Prologue

FBI Special Agent Foster watched the passengers disembark. He and his team were waiting for a specific individual.
That individual was my ex-girlfriend from college, Ginny B. (For the sake of her family, I will refer to her as Ginny B throughout this account.) A year-long FBI investigation had been focused on her.

The squad led by Agent Foster was prepared to make the arrest. I watched them as they readied themselves for their role. Others in the terminal, unaware of what was about to happen, anxiously waited to greet their loved ones. As the plane’s scheduled arrival time approached, the tension at the arrival gate grew.

What motivated me to be there? I wanted to help put an end to the string of serial killings committed by the monster who was once my girlfriend, Ginny B. I was tired of looking over my shoulder, fearing I might be her next victim. I was tired of learning that yet another friend had died a violent death. Above all, I was tired of living in constant fear.

Me? I’m James Whitcomb Mercer the Fourth, known simply as James Mercer to my friends and coworkers.

When I first met Ginny, she came across as a sweet, charming, and very attractive college coed. I was instantly drawn to her and quickly developed feelings. I guess you could say I was falling for her. Our relationship began like many others—holding hands, spending time together, declaring our love for each other. But it didn’t take long for things to fall apart.

Ginny revealed a side I hadn’t seen before. She became possessive, jealous, and prone to angry, even violent, outbursts. I soon began to fear being with her. And, as it turned out, I was right to be afraid.

Ginny B. was a narcissistic psychopath—chillingly similar to another infamous killer at large at the time: Ted Bundy. Even now, the thought of what might’ve happened if the two had ever met sends shivers down my spine. They both had the looks and charm to make people let their guard down.

Everything Ginny did had a purpose. It was always about her, and you didn’t matter. If you became her victim, her sentiment was, “You should never have crossed me.” She never expressed remorse.

Her possessive behavior and sudden rage stemmed from deep narcissism—something I experienced firsthand many times. When enraged, Ginny’s body would release an intense surge of adrenaline. She’d display superhuman strength and violent fury, like someone in a steroid-induced rage.

No one believed me at first. If they had, maybe fewer people would have died.

Ginny had a disturbing obsession with me. I think it was because I was the first guy to really notice her. She constantly reminded me of the “special bond” we shared. She was clear: she didn’t share. She would fight without hesitation to protect what she believed was hers.

In every way, Ginny fit the profile of a narcissistic psychopath. She felt little, if any, remorse. She was arrogant and consumed by jealousy. I believed she was capable of anything. One moment, she could act ruthlessly and without emotion; the next, she’d display a tender, almost childlike vulnerability. She’d often tell me, “You’re mine.” Ginny was terrifying—and the sooner she was locked away, the safer I would feel.

The flight’s passengers began pouring through the gate. I saw her and gave the signal we had agreed on.

Agent Foster motioned to the arrest squad. They rushed her, slamming her against the wall. In less than ten seconds, it was over. Before she realized what was happening, she was shackled and detained.

Ginny stood motionless as an agent read her rights and explained the charges. Her eyes found mine as they led her away—cold and lifeless. There was no soul behind them, and the sight gave me goosebumps.

I was relieved. It was over. She would finally be held accountable for the lives she had taken.

Agent Foster secured her baggage, then motioned for me to follow. We made our way to the main concourse, trying to blend in. People stood frozen, stunned by what they’d just witnessed. The FBI doesn’t make public arrests often.

I just wanted to get back to Minot—safely, and quickly.

As we exited the terminal, I reflected on the past eight months. I’d worked closely with the FBI to help bring a killer to justice. And I’d gained something else too: a new friend in Special Agent Lawrence Foster.

“How did you meet up with this lunatic in the first place, James?” he asked.

“Okay, let me explain,” I said. “I needed a date for a fraternity formal. I was a desperate junior, and she was an available freshman coed.”

Chapter 1 »