Felicia made no reply. She just moved to the driver’s side and closed the door. The transmission let out a loud clank as she put the car into Drive. And moments later, she was gone, speeding off down the road. Just a pair of tiny red tail lights growing smaller in the distance as the darkness thickened all around her.

Striker stood there in the cold and dark night, and stared at the empty road. Thinking, thinking, thinking. When it was more than Striker could take, he turned around and walked up the old porch steps.

Alone.

Inside, the house was dark and quiet. Only one light was on, coming from far down the hall, and Striker knew it was from Courtney’s bedroom. Ever since the incident last year, she’d had problems with the dark. And confined areas. And who could blame her for that? He let the light be. She had enough on her plate with therapy; he wasn’t about to push it.

He tiptoed down the hallway to his daughter’s room and peered inside. Crashed out on the bed in a soundless sleep was Courtney. Her thick auburn hair swept over her creamy cheeks and hid the rest of her face. Striker took a long look at her, watching her chest rise with every breath. Then he looked at the crutches leaning against the far wall.

More bad reminders.

He closed her door and let her sleep. He went into the kitchen and grabbed a beer – a Miller Genuine Draft – and then walked into the den. It was cold and dark, so he flicked on the gas fire. He crashed down on the sofa and felt the hardness of the cold leather. As the room warmed up, he went over everything in his head.

The day had been long and hard. A good woman had died. And now another was missing. His world had been turned upside down. Twice in one day.

‘Where the hell are you, Larisa?’ he asked aloud.

The words sounded weak in the open space of the room. For all intents and purposes, Larisa Logan had disappeared. She had become a ghost. A Missing Persons file.

It made no sense.

His eyelids felt heavy. Bed was calling.

Striker glanced at his iPhone one last time to see if Larisa had called and he’d somehow missed it. There were no missed calls, but there was a big red number 1 on the email notification. He hit the Email button and saw one message on the screen. He read the header:

From: Unknown

Subject: Snakes & Ladders

At first, Striker almost hit the Delete button, but something about the message bothered him. He put down his bottle of beer and leaned forward in his seat. Then he opened the message.

It was short, simple, and to the point:

You won today, Detective Striker. You climbed up while I slid down. Good play. But tomorrow it’s my turn to roll the dice, and it’s only fair to warn you, I always get doubles. ;o) Game on.

Yours truly,

The Adder

Day Two

Twenty-Eight

The world was still dark when Striker got up, and the room seemed to move on him in his half-asleep state. He kicked the blankets off his legs and stood up in the darkness, the hardwood floor feeling cold on his bare feet. He grabbed his robe from the hook on the wall, wrapped it around himself to ward off the chill, and stepped out into the hall.

Dim light flooded the far-away kitchen area and the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard filled the air. It was Percy Wadsworth, Striker knew – Ich, as everyone called him, due to his uncanny resemblance to Ichabod Crane from the Sleepy Hollow fable. When Striker called him with news of the email message, the tech had come right over.

He was a godsend.

Striker walked down the hall and stopped in the kitchen doorway. The electronic blue light from the computer screen gave the corner where Ich was sitting an artificial look. Striker reached up and turned on the overhead light.

When the room brightened, Ich didn’t even react. He sat at the kitchen table, slumped like a scoliosis victim with an arthritic spine. His eyes stared out from behind large wire-rimmed glasses, and the shirt he wore was two sizes too big for his skinny build. On the table in front of him were several empty cans of Irish coffee Monster energy drink and a few Snickers bar wrappers.

‘Any luck?’ Striker asked.

Ich finally stopped typing. He looked up, pushed his glasses back up the long thin bridge of his nose, and let out a heavy breath. ‘Not much,’ he said, and the words were a let-down to Striker. Among other things, Ich was the department’s internet specialist. If he couldn’t trace the source of the email, then no one could.

It was just that simple.

The acidic smell of stale coffee filled the air, and it was a welcome aroma. Striker walked over to the machine, grabbed a cup from the sink, and poured some old Nabob. It had been made sometime during the night – who knows when – and the brew was as black as motor sludge. He pulled a package of pastries from the cupboard – raspberry Danishes and lemon rolls. He threw it on the table.

‘There you go, Ich. Breakfast of Champions.’

Ich looked over. ‘Freshly baked, I’m sure.’

‘Good hydrogenated pureness,’ Striker countered. ‘With a hint of trans fats.’

Ich grinned. ‘Felicia would kill you if she knew.’ He took a raspberry Danish without looking and bit off a chunk.

Striker came up to the table. ‘So . . . we even know how this guy found me? I mean, this message came from my own personal email account.’

Ich swallowed a mouthful of Danish. ‘Actually, that was the easy part. It’s called having a sixteen-year-old daughter.’

Striker didn’t like the ring of that. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Courtney’s listed on a social-networking site called MyShrine.’

‘So?’

Ich gestured for Striker to come around the table. Then he turned on Firefox and clicked on the MyShrine tab. Already pre-filled on the page was the login name and password. Ich hit Enter, and Courtney’s homepage loaded:

Name: The Court.

Striker watched the screen as Ich navigated through different profile sections. He couldn’t help but feel they were invading his daughter’s privacy. It was like reading someone’s electronic diary, and he self-consciously looked down the hall at her bedroom door.

‘Right here,’ Ich said. He clicked on the profile pictures and paged through them. As he did so, Striker saw several photos of himself among them – some of them in uniform. It was surprising. In some ways it made him feel good to know she had included him; in other ways, he didn’t like it. He’d been in the newspapers and on TV enough times over the years – always when working a big case – for the general public to know who he was. And that was one thing.

But this connected his career of policing to their home.

It wasn’t good.

‘I want these pictures removed,’ he said.

Ich nodded. ‘The message this guy left you is right here.’ He clicked on the Message Wall and brought up the veiled threat. ‘Courtney has all her privacy rules set to minimum – she really should change that. She’s got message forwarding clicked on, so all her messages are automatically relayed from here to your home email. And since you have email forwarding set up on your phone, you got it, too.’

Striker thought this over. ‘But I don’t get all her MyShrine messages, just this one.’

‘That’s because of the filter settings. They were altered the moment the email was sent. Which means that somehow he’s been playing with your settings.’

Striker frowned at that. It was all technical mumbo-jumbo to him. ‘Is this guy on her Friends’ list?’ he asked.