by J. J. Stone
Ada fought to control the words tumbling through her brain. She let out a shaky breath through pursed lips then tried again. “There was a note at my house when I got home from work.”
“What kind of note?” James asked, a slight ticking sound coming through the phone whenever he spoke.
Ada forced herself to recall. “Handwritten, on a folded piece of paper. Congratulating me on helping the FBI, basically.” The pack of bike riders whizzed directly behind her car, startling her. She must have cursed out loud because she heard James clear his throat.
“Maybe you’ve got an admirer. I did mention we had help from a local analyst in the case. Maybe someone at the police station gave them your name.”
“Did you ever tell anyone at the station my real name?” Ada hissed.
“Of course not.”
Ada squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her head back into the driver’s seat. “This person used my real name. Said my father … my father would be proud of how I knew a serial killer’s mind.”
James sighed and must have switched the phone to his other hand from the scraping sound that came over the line. “Where are you now?”
“I ran back to my car.”
“Did you see anyone? Did it look like someone tried to get into your house?”
Ada shook her head then remembered she was on the phone. “I didn’t check. I was too freaked out.”
“Understandable.” James didn’t say anything for a few moments. “Do you want me to send some uniforms to your house, just to check it out?”
The genuine concern Ada heard in his voice confused her almost as much as the fact that he had been her first phone call, not the police. “No. Tiny is at the window like he always is. If someone were in there, he would be raising hell.”
“True.” Ada could hear the grin in James’s voice. “Send the note to my office. I’ll have our lab tech take a look at it, see if we can lift anything from it.”
“I already touched it. I probably contaminated everything. It’s been outside too.” The words were beginning to tumble out of her mouth now.
James sighed again. “I’m not sure what I can do for you then.”
Ada pressed her free hand to her forehead and thought back through the note then remembered why James Deacon had been her first instinctive phone call. “The note said that there would be other players for the FBI to handle. Whatever that means.”
“That’s all the note said?”
“Basically. I don’t really remember every word. I was too busy trying not to throw up.”
“Was the note signed?” James pushed.
Sakima. Why did that sound so familiar? “Yes. ‘Until next time, Sakima,’” Ada answered.
The phone line lit up with short static bursts. Ada pulled the phone back as her ear began buzzing. “James?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I think we’re hitting some weather or something.” James’s voice grew more distant. “I had a feeling this would happen.”
“You had a feeling bad weather would happen?”
A pause. “No. I had a feeling this was more than just John Klinton as soon as you showed me that notebook.”
“So, there’s another killer?”
“That’s my thought.”
Ada sighed. “Why contact me, then? And use my real name.”
“I don’t know, Ada,” James said. “I hope you’re ready, though.”
Ada’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Whatever this is, you’re a part of it now. And like it or not, we’re not done yet.”
Acknowledgements
When the story of Ada Brandt popped into my head in 2012, I was under the assumption that this would be something that would help me produce a thesis and graduate with an MFA. Little did I know that it would transform from a 60-page TV script into a novel, which would then spread its wings even further into a trilogy. As soon as I entered the last period of The Mirror Stage, I realized that the real work was just beginning. After taking a deep breath and promising myself that I was not insane for continuing to invest in this fantasy of becoming an author, I began to reach out for assistance. The people that came alongside me and lent a helping hand are all saints in my eyes.
To Kate, I am forever indebted to you for all the wisdom you’ve bestowed on me. Thank you for patiently answering every ridiculous question I shot at you through Facebook message after Facebook message. You gave me the courage to get to where I am today, and I will continue to offer my gratitude until I’m blue in the face.
To Cindi, my on-a-whim beta reader, thank you for carving time in your life for my little book. You were the first person to read this story in its entirety, and the insight you offered me helped push this novel to the next level. Hope you’re still up for Book 2!
To Julie, my enthusiastic and all-too-kind editor, you are simply the best. You took my lowly manuscript and cultivated it into the novel that it is today. Your encouragement and excitement for this story definitely brought me to a mess of happy tears on more than one occasion. Thank you for believing in me, thank you for falling in love with Ada and the crew, and thank you for being crazy enough to stick around for the rest of the ride.
To my parents, thank you for always encouraging me in whatever crazy thing I decide to do next. Thank you for making my childhood one enveloped in a love for reading and imagination. Without that foundation, I would have never been able to become a writer. Love you both.
To DJ, the rock that I could always cling to whenever doubt, insecurity or writer’s block struck me. Your encouragement and “gentle prods” gave me the strength and determination to see this thing through to the end. Thank you for taking care of all this technical stuff that makes my head spin just thinking about it. The book is dashing, and it’s all thanks to you. Love you, punk head.
