Chapter 26

Nobody noticed the pattern at first.

A missing college student in October.

A retired teacher in November.

A taxi driver in December.

Different neighborhoods. Different ages. Different lives.

The only thing they had in common was what the police found beside the bodies.

A tiny glass jar.

Inside each jar was a single human tooth.

The newspapers gave the killer a nickname before the detectives could stop them.

The Tooth Fairy.

People laughed at first. The name sounded ridiculous—something from children’s bedtime stories. Memes flooded social media. Halloween costumes appeared in store windows.

Then Detective Josia Marr visited the evidence locker.

Each jar had a label attached in careful handwriting.

Milk tooth.

Canine.

Molar.

And beneath each label:

“A gift for what was taken.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

No one had an answer.

Until the autopsy reports arrived.

Every victim had been missing teeth.

Not one or two.

All of them.

Extracted while they were still alive.

The city stopped laughing.

Children checked under their pillows before bed. Adults slept with the lights on. Dentists reported patients canceling appointments in droves.

Then Josia received a package.

No return address.

Inside was a child’s silver tooth box.

And a note.

‘Detective, you have forgotten your manners. Everyone knows you must leave a gift in exchange.’

Josia’s blood ran cold.

When she was eight years old, she’d lost her first tooth.

She remembered placing it beneath her pillow.

She remembered waking up to find nothing there.

No coin.

No note.

Just an open bedroom window.

She had told her parents she’d heard someone breathing in the dark.

They had laughed.

“You had a nightmare,” they’d said.

Hands trembling, Josia opened the tooth box.

Inside lay a tiny baby tooth.

Attached to it was another note.

‘I’ve kept it safe for thirty years.

I’ll collect the rest soon.’

That night, Josia locked every door in her apartment.

She shoved a chair beneath the knob.

She sat awake with her service weapon in her lap.

At 3:17 a.m., she heard it.

A soft tapping.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Not from the window.

Not from the hallway.

Not from the front door.

From beneath her bed.

Silence.

Then a cheerful whisper drifted through the darkness.

“You never said thank you.”

Josia couldn’t breathe.

The whisper came again.

Closer this time.

“You still owe me twenty-seven.”

Something smiled beneath the bed.

And very, very slowly…

It began counting her teeth……

“One…two…three…—”