ll have to remember to use it on him later.

Amelia arches a brow. “You don’t think too highly of yourself, do you?”

“Now that I think about it, selecting the Gatwick airport might throw our killer off, even if it’s just few towns away. See? Well-laid plans. I am a genius.”

Amelia’s smile fades.

I’m trying to make her laugh, but at the mention of the killer, she closes the magazine. “I don’t want to meet them, not anymore.”

Them, as in her brother and sister. I’d been hoping some sleep would ease her mind. Guess not.

“What happened to the girl who was so determined to find a solution?”

“I’m not worried about myself, Casper.”

“I know.” My shoulders sag. Man, I wish it didn’t have to end this way. “There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“Yeah, end the Serra curse.”

If I could, I’d do it in a heartbeat. “Let’s hang around for a day or two, in case you change your mind.”

She nods.

As soon as we exit the plane, Amelia starts to shiver. “It’s cold.”

“That’s London for you. Cold, wet, dreary—haven’t you ever picked up a book?”

“Yeah, but it’s May.” She frowns, looking around at all the passersby and their feet. “Are toes taboo here?”

I look down at her flip-flops and shake my head. This girl is definitely a Florida native. “We’ll get you some new shoes,” I say, draping an arm around her as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. In a way, it is. “Don’t go into culture shock. It’s just the UK. They even speak English here.”

She glances up at me, narrowing her eyes. “Thanks for filling me in, genius.”