Prologue

PROLOGUE

Ever since his wife died two years ago, Remy Wilsson has turned into a workaholic. It’s not his fault. After thirty-five years together, through thick and thin, storm clouds and days in the sun, he just doesn’t know what to do with himself when he’s at home alone, silently moving through the quiet hallways of his house.

So, he stays up late. Fixes the broken radios, rickety chairs, chipped mugs, leaky faucets, and whatever else people drop off. He’s technically retired, but he’s got a bit of a reputation around his corner of Prospect Heights: Remy Wilsson can fix anything. So, when he happens to hear a neighbor grumble about their lamp not working anymore, he volunteers to help.

People don’t anymore. Fix things. Not like they used to. Something breaks, they throw it away. Buy new.

Things.

Relationships.

People, after all, are magpies. Always after the shiny new toy.

But that broken lamp might just need a new wire, and Remy’s got plenty of wires to spare. Plenty of patience and determination too, quietly prodding and poking away until the light comes back on.

His back protests loudly and painfully when he finally straightens himself up behind his work bench. Christ. A groan escapes his mouth, and he laughs under his breath when he imagines what Stella would say if she could hear him right now.

‘Sixty-one isn’t old enough to malfunction yet, sweetheart.’

His gaze lands on the clock. Already past one a.m. He takes off his glasses and rubs his work-roughened palms over his face.

Time for a midnight snack and bed. If he looks tired tomorrow, Jordan will have a lecture in store for him.

Which means it’s time to pack it in for the night.

He’s in the middle of putting his tools away when he hears it.

At first, he thinks he’s imagining the strange scratching sound.

Then he decides it’s mice. Maybe even a rat.

Every once in a while, one tries to sneak into the basement where he and Stella set up his workshop all those years ago when they first bought the townhouse. Two starry-eyed newlyweds. Two kids, Remy now thinks fondly.

He clears his throat to let the critters know he’s onto them and makes a mental note to put out a trap first thing in the morning.

The scratching continues.

“ I hear you, you know, ” he says loudly.

He doesn’t like killing rodents. Or any living thing. He’d much prefer it if he could just scare them away.

The scratching starts up again.

Then a thump.

Remy tilts his head to the side.

That was definitely no rat.

He frowns and follows the noise to the small metal door hidden underneath the stairs that lead to the actual front door. For a moment, everything’s quiet. He takes a look through the keyhole.

Nothing.

The strange noise starts up again. Like a dog scratching its paw against the door, trying to get inside the house.

He’s not sure where else to search for the source of the noise, so he unlocks the door and starts to push it open.

It slams into something.

He gives the door a firm shove.

The sound stops him.

It’s not much more than a faint breath.

Somewhere down below.

Definitely no rodent.

There’s somebody in front of his door.

Drunk.

Or high.

Or both.

What he should do is call the cops.

He definitely, for sure shouldn’t go outside. Jordan will have a few choice words if he hears about this.

There’s just enough room between the wall and the door that’s now slightly ajar for Remy to carefully push himself through the opening. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the night, but then details start to emerge.

The fingers and the wrists and the shoulders and the chest.

And the eyes.

Huge and terrified in a pale face covered in bruises and smeared with streaks of something dark.

Remy takes a step forward.

Frowns.

Puzzled.

Perplexed.

Bewildered.

There are some strange, new marks on the concrete in front of his door.

It takes him forever to realize what they are.

Handprints. Like somebody crawled here on their hands and knees.

Takes him another forever to realize why they’re so dark.

It’s blood.

From the boy in front of his door.

A boy, Remy thinks.

Just a boy.

A boy with large, desperate eyes in his pale, too thin face.

A boy who doesn’t make a sound, just moves his lips while he slumps in the middle of the grotesque artwork in front of Remy’s door.

A boy whose fingers move to Remy’s foot and scrape over the side of it, futilely scrabbling for purchase.

A boy who opens and closes his mouth over and over again while blood paints the white T-shirt he’s wearing a macabre red.

A boy whose life Remy is going to save tonight.