The Silent Hunt

Copyright © 2025 by Elle Gray

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Author's Note

Connect with Elle Gray

Also by Elle Gray

The Lamplighter, Gaslamp Quarter; San Diego, CA

“This week has been absolute crap, and I needed this tonight. So, thank you for dragging me out here,” Sonya declared as she raised her glass.

Her best friend, Misty Cauley, tapped her glass against Sonya’s. “Maybe next time, you’ll come willingly, and I won’t have to force you at gunpoint to come have a drink with me.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Sonya laughed and took a drink of her martini, feeling the ick of the week starting to drain away. No matter how tough her week had been, spending time with Misty always made her feel better about whatever was going on.

“Seriously, girl. You’re turning into a cave troll. It’s not good for you,” Misty said. “You need to get out of the house now and then.”

“I’m working sixty hours a week. By the time Friday rolls around, all I can even manage to do is have a glass of wine, a hot bath, and sleep.”

“I hear you. But you need to come hang with your girlies now and then, or you’ll go feral.”

Sonya laughed. “I think this job is going to make me feral.”

“So, what made your week so bad?” she asked. “That lawyer still giving you trouble?”

“When is he not giving me trouble?” Sonya groaned. “He is, without a doubt, the most arrogant, self-absorbed, self-entitled, narcissistic piece of garbage I’ve ever met.”

Misty laughed. “Tell me how you really feel, babe.”

She leaned back in her seat and groaned. Sonya had been working as a paralegal for a white shoe law firm for the last six months. It was good experience and would no doubt look stellar on a resume. But the lawyer she was assigned to, Clark Bonham, was insufferable. Demanding, demeaning, dismissive, and degrading. And those were his finer points.

“Is he saying rude things to you again?” Misty asked.

“Again? That would imply he ever stopped.”

“I thought you went to HR about it?”

Sonya grimaced and stared into her martini glass. Misty groaned.

“You didn’t talk to HR, did you?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I mean… I was going to, but I’ve only been there for six months, and I don’t want to rock the boat too hard—”

“Babe, if you don’t stand up for yourself, this clown is going to run roughshod over you like… forever. Do you really want to deal with that?”

“It’s not forever,” she said. “Once I get my law degree, I’ll move on and do something else. Until then, this is good experience, and working for this firm will put a big, gold star on my resume.”

“So, a gold star is worth putting up with this garbage?”

“No, the fact that the firm helps pay my tuition to law school is worth putting up with that garbage,” Sonya replied. “You know I wouldn’t be able to do it on my own.”

Misty frowned. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t think about that. It sucks.”

“Tell me about it,” Sonya said. “But at least I’m learning a lot that will help me down the road.”

“Seems to me the only thing you’re learning from your boss is how to be an ass.”

“He’s teaching me nothing. But I’m learning a lot from the other attorneys.”

“Well, I guess that’s a bonus.”

“It is,” she replied. “What about you? How are things at work for you?”

“Things are good. I don’t have a jerk for a boss, so that helps a lot.”

“Sounds like a dream to me.”

“Pretty close to it.”

Sonya laughed and took another drink of her martini as goosebumps ran up her arms and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

“I think you’ve got an admirer. Three o’clock,” Misty said.

“That would explain the sudden case of the creeps I just got.”

“He’s kind of hot. And God knows you could do with a man in your life. Or at least for a night,” Misty said with a giggle.

Sonya glanced to her three o’clock and spotted a man sitting at the far end of the bar staring at her. His chestnut-colored hair was stylishly tousled, and his eyes were a golden-hazel. He was probably about six feet tall with a trim, athletic physique and a strong jawline. She wasn’t wrong; he wasn’t a bad looking guy. She turned back to Misty and shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she said. “He seems off.”

Misty chuckled. “Don’t tell me you got the ick from all the way over here.”

“From all the way over here,” Sonya confirmed.

“Know what I think?”

“I think you’re going to tell me.”

She laughed. “I think you’re right.”

“All right, lay it on me.”

“I think you shut the door on everybody before you even give them a chance,” she said. “Because of Oliver.”

Sonya winced. “Ouch. That’s a low blow.”

“But I’m not wrong.”

That was the problem. She wasn’t wrong. After four—almost five—years together, she found him in bed with somebody else. He tried apologizing and chased her for six months after that, but she wasn’t having it. She was still trying to put the pieces of her heart back together. Instead, she had thrown herself into work and getting her law degree. She put all her focus into her career. Everything else would work itself out. Honestly, she didn’t really care one way or the other. A relationship was the last thing on her mind.

“It’s been over a year, Sonya. Don’t you think it’s time to get back out there?”

“I really don’t.”

“Babe—”

“Look, if I don’t open myself up, I don’t have to get hurt. That’s all there is to it.”

Misty pursed her lips but nodded. “But how long are you going to let that waste of space continue to affect you? It’s your life, not his. You’ve got so much to give.”

“I just don’t think I’m ready for a relationship.”

“Who said anything about a relationship? You can still have plenty of fun.”

Sonya swirled her martini around in her glass, the small tempest swirling around inside of it matching the one that still churned in her soul whenever she thought about Oliver. And, of course, whenever she thought about Oliver, the first image that flashed through her mind was coming home early and finding him in bed with that woman. It soured her on the idea of men entirely. But she filled that lonely hole inside with work. With learning. And with trying to become the best, most fearsome lawyer in all of San Diego.

“And that’s the last time I’ll give you that lecture,” Misty said with a grin. “Promise. I just… I hate seeing you lonely.”

“I’m not lonely. I’ve got you,” Sonya said with a radiant smile.

Misty laughed as she got to her feet. “Well, that much is true. But if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I must go powder my nose.”

“Oh, how fancy.”

“I am a fancy girl.”

Misty headed for the bathroom as Sonya sat back and finished her martini. As she set her glass down, she felt a presence behind her. Assuming it was the waitress, she turned to order another round and froze when she found the man who’d been staring now standing behind her. A wave of chills immediately washed over her. The man offered her a smile, then walked around the table, standing behind the chair Misty had just abandoned.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Donovan.”

“Hi.”

He motioned to the stool at the bar he’d been sitting on. “I was just sitting over there thinking about sending you a drink,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if I should or if it would seem a little too cheesy and old-fashioned. Do people even do that anymore?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Well, now that I’m standing here, how about I buy you a drink?”

He seemed nice and had a sweet smile, but there was still something about him that bothered her. Could it be her natural paranoia? Maybe. Could it simply be the residual pain of Oliver’s betrayal that was making her see the worst in any man who approached her? Probably. Whatever it was that was setting off the warning bells in the back of Sonya’s mind, she had to pay attention. Donovan may have been perfectly fine and perfectly nice, but her mind was telling her she wasn’t ready for anything… with anybody.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m just here to have a quiet drink with my friend,” she said.

“Well, she’s gone. Why don’t we—”

“She just went to the restroom. She’ll be back in a minute.”

He frowned. “Okay, that’s cool. Well, can I get your number? Maybe we can get together for a drink another time?”

She sighed. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I’m just not interested.”

He chuckled. “But you don’t even know me.”

“The fact that you keep pressing me after I said no tells me all I need to know.”

His expression darkened. “I just want to buy you a drink and get to know you a little bit. Why are you being such a bit—”

“Go away,” she said, raising her voice. “I’m not interested in you. I don’t want to have a drink with you. I want you to leave me alone!”

He looked around, his eyes wide, not appreciating the attention she was drawing to them as heads began turning their way. He turned and offered her his most charming smile, but it was too late. She saw what really lurked under his mask. It confirmed that she’d made the right decision to listen to her instincts about him.

“Please leave me alone,” she said, softer this time.

People sitting nearby were still looking at them; Donovan cleared his throat, then ducked his head and quickly left the bar. A wave of relief washing over her, Sonya sat back in her chair and signaled the waitress for another round.

After a few more drinks with Misty—she wasn’t going to let one creep ruin her night—Sonya took a rideshare home. By the time she made it to her door, she was only just starting to come down from her buzz. She hadn’t overindulged, which was good. She had a lot to do tomorrow, and spending the day with a blinding hangover headache was not how she’d wanted to do it.

Sonya unlocked her door and managed to drop her keys before making it inside. She giggled to herself as she picked them up. Okay, maybe she hadn’t come down from her buzz entirely just yet. Shaking her head and laughing at herself, she dropped her keys in her bag, then locked the door behind her. The minute she did, though, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and her heart began to race. The pleasant haze of her night out quickly evaporated as her lizard brain took over. Something was wrong.

Trying to pull her can of pepper spray from her bag, she fumbled with it, then dropped her bag entirely. It hit the wooden floor with a hard thud, and the can rolled away.

“Dammit,” she muttered.

Her heart thundering in her ears and her stomach churning, she dropped to her knees and groped around in the dark, searching for her fallen can. As she did, she silently cursed herself for not being clear enough of mind to flip on the lights before she did. Sonya frantically searched for her pepper spray in the darkness as a feeling like an army of ants crawled across her skin.

The creak of a floorboard made her stop. Tears stung her eyes as her heart beat so hard it felt like it might burst from her chest. Swallowing hard, Sonya raised her head and felt a cold flood of fear wash over her as her eyes fell on the tall, dark figure standing in front of her.

“Welcome home, Sonya,” he said.

Office of Unit Chief Wilder, The Chapel, Industrial District; Seattle, WA

“I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation,” Astra says. “This can’t be what it looks like.”

“I want to believe you’re right. But I haven’t been able to get ahold of Kit. And I haven’t been able to get ahold of her handler either.”

Astra stands behind my desk looking at the photo of Kit with Inez Arias who, thanks to us, is the new leader of the Arias drug cartel. Inez worked from the shadows and manipulated the events that led us to killing her brother Diego and arresting her other brother, Santiago, both of whom had been on the DEA’s radar for quite some time. She’d pulled the strings that let her assume the sudden power void at the top of the cartel.

And my baby sister Kit is standing right beside her.

“Where did you get this picture?” Astra asks.

“Sonny sent it to me.”

Astra walks around to the other side of my desk and drops into the chair. She sits back and crosses her legs, a frown playing across her lips as she studies me closely.

“How long have you been sitting on it?” she asks.

“A few days,” I admit.

“Does he—”

“No. He has no idea who she is other than Inez’s top sicario,” I say. “Bodies are dropping down there. Inez is cleaning house and putting her brothers’ loyalists in the ground. Sonny is convinced Kit’s the one doing the dirty work.”

“I doubt that.”

“So do I,” I say. “But she had to know we were down there, going after the Arias brothers. Why didn’t she contact me?”

“What if she did?”

“What do you mean?”

“Our mystery caller? What if she was the one feeding us the intel about the Arias brothers’ movements?” Astra asks. “I mean, it makes sense. The fact that our mystery friend knew about our cover IDs, and the fact that Rick and Nina were never able to track the source of the server hack… it all adds up, if you ask me. If anyone would be able to get under our skin like that, it would be Kit.”

I sit back in my chair and blow out a long breath. “Honestly, I’m not sure that makes it better,” I say. “In fact, I think that makes it worse.”

“How so?”

“If she is our unidentified informant, then she was clearing the field for Inez. And she did it without giving us a heads up—without telling us she had something in play.”

Astra grimaces as she thinks about it. “Yeah, I admit that’s bad. But there has to be a reason. A good reason. Your sister isn’t just going to go off, join some cartel, and start killing people. That’s just not her.”

I wince at her words. I would love to be able to agree with her unequivocally. And I do… mostly. But Kit has had a really rough road and has endured some traumas I couldn’t even begin to imagine. She used to kill for a brutal organization. Is it outside the realm of possibility that she endured some other trauma out in the field for the CIA that made her slip back into her old ways? It’s really not.

Any number of things might have happened to her out there in the field that could have triggered something terrible inside her—something that forced her to revert to her more… feral state. And that’s what scares me. It’s one of the myriad reasons I never wanted her to do any kind of private contract work for the CIA to begin with. The Agency sees her as an asset… sees her skill set as something to be used. Worse, they see her as disposable when she’s no longer useful to them.

I tried to talk her out of it, but Kit would have none of it. She was bound and determined to do the work, desperate to atone for the things she did when she was working for the Thirteen. I’ve tried to tell her that’s not how it works—that she won’t undo the bad things she did—things she had no choice to do if she wanted to survive. It wasn’t like she could have said no even if she’d wanted to. They would have killed her before she even got the word out of her mouth.

But she’s convinced she can somehow balance the karmic scales by doing what the Agency deems to be good works. The CIA and I often differ on the definition of the word “good.” Killing, be it wrapped in a flag and called patriotic, is still killing. And as long as men—often amoral men—with a political, financial, or ideological agenda are the ones determining what is and isn’t good, I’ll always be at odds with them over the things they have Kit doing.

“Listen, I think if Kit were off the reservation here and doing something bad, you would have heard from her handler,” Astra offers.

“I’m not sure I would have. You know how secretive the idiots at the Agency are.”

She pursed her lips. I know she’s trying to give me some bit of hope that my sister hasn’t gone rogue. And maybe she’s right. Dr. Azar says I’m prone to catastrophizing, especially when it comes to my sister—residual guilt about not being able to protect her when she was abducted. And perhaps that’s what I’m doing here.

But the fact that Kit didn’t tip us off that she’s running a game on Inez, didn’t tell us she was our mystery informant—if in fact she was—and helped position us to take the Arias brothers off the board concerns me. A lot. She manipulated us without telling me. That’s a problem.

“I still think if there was a real problem with Kit, her handler would be at your door demanding you send up a flare and get in touch with her,” Astra insists.

“Yeah. Maybe so.”

The only thing I know about Kit’s new handler is that his name is Beck, and his lips are sealed tighter than Fort Knox. Kit hasn’t told me much about him other than she respects him and has learned a great deal from him. She hasn’t exactly been transparent about her gig. I know she can’t. Her job requires her to keep things to herself. But none of that makes me feel any better about her gallivanting around the world, doing whatever the Agency feels is necessary.

“I know you’re concerned, but I just really can’t see Kit going rogue,” Astra says.

“I can’t either,” I tell her. “But… sometimes Kit has her own agenda. She does things her way, and most of the time, I don’t understand what she’s doing.”

“Try not to worry too much until you have a reason to worry,” she says. “Kit doesn’t just do things for no reason. If there really was trouble, the Agency would get in contact with you. Because you’re the only one who can get to her.”

“Yeah. Probably,” I say. “You’re probably right.”

“Until then, keep sending up flares. Hopefully, she’ll respond.”

I nod. “Yeah. I will. Thanks, Astra.”

“Hey, I got your back,” she says with a smile. “Always.”

“I have no idea what I’d do without you here to talk me off the ledge.”

“Probably drive yourself insane and do something horribly rash.”

I laugh. “Yeah, probably.”

What she says makes sense, and I know I just need to relax. Logically speaking, if there were a problem, somebody would have contacted me… if for no other reason than to see if I’m harboring Kit. I close my eyes and blow out a breath, doing my best to steady myself. After silently counting to ten, I open my eyes again.

“You ready?” Astra asks.

“I’m ready.”

“Okay, let’s get to it.”

The Chapel, SNAP Team HQ, Industrial District; Seattle, WA

“Agent Weissman and tech specialist Scanlon left for Michigan this morning,” Opal reports.

“Are you ever going to loosen up and just call them Mo and Rick?” Astra asks with a wink.

Opal doesn’t take the bait. She’s even stiffer than Mo when she first came to the unit in what feels like another lifetime. But we eventually got Mo to loosen up and be part of our team, so I’m hopeful that Opal will follow a similar trajectory. It just might take a bit longer. The woman is a bigger stickler for the rules and protocol than our old SAC, Bomani Ayad. And that man was usually stiffer than a shirt that had been dipped in pure starch.

“I talked to Mo last night, and that woman was freakishly excited to go chase this white-collar case,” Paige says. “I’ve never seen somebody as thrilled to go stare at spreadsheets as she was. It was kind of unsettling, really.”

“Now, now, we all have our kinks, Agent Boyle. Don’t shame Mo for having hers just because they’re not yours,” Astra teases.

Paige laughs. Opal doesn’t. The woman doesn’t even crack a smile.

“Rick couldn’t have been any less excited than if you’d told him he was going to get a root canal,” Nina chirps. “Can’t really say I blame him. I’m just glad he drew the short straw on this one.”

“White collar cases are no less important than any other case we handle, and it takes a special kind of person to be successful at them,” Opal chides her.

“That’s true. But they’re still boring as heck. Looking at spreadsheets and financial statements all day would make my head hurt,” Nina says with a grin.

“She’s got a point,” Astra says. “Both things can be true.”

Opal sniffs and stands at the head of the table rigidly, clearly disapproving of either the banter or our disdain for white collar cases.

“Mo is one of the best I’ve ever seen at looking at all those lines of finance-related stuff and picking out the patterns,” I say. “She is definitely a special kind of agent like that.”

“Yeah, but she still puked at her first crime scene,” Astra adds.

Opal’s small smile of approval at my words turns into a frown in record time. I laugh and shake my head. Astra is bound and determined to crack what she calls the woman’s “crusty candy shell” and get through to her “ooey-gooey center.” But the expression on her face makes me wonder if she actually has one of those.

“All right, enough fun and games,” I say, putting Opal out of her misery. “What do you have on the lineup for us?”

A small expression of relief flashes across her face as we shift from banter to business. She picks up a stack of files and starts handing them out.

“Okay, first, we have bank robberies in New Jersey,” she begins.

“How many?” I ask.

“Two so far,” she responds. “Very professional crew. They’re in and out quickly with what’s being described as military precision.”

“Casualties?” Astra asks.

“None yet,” she answers. “They seem to be working hard to avoid unnecessary violence.”

Bank robberies are never a good thing. But the fact that the crew pulling the heists seems to be avoiding creating casualties makes it a little less of a priority in my mind. It might change if they start escalating, but at the moment, I think our resources can be better used elsewhere.

“Send that one to the local field office. I think it makes more sense for them to handle it,” I tell her. “What else do we have?”

“There’s a series of art heists in Dallas—”

“Next,” Astra says.

“A series of home invasion robberies in Knoxville, Tennessee,” she says. “Three so far. Homeowners have been roughed up. The Chief of Police there has asked for our involvement.”

“Pretty sure the Tennessee Bureau of Investigations would take offense if we went nosing around in their turf,” I say. “Flag that one, Opal. Contact the TBI and point them at it. If they’re not interested, keep it up on our board.”

“Will do,” she replies. “Next up, we have a captain down in the San Diego PD asking us to look at a series of violent rapes—”

“How many?” I ask.

“Nine in the last thirteen months,” she responds. “The attacker just crossed the line over into his first murder.”

“So, he’s escalating,” Paige says.

“Looks like it,” I reply. “Did they send you the case files?”

“They did.”

“All right, let’s get a look at them.”

As Opal begins laying out the file, my cell phone buzzes with an incoming call. I quickly check the ID and frown when I see that it’s Sonny and get to my feet.

“I need to take this,” I say and connect the call. “Hang on.”

Astra raises her eyebrow, an expression of mild concern on her face as I step away and hustle through the bullpen to my office. Closing the door behind me, I cross to my desk and perch on the edge of it.

“Hey,” I say. “How are you?”

“Good, good,” he says with that slow drawl that does inappropriate things to me. “I was just thinkin’ about you.”

“Yeah? Me too.”

His chuckle is a deep but syrupy-sweet rumble that even over the phone line somehow manages to send a rush of chills through me.

“Is that so?” he asks.

“Not really,” I reply with a wry chuckle. “We were just discussing our next case.”

“And what is that going to be?”

“Serial rapist turned murderer.”

“Wow. Well, I’m glad you weren’t thinkin’ of me then, darlin’. Might be a little awkward next time we see each other, if that’s what’s runnin’ around in your head.”

I laugh softly as I look through my office windows to the bullpen beyond. Opal is holding court, her expression serious as she is presumably going over the case with everybody. I’m going to have to have Astra brief me on the plane to San Diego.

“And when are we going to see each other again?” I ask.

“That’s a good question.”

“We’re about to head to San Diego. Where are you?”

“Oklahoma.”

“Oh, lucky you.”

He chuckles. “It’s not so bad.”

“Says you. I’ve driven through that state, and that was enough for me.”

“You’re such a big-city girl.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Nah. Not at all,” he replies, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” I say and frown.

I honestly don’t know the last time I told somebody I missed them and actually meant it. I’ve practically made being emotionally unavailable an art form. But when it comes to Sonny, it’s true. Which, given that I thought he was an arrogant, smarmy hick the first time I met him, makes this all that much more shocking for me. This whole relationship has been one surprise after another, truth be told. But he really seems to get me. He accepts me for who I am and respects my boundaries. He’s a rare man.

I’m sure I’m going to screw this whole thing up at some point. It seems almost inevitable. I can’t allow myself to have nice things, apparently. Dr. Azar thinks I enjoy sabotaging things in my life. On that point, we disagree. I don’t enjoy it. I just can’t seem to stop myself from lighting the fuse, then watching it all blow up. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. All my relationships have imploded spectacularly. Which is one reason I tend to avoid romantic entanglements like the plague.

I’m trying to change. I’m doing the work. That’s not to say Sonny is the one. We have a good time, have a good rapport, and we understand each other on levels I’m not used to understanding another person—or having them understand me. I can’t say what the future holds for us, if anything at all. But with him, I feel safe enough to try something new—being open and vulnerable with somebody. I’m doing all I can to keep from lighting the fuse that will lead to a Hiroshima-type explosion. And on that count, so far, so good.

“I do have a question for you,” he says.

The tone in his voice makes the bottom fall out of my stomach, and I know immediately what he’s going to ask. I swallow the lump in my throat and try to sound casual.

“Sure,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Inez’s new sicario,” he says. “You get an ID on her yet?”

Of course. It’s my little sister, the highly trained international assassin turned CIA operative, running around dropping bodies.

“Not yet,” I tell him.

The lie flows so smoothly from my mouth that I grimace in shame. Worse, I feel like I’m holding the match just over the fuse that will set off a twenty-megaton blast. Honesty is important to both Sonny and me, and here I am just out here spouting lies as easily as I’d rattle off my own name. I hate that I can lie so easily. I hate that I can lie so easily to him even more.

“We don’t have anything in the DEA databases that matches her,” he says, more to himself than to me. “It’s not often you see a cartel boss running with a head sicario who’s white.”

“What makes you think she’s the head sicario?” I ask weakly.

“Chatter. We’ve heard a lot about this woman. Nothing useful or anything we can identify her with, but she’s got people running scared,” he replies. “Whoever she is, she’s highly trained. I’m thinking she’s probably an operator out of Eastern Europe somewhere.”

“Yeah, maybe. Anyway, I’ll keep my ear to the ground and let you know if I hear anything,” I reply, suddenly eager to get off the phone. “I need to get back to this briefing so we can pack up and hit the road soon.”

“Copy that,” he says. “No rest for the wicked.”

“Definitely not,” I tell him. “Sorry. I’d really love to talk some more.”

“Hey, it’s the life we signed up for. You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t as dedicated to the job as you are,” he said. “And I love that about you.”

His words make me cringe. I’m a liar. I definitely don’t deserve any sort of love or admiration from this man. If I had an ounce of integrity, I’d either cop to the lie or break things off with him rather than continue lying to his face.

“Hopefully we can carve out a little time to get together soon,” I say, proving that I don’t, in fact, have a single ounce of integrity in my entire body.

“I’d like that,” he purrs. “I’d like it a lot.”

“Then we’re going to have to make it happen.”

“Sounds good to me,” he says. “Give me a call from San Diego.”

“I’ll do that,” I say. “Talk soon.”

“Talk soon.”

I click off the call and drop the phone on my desk, then bury my face in my hands, disgusted with myself. I rake my fingers through my hair and draw a deep breath, silently count to ten, then let it out again, my mind spinning with a thousand justifications for lying to Sonny. The only one that sticks is that Inez’s new sicario is my little sister, and the last thing I’m going to do is to turn the dogs of the DEA on her and let them hunt her down.

It’s not a great reason for lying to him. It’s not even a good one. But it’s the only one I’ve got, and I am sticking to it. I won’t give my sister up. Not until I’ve had a chance to talk to her and figure out what the hell is going on.

San Diego Police Department, Sex Crimes Unit; San Diego, CA

“You must be Chief Wilder,” says the large, burly man as he extends his hand. “I’m Captain Luke Hayes—Luke. I’m in charge of the Sex Crimes Unit.”

“Blake, please,” I say and shake his hand. “This is SSA Astra Russo, Special Agent Paige Boyle, and tech specialist Nina Alvarado.”

“Pleasure to meet you all. And thank you for coming out. I appreciate the assistance,” he says as he shakes hands with everybody.

“Of course,” I reply. “We’re glad to help.”

A couple inches taller than me, Luke Hayes is twice as wide. Broad-shouldered and barrel-chested with thick arms, he’s athletic and nimble on his feet. He’s got a bit of a belly, but it seems more of a bodybuilder type. I’m not much of a sports girl, but with his fire hydrant stature, I’m going to guess he played offensive line on his college football team.

He wears his sandy brown hair in a crew cut, and there are fine lines at the corners of his milk chocolate brown eyes. His skin is golden, he obviously spends a lot of time in the sun, and although he’s soft spoken, he carries himself with confidence. I can tell he’s a man who’s got a quiet intelligence and doesn’t miss much, and I’d be willing to bet that a lot of people underestimate him simply because he doesn’t have the typical bravado and swagger I see in a lot of cops.

“All right, well, I got the conference room set up like you wanted,” he says. “Got the whiteboards and everything.”

“Terrific. I appreciate you getting that set up.”

He nods. “Of course. Follow me.”

We walk through the bullpen of their bureau, and I can feel the eyes on us. Some of them curious, some of them hostile. Not everybody likes the feds rolling in and running roughshod through their cases. I understand that. But their feelings are the least of my problems right now given that we’re dealing with a serial rapist who’s getting a taste for murder.

Hayes leads us down a long corridor to what seems like a little-used conference room at the back of the bureau. The heavy scent of bleach and other cleaning agents tell me he’s recently had it sanitized, which I appreciate. A long table that’s seen some use over the years runs down the middle of the room; its surface is nicked, scarred, and dotted with ghostly stains of coffee cups past. A pair of whiteboards stands at the front of the room, the surfaces slightly marred with nicks, chips, and the faint, fading lines of years’ worth of black markers.

“I hope this is suitable,” Hayes says.

“It’s perfect,” I respond. “Thank you, Captain.”

My team starts taking their spots at the table and getting themselves set up. As I move to my seat, two people enter, one man and one woman. And judging by the gold shields clipped to their belts and sour expressions on their faces, I’m guessing they’re the primary detectives on the case.

“What the hell is this?” asks the man.

Six-two with a lean, trim frame, the man radiates authority and bristles with anger. His short black hair is wavy, his cheeks and chin are covered with stylish scruff, and his blue eyes are icy and calculating. The sleeves of his blue Oxford are rolled up, revealing a pattern of colorful tattoos underneath. He walks past me with a cold glare, his jaw flexing as he grits his teeth, leaving a healthy dusting of a musky, earthy cologne in his wake.

“Cap,” he says, holding his arms out at his sides. “What the hell?”

“Chief Wilder, these are Detectives Nick McCoy and Sabrina Rhodes. They’re the primaries on the case,” Hayes says. “Detectives, this is Unit Chief Blake Wilder and her team. I’ll leave you all to make the introductions.”

McCoy turns to me with a scowl. “Appreciate you coming down here from—wherever you came from—but we’re good. We got this.”

I hold my hands up to my chest, palms facing him. “We’re just here to help, Detective.”

“We don’t need any help.”

“Eight rapes and now one rape-murder over the last thirteen months, and you have no leads?” Hayes says. “Yeah. You two need help.”

Rhodes shifts on her feet and frowns. Detective Rhodes is a few inches shorter than my five-nine frame, has onyx-colored hair, and eyes that shine like chips of cobalt. She has a strong jaw but otherwise delicate features. She’s athletic and trim and is dressed impeccably in a black pantsuit with a sapphire blue blouse that makes her eyes pop. And although her frown makes it clear she doesn’t care for our presence any more than her partner does, she’s far less stridently vocal about it.

“Cap, we’re working as hard as we can—”

“And thirteen months later, we haven’t moved off the starting block. The public is terrified, the Chief is breathing down my neck, and now our rapist has turned into a murderer,” Hayes says, his voice low and gruff. “We need to lean in to every resource available to us, and Chief Wilder’s team is a very solid, experienced, and successful resource.”

Astra and I exchange a glance as the air in the room around us grows thicker than syrup and crackles with tension. McCoy glares at me, but Rhodes’s eyes remain fixed on the floor.

Hayes leans closer to his detective. “We need a result—”

“And we’re going to get you one, Cap.”

“When, McCoy? When exactly are you going to get me a result?”

“We just need time—”

“You’re out of time,” Hayes snapped.

“Cap—”

“My call. Not yours,” Hayes cut him off. “Work with Chief Wilder and her team. And you will show them the proper respect, Detective. If I hear otherwise, I’ll yank you off this case faster than you can say your own name. Am I clear?”

McCoy slips his hands into his pockets and lets his gaze fall to the floor. His face is tight and the frown on his lips pulls so low, it makes the fine lines around his eyes stand out.

“Detective,” Hayes repeats. “If this doesn’t work for you, I’m happy enough to pull you now and let Detective Rhodes be primary.”

McCoy bristles, his pride obviously wounded very deeply.

“I understand your reticence, Detective,” I say. “I’m not unsympathetic to how you’re feeling right now. But we’re not here to take control of your case. We just want to lend our expertise and get this monster off the streets. That’s all.”

“And take all the credit,” he grumbles.

It’s my turn to bristle, and I have to bite back the scathing reply that sits on the tip of my tongue. The fact that his biggest concern is who gets the credit for a bust tells me quite a bit about the man. And none of it is flattering. But it’s not something we’re not used to. Cops, be they local or federal, are very conscious of their reputations and climbing the ladder. And unfortunately, the way they do that, is by having their name attached to closed cases.

“You make the collar; you get the credit,” I tell him. “We’re just here to help.”

“We good, McCoy?” Hayes grumbles.

“Yeah, Cap,” he responds hesitantly. “We’re good.”

“See that you are, Detective.”

Hayes stares at his detective for a long moment, then turns and gives me a nod before striding out of the room. Tension and awkwardness fill the space in his wake, and for several long moments, nobody speaks a word. I clear my throat.

“Detectives, believe me when I say our being here has nothing to do with your job performance. It’s no reflection on you,” I tell them. “We just want to help. We’ve got a lot of experience with these kinds of things and want to help you put this monster behind bars. That’s it. So, since we’re stuck together, we might as well work together. Right?”

McCoy glares at me sourly. My message has clearly not hit the mark, and he’s going to hold on to his petty grudge to the last. It’s fine. We’ve worked with cops like McCoy before. Bad attitudes and resentment are all we get from them. Which means, we can’t really count on him for much of anything. I just need to make sure we all keep our cool when he goes off on us for one thing or another, which is inevitable. And by we, I mostly mean me.

I decide to throw one last olive branch at him. “Honestly, Detective. Credit goes to you once we close this case. Look into my team and you’ll see that’s how we operate. We’re not here for glory. We’re here to be police. That’s it.”

It’s true. My unit isn’t one that gets our photos in the papers or prime-time true crime docs. If we do our job right, most people don’t even know we’re here. Credit and glory isn’t what we’re about. That’s not to say we don’t get our share of recognition. But it’s internal, kept within the walls of the Bureau. We’ve racked up medals and commendations galore.

Most of the awards I’ve received sit in a box in my condo gathering dust. That’s not why I do this work. And that is most certainly not my team’s mission or overriding focus. We do this work to put bad guys in cells and monsters back in their cages. To keep people safe.

“Are we good?” I ask.

“Do we have any choice?” McCoy finally grunts.

“We don’t. So, what do you say we try to get along and close this case together?”

“Whatever.”

It’s about as close to an agreeable resolution as I’m going to get from the man. It’s a titanic effort to keep from rolling my eyes and putting a smile I hope is in the general neighborhood of pleasant on my face, but I somehow manage it.

“All right then,” I say. “Detective Rhodes, will you brief Agent Boyle on the status of your investigation?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replies politely.

“Just Blake. Please.”

“Nina, get yourself set up and start digging into our victims. I want to know everything there is to know about them—”

“We’ve already run the vics,” McCoy snaps.

“And I appreciate that, Detective. But Nina is pretty skilled at ferreting out information most people can’t. I’d like her to take a closer look—”

He scoffs. “And you say you’re not here to double-check my work, huh?”

“This isn’t personal—”

“Right.”

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough that it makes me wince. I’m doing exactly what I warned myself to avoid the moment McCoy swept in here with a scowl on his face—getting drawn into a pissing match.

“Detective McCoy, would you mind taking Astra and me out to the latest crime scene?” I ask, trying to sound pleasant. “We’d like to take a look at—”

He gives us a sour expression, then pulls out his notebook and scribbles something down. McCoy tears the page out and thrusts it into my hands.

“That’s the address,” he growls. “Knock yourself out, sweetheart.”

And with that, he storms out of the conference room. The blood in my veins feels like it’s boiling. Nothing irritates me more than somebody calling me something like “sweetheart.” His partner offers us a strained but apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry about him. He’s just… this case is really getting under his skin. This one’s been tough on us all,” she explains. “It’s really not you. It’s him.”

Astra chuckles. “I had a boyfriend tell me that once.”

Detective Rhodes laughs softly, and some bit of tension in the room ebbs. I can tell she’s not thrilled with a relief team being called in, but she seems a little more open-minded than her partner and more willing to accept the help.

“Would you like me to take you out to the crime scene?” she asks. “I can—”

“No, it’s all right. We’ve got the address. We can find our way,” I respond. “If you’d just get Paige and Nina up to speed, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

I turn to Astra. “Ready?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Hyder Residence, North Park District; San Diego, CA

Astra pulls the Yukon to a stop at the curb in front of the quaint, Craftsman-style bungalow. The Hyder house is hunter green with white trim. A wide porch spans the front of the house with white columns that support a steepled, brown-shingled roof. Flowering bushes sit on either side of the short staircase that leads to the porch and the front door. A tall tree stands just inside the white picket fence that encloses the neatly trimmed yard.

“I could see myself living in a place like this,” Astra says.

“You could see yourself living anywhere,” I reply.

She laughs as we get out of the Yukon, and I take a moment to slip my messenger bag over my shoulders as I look up and down the quiet, tree-lined street. All the houses are well maintained and clean. There are high-end cars in almost every driveway and other signs of affluence. What I don’t see is evidence there are a lot of children in the area: no bikes or toys scattered in the yard, no “Baby on Board” stickers in the car windows, or other trappings of family life.

The neighborhood itself is set in the middle of San Diego’s hipster district, which is culturally diverse and noted for its plethora of boutique Mom-and-Pop shops, art galleries, microbreweries, dive bars, and artistic endeavors. Perhaps because of this younger, edgier vibe, North Park is home to many of the city’s young professionals, many of whom haven’t yet committed themselves to trading in their party life for family life.

“It’s a cute neighborhood,” I finally admit. “Maybe a bit noisy.”

“God, you’re getting old.”

We open the gate in the small fence and head up the walk. Remnants of yellow crime scene tape on the columns still flutter in a soft breeze that carries the scent of the ocean. The San Diego PD seal is still on the door, which is a good sign. The crime scene hasn’t yet been corrupted. Pulling a small, black Spyderco blade out of her pocket, Astra unfolds the blade, then cuts through the seal and opens the door.

I learned long ago that even if a scene looks secure, you take nothing for granted. So, with my hand near the butt of my weapon, I nudge the door open and step inside, quickly scanning the area around me. Astra closes her knife with a snap and steps in after me, gripping the butt of her weapon as she moves to my left. Shards of glass crunch beneath our boots as we cross the hardwood floor of the entryway.

“Looks clear,” she says.

“Let’s check the back rooms.”

“Copy that.”

I slowly head deeper into the house. Astra’s hand is on my shoulder as she walks behind me and we move down the narrow hallway, looking in each of the three rooms—two bedrooms and an office. All the rooms are empty.

“Clear,” I report.

“Clear,” she echoes from the room across the hall.

We walk back out to the living room and look around. Other than the mess left behind by the attack—the broken glass in the entryway and a few things knocked off the small table beside the front door—the place is immaculate. It’s so clean it almost feels like this is a model home realtors show and nobody actually lives here. Other than a few pictures of Sonya Hyder and her friends sitting on a bookshelf, I don’t see many other personal flourishes.

The furniture is nice, but hardly designer. Everything looks like it’s fresh out of a box from IKEA. Nothing is expensive, but it’s functional. The rugs are imitation Persians, and the art on the walls is bland and decidedly impersonal. It’s as if she went out of her way to make this place as generic and vanilla as she could. Astra gestures to a box that’s filled with her framed diplomas and academic awards sitting beside the walnut-colored bookcase.

“Looks like you two have a lot in common,” she says.

I flash her a grin. “Shut it.”

I set my messenger bag down on the table in the small dining room and pull out the case file Detective Rhodes gave me on the way out the door. Flipping it open, I scan the first few pages just to familiarize myself with the reports generated on the Hyder murder. There isn’t much so far. Carrying it with me, I make a circuit through the front room, looking at the windows closely.

“They say they never found a point of entry. It wasn’t forced,” I say.

“In here,” Astra calls.

Pulling a pair of black nitrile gloves out of my pocket, I snap them on as I walk into the kitchen. Already gloved up, Astra has the back door open and is squatting down, staring closely at the handle and lock.

“Pretty flimsy lock,” she says. “Probably wouldn’t be too difficult to pick.”

“Or she knew her killer and let him in.”

“That’s a possibility too. But do you get the sense this is a girl who entertains much?”

“No,” I respond. “This place doesn’t exactly scream party central.”

“We should check her phone. See if she was on any social or dating apps.”

“We’ll have Nina get on that,” I say as I flip through the file’s pages. “We also need to find her friends. I’m not seeing any names in this file other than Misty Cauley, who found Hyder. I have no idea if any of her other friends were interviewed.”

“We don’t know if she had any other friends.”

I chuckle. “Fair point. But those pictures out on the bookcase tell me she’s got at least one or two people in her life. Cauley is her best friend, the report says, but her statement is thin.”

Astra takes the file from me and flips through the pages, tsking and grumbling under her breath as she does. She snaps it closed and looks up.

“Jesus,” she growls. “Did McCoy even do any investigating?”

“The scarcity of anything in that file tells me it was cursory at best.”

“And he has the gall to get pissed at us for coming in to help?”

I shrug. “I’m right there with you. But now I understand why Rhodes looked ashamed when she gave me the file as we were leaving.”

“As well she should.”

“To be fair, I don’t think this is her fault. McCoy is the primary,” I say. “Rhodes is a junior detective. I don’t think she’s had her shield all that long, so she answers to him.”

“Which means she’s never going to contradict him.”

“Right.”

“Wonderful.”

“I want to see the crime scene,” I say and walk out of the kitchen.

There’s a trail of broken pieces of glass that lead from the entryway down the hall to the master bedroom. Hyder’s room is in shambles. The television has been knocked off the dresser and is laying in pieces on the floor and picture frames and other knickknacks have been swept off the shelves. The bedding is mostly on the floor, the sheets and comforter twisted and balled up. There are large dark bloodstains on the mattress and the sheets. I notice there is also some spatter and long, scarlet streaks on the wall above the bed.

Unlike the other rooms in the house, this one is filled with Hyder’s personal flourishes. Also, unlike the other rooms, this one is an absolute wreck. It doesn’t look like there is a thing in here that’s been untouched and very little left unbroken. It looks like there was a tremendous struggle in her bedroom, but even still, a lot of the damage is unnecessary. It’s as if the killer took delight in destroying everything he could get his hands on… including Sonya Hyder herself.

“Looks like she put up a hell of a fight in here,” Astra mutters.

“She nested in here,” I say as I survey the wreckage. “This is where she felt safest.”

Astra frowned. “And he took that from her. That feels intentional.”

“Agreed,” I say.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking it started in the entryway. He accosted her there… probably when she first came through,” I answer. “Then he dragged her down the hall and threw her in here. This is where he assaulted and killed her.”

“Sounds right,” she says soberly. “Do we have a COD yet?”

“Cause of death is not in the file. Autopsy may not be done yet,” I say. “We’ll need to go see the body and talk to the coroner.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

I stand near the door and study the room, my gaze lingering on the streaks of blood that mar the wall as a thousand thoughts ricochet through my head.

“Why now? What made him escalate to murder?” I ponder.

“Might just be that raping these women wasn’t enough anymore. He needed something more to get that satisfaction he wanted.”

“Could be. But the percentage of serial rapists who become murderers is relatively low,” I say. “Most of the time, they don’t kill. Not without some sort of trigger.”

Astra gestures to the room. “What if because Sonya fought back—and judging by the look of this room, she fought hard—that’s what set him off? What if he didn’t intend to kill her but she was fighting and it all just got away from him?”

The blood on the bed and wall holds my attention. Astra is probably right. Everything she’s saying makes sense. Psychologically speaking, the theory is sound and is one I’ve already considered. But something is nagging at me. I can’t say what it is, but it’s irritating me like a splinter stuck just beneath my skin.

“Maybe,” I say. “We need to see the photos of the other scenes.”

“Agreed.”

“Let’s head back to the war room.”

We back out of Hyder’s house, closing the door behind us. I take a moment to put another seal over the door, this one with an FBI logo on it. Given the paltry work Detective McCoy seems to have done on the case, we may not be done with the crime scene yet, so I don’t want to risk releasing it and having it contaminated. I’ve still got plenty of questions—and there are likely a host of questions I haven’t even thought of yet—and there may still be answers in that house.

County of San Diego Medical Examiner’s Office; San Diego, CA

Like most medical examiner’s offices in counties around the country, San Diego’s isn’t anything special. Made primarily of yellow and white tiles and tinted glass, the design of the building is modern and uninspiring. But then, given what happens inside buildings like this, the powers that be try to avoid drawing attention to it. Better to work in anonymity.

Before heading back to our borrowed war room, Astra and I decide to stop by the ME’s office first just to check in and see if we can get any information on Sonya Hyder. Glass doors bearing the San Diego County seal slide open as we approach, and we step into a large lobby area. The walls are a soothing sand color and bear artistic photos of the city. Silk plants stand in the corners, and half a dozen cushioned chairs, worn and nicked, stand against the wall to our right. None of them are occupied.

We approach a chest-high counter that runs the width of the lobby on the wall across from the doors. A bored-looking woman with bleach-blonde hair and dull hazel eyes looks up, the corners of her mouth twitching with a frown as she pops her gum. She seems to be peeved that we interrupted her game of Candy Crush. With a loud sigh, she sets her phone down and plasters on a smile that doesn’t come close to approaching friendly. It looks closer to sickly, if anything.

“Help you?” she asks.

“We need to talk to the ME.”

“He’s in meetings downtown all day. Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all.

Astra and I badge the woman, which does nothing to impress her. She’s obviously more interested in getting back to her game than helping us. The woman snaps and pops her gum as she stares at us, her expression completely blank.

“Unit Chief Wilder and SSA Russo. FBI,” I say.

“Okay?” she asks.

Between this woman and Detective McCoy, I feel like my patience is really being tested today. As if sensing my tension and rising blood pressure, Astra gives me a subtle nudge in the ribs, silently telling me to calm myself. My nails dig into my palms as I ball my hands into fists at my sides, well below the woman’s sight line, and I do my best to adopt a pleasant expression.

“We need to speak to somebody about a recent homicide,” I say.

The way she chews and pops her gum reminds me of a cow chewing its cud, and I have to resist pointing this out to her. As if realizing she’s going to have to do her job if she wants to get us out of her face, she half rolls her eyes as she turns to her computer.

“Name of the deceased?” she asks.

“Sonya Hyder,” I say.

She types the name in and hits the enter key a little harder than necessary, obviously trying to register her displeasure—because she hadn’t done a good enough job of that yet. She reads something on her screen, then swivels in her chair to face us again.

“You’re going to need to speak with Sierra Scott. She’s one of the assistant MEs,” she drones. “You can have a seat over there and wait for her. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

“Thank you,” I say, with a deliberate sickly-sweet tone. Astra purses her lips to keep from laughing out loud, but the woman doesn’t even seem to notice.

The moment we walk over to where the chairs stand against the wall, the receptionist picks up her phone and dives back into her game. As she plays, she deftly picks up the office phone, cradles it in the crook of her neck, and a moment later, speaks in tones low enough that I can’t hear what she’s saying. We’ll just have to trust she is calling the assistant ME like she said she would.

A couple of minutes later, a door to the left of the counter opens with a mechanical whoosh, and a woman about my height steps out. She’s wearing midnight blue scrubs, a dark blue ball cap with a San Diego Padres logo, and bright white New Balance sneakers. She’s got a myriad of colorful tattoos on her arms, and I can see the edges of a couple more creeping out from beneath the neckline of her black T-shirt beneath her surgical top.

“Sierra Scott,” she says. “I hear you’re with the FBI?”

“We are,” I respond. “This is SSA Russo, and I’m Unit Chief Wilder.”

“And this is about the Sonya Hyder murder?”

“It is.”

She frowns. “Why are the feds interested in a local murder?”

“We’re just here to assist with the investigation,” Astra says. “We wanted to view the body.”

She cringes. “I’ll warn you now… this one isn’t pretty.”

“Don’t worry. We’ve seen it all,” Astra says with a wry grin.

“All right, follow me.”

She leads us into the bowels of the ME’s offices which are much the same as the countless others we’ve been in. Sierra leads us through a winding labyrinth of corridors, her sneakers squeaking off the gleaming white tiles beneath our feet. The walls are all soft earth tones meant to convey a soothing atmosphere and are mostly unadorned.

The hallways all smell of bleach and a myriad of other cleaning supplies. We pass offices where people sit doing paperwork and talking on phones, doing the business of death. Deeper into the building, the smell of cleansers grows thicker, cloying, and we begin passing the autopsy suites. She pushes through the metal swinging doors of suite number fourteen.

Number fourteen, like just about every other autopsy suite I’ve ever been in, is predominantly white tile and stainless steel. A tall metal table sits in the center of the room with a large light fixture hanging over it along with a microphone for a recording device that’s wrapped in plastic. The burnished steel is clean and bleached, as are the drainage gutters that line the table. Sierra takes good care of her workspace.

Unlike other autopsy suites, though, she’s put her own personal flair on the place. A desk sits in the far corner with a line of shelves on the wall beside it. The shelves are lined with bobblehead figures of horror movie icons—Freddy, Jason, Michael, Pinhead. There’s even one of Jaws. Adding to the macabre décor, the suite is filled with dark, eerie music playing through a Bluetooth speaker perched on a shelf above her desk.

“Home sweet home,” she says.

“What is that music?” Astra asks. “It’s… creepy.”

Sierra laughs. “It’s the instrumental soundtrack from Suspiria.”

“Sus-pa-what?” Astra asks.

“It’s a horror film from the late seventies,” I tell her.

“Wow. Check you out with the knowledge.”

“I keep telling you—I got skills.”

“Nineteen-seventy-seven to be precise. Then remade in twenty-eighteen, which in my opinion, is a pale imitation of the original,” Sierra informs us. “Suspiria is an elevated horror film like Get Out, Us, or The Babadook. It deals with themes of motherhood—kind of like The Babadook—but it also goes into the abuse of power, fear of women’s inherent power, as well as questions about the nature of good and evil… it’s a weighty film unlike the typical slashers. But obviously, I do like those as well. We all need brain candy now and then, right?”

“That we do,” I agree.

“Check these out,” she says.

Sierra pushes up the sleeves of the dark T-shirt beneath her scrub top and shows off the colorful array of tattoos depicting those same horror movie icons that line her shelves in bobblehead form. The artwork is good. Not that I’d really know, but her tats look top-tier in terms of quality. She’s dedicated and passionate—I’ll give her that.

I turn to Astra. “Apparently, I don’t got skills.”

“Mo would love this one,” Astra replies.

Sierra laughs. “Sorry. I’m a big horror movie nerd. Love everything about them and can’t get enough of them. Been that way since I was a kid.”

“Including the soundtracks?” Astra asks.

She nods. “Even the soundtracks. They’re eerie but compelling in their own way,” she says. “I know, and I work at the morgue—it makes me such a cliché.”

“I don’t know about that,” Astra says. “I don’t recall ever speaking to another ME who embraces the morbid as a lifestyle choice. I think it’s neat!”

We all share a laugh for a moment, but it passes quickly as the weight of what we’re really doing here settles over the room.

“Well, I suppose we should get on to business,” she says.

“Probably.”

Sierra grabs a clipboard off her desk and flips through a couple of pages, then nods to herself before leading us over to the bank of refrigerated doors set into the far wall. She double checks her clipboard, then the tags on the front of the drawers before pulling one open. A white sheet covers the body on the tray, and Sierra pulls it back for us, exposing the bruised and battered face of the woman we’d come to see.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“Told you it wasn’t pretty.”

It’s difficult to tell right now, but with a trim, athletic and curvy build, ash-blonde hair and silver-blue eyes, Sonya Hyder had been a pretty woman in life. Her face is badly swollen and misshapen, the deep purple and black bruises accentuated by the pale blue sheen of death. Sierra pulled the sheet the rest of the way down, revealing an extensive network of cuts and bruises.

“She took a savage beating,” Astra says glumly.

“Yeah,” Sierra says. “Estimated TOD based on temp and lividity is probably somewhere between ten-thirty and one a.m. the night she was killed.”

I lean down and study the deep, dark bruise around her neck. It’s thick, like maybe a rope or a tie of some sort had been used. I point to the bruising and raise my eyes to Sierra.

“Ligature strangulation the COD?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Undetermined at this point. I’ve not been able to do her autopsy. The bruising and petechiae in the eyes would suggest that, but I might have an alternate theory on the woman’s cause of death.”

“What’s that?”

After slipping on a pair of blue latex gloves, she lifts Sonya’s head and directs our attention to what she’s showing us. A frown instantly touches my lips, and I shake my head.

“My God,” I say.

“Pretty sure God wasn’t around at the time this all went down,” Sierra responds.

The back of Sonya’s head looked to have been caved in. There is a large dent in her skull, and the hair is matted with dried, crusted blood; bits of brain matter can be seen through the shattered bone.

“It’s like somebody took a baseball bat to the back of her head,” Astra says.

“I can’t say anything officially just yet, but I’m going to guess her COD is blunt force trauma,” she responds. “None of those cuts are deep enough to have caused her to bleed out, and if he’d choked her to death, there was no need to crush the back of her skull in.”

“Unless the blow to the back of her head came first,” Astra says. “Maybe he blitzes her, stuns her with the bat, then chokes her to death.”

“I mean, it’s possible,” Sierra says. “But in my opinion, that head wound was probably fatal. Strangling her after he’d literally bashed her brain in seems… superfluous. It’s just an opinion at this point; I still need to open her up, but it seems to me that the head wound was the killing blow. But again, it’s all conjecture at this point.”

I nod. It’s a pretty fair and astute assessment. Truthfully, the damage to Sonya’s body is so extensive, we may never get a definitive cause of death. I’ve seen it before. It’s entirely likely that the complete destruction of Sonya’s body is too great to give us any firm answers.

I pull a card out of my pocket and hand it to Sierra. “Once you do the autopsy, can you do me a favor and give me a call? I’d really like to know what you find out.”

“You got it,” she says.

“Thank you.”

As we walk out of the suite, we’re chased by the distinctive piano chords from the movie, Halloween, which somehow seems fitting since Sonya Hyder looked like she’d gone more than a few rounds with Michael Myers.

“I can’t even imagine what that girl must have gone through,” Astra says softly.

“Nothing good.”

The air between us as we walk through the labyrinth of corridors, winding our way back to the front, is thick with tension and unspoken words. The weight of the situation is settling down over me, and it’s backbreakingly heavy. Eight women whose lives have been irrevocably changed. That sense of safety and security, even in their own homes, ripped away from them. Forever. No matter what they do, or how much therapy they endure, at a base level, none of them will ever feel completely safe and secure in their homes again.

And then there’s the ninth who has been ripped away from the world entirely.

“You ever consider getting tattoos?” Astra asks. “I’m sure Mo could hook you up.”

I appreciate the attempt to lighten the mood but pull a face. “I can honestly say there’s nothing I’m passionate enough about that I’d permanently mark my body with it.”

“You’re pretty into jazz music.”

“I just don’t see a tattoo of Miles Davis or John Coltrane on my ass happening in this life.”

“Never say never,” she replied. “Although I think Agent Sonny Garland might prefer looking at Garth Brooks or Keith Urban’s face on your ass.”

I turn and punch her in the arm. “Oh my God, shut up!”

We shriek with laughter as we head out of the ME’s office and into the fading sunlight of the afternoon. As we climb into the Yukon, images of Sonya’s battered body flash through my mind, and I shudder, overcome by the sudden feeling this case is going to be one of the bad ones. Thank God for Astra. She always knows how to pull me out of the darkness with a joke.

San Diego Police Department, Sex Crimes Unit, Conference Room C; San Diego, CA

“Houston, we have a problem,” Astra says.

“A little one,” I add.

“What’s the problem?” Detective Rhodes asks.

My arms folded over my chest, I walk over to the whiteboard. Paige has put up the photos of the victims along with their vitals and a timeline of the case to this point. I turn to Rhodes and point to the pictures stretched in a line across the top of the board.

“The first four victims are brunettes with brown eyes, and Ashley Rivera, the first victim, is the oldest of that group at twenty years old,” I say.

Astra steps forward and picks up the narrative. “The next five victims are blondes with blue eyes and are considerably older than the first four.”

Rhodes stares at us like we started speaking Cantonese. “All right. And?”

“A relatively high percentage of serial offenders, be they rapists or murderers, tend to be preferential. As in, they have a specific type. The first four victims are all young and brunette,” I explain. “The next five are blonde and older.”

“Maybe our guy’s tastes changed,” Rhodes offers.

“It’s possible, but unlikely,” Astra says. “Preferentials tend to stick with their type, for lack of a better word.”

“But you said it’s a relatively high percentage. Not a hundred percent,” Rhodes notes.

“That’s true,” I reply. “But very little is one hundred percent—”

“Don’t let them dazzle you with that fancy pscyho-babble garbage, Rhodes. For all their fancy words and so-called keen insights, profiling is just guesswork, far as I’m concerned.”

We all turn to see Detective McCoy leaning against the door frame, arms folded over his chest, his expression cold. He pushes off the wall and walks to the whiteboard, studying what Paige has laid out for us, obviously unimpressed with the effort along with our observations to that point. He mutters under his breath and turns to us.

“That educated guesswork has helped us close a lot of cases, Detective McCoy,” Paige says.

“Old-fashioned police work has helped me close a lot of cases too, doll,” he retorts.

“Yeah, about fifty-four percent of your cases,” Paige notes, pointedly ignoring him calling her ‘doll.’ She’s got more restraint than I do. “Which is more than twenty points lower than your department’s average and more than twenty-five points behind our psycho-babble garbage approach to crime-solving.”

“Suffice it to say, we know what we’re doing, Detective,” Astra adds.

McCoy bristles and glares daggers at them both. Throwing his closure rate in his face isn’t the way I would have gone, but I won’t scold her for making a valid point. As investigators, we are supposed to be willing to use every tool at our disposal to get justice for the victims. McCoy seems intent on making this a turf war, insisting that his old-school mentality is the way to get things done. So, maybe a cold slap of reality and some quantifiable numbers will get through to him.

“Listen, Detective,” I say. “We’re not here to get into a pissing match with you. We all want the same thing here. We want to find this animal and put him away for good. But we’re going to need your help to do that. The way I see it, we need each other. Can we call a truce?”

He frowns, cutting a glance at his partner. To her credit, Rhodes gives him a nod, encouraging him to accept our help. His jaw muscles flex as he grits his teeth, but he nods, holding his hands up to his chest, palms out, in surrender.

“All right,” he says. “Truce.”

“Good,” I say. “Thank you.”

“But listen—we’ve interviewed all the victims, and they all report the same thing,” McCoy says. “The description is roughly the same—between five ten and six feet and heavyset. Lays in wait inside their houses, then blitzes them so they never get a clear look at his face. And all of them have said he talks to them while he’s raping them.”

“What does he say?” I ask.

“It’s in the report.”

“I’d like to hear it from you,” I urge.

He’s gritting his teeth so hard, I’m half-afraid he’ll grind them into dust. To his credit, though, he maintains his composure. He clears his throat and snaps up one of the files, taking a moment to flip through it, apparently wanting to get the quote right.

“They all said their attacker asked them if it felt good. They also said he instructed them to tell him they’ve wanted to have sex with him for a long time and that they were glad they were finally being given a chance,” he says, his lips curling in distaste. “They also said that while it was going on, he kept asking questions about his performance and whether they had orgasmed or not.”

Astra and I exchange a glance. “Power reassurance rapist,” I say.

“Sounds like it.”

“A what?” McCoy asks.

“A power reassurance rapist is somebody who is socially awkward. He typically can’t maintain a relationship and has this fantasy that his victims have always wanted to be with him sexually,” I explain.

“He needs the reassurance from his victims that they are enjoying themselves. He often asks for compliments on his performance,” Astra explains.

“But here’s where we have another bump in the road,” I say.

“How’s that?”

I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear as I study the photographs on the board. “According to the reports we’ve seen, the first four victims weren’t injured. If anything, it seems like their attacker went out of his way to keep from hurting them physically—”

“Yeah, a real gentleman,” McCoy mutters.

“Nick, stop. I want to hear this,” Rhodes says.

He glowers at her, then gives her a half shrug, motioning for me to continue.

“The next four victims suffered various injuries—shallow cuts, bruises—our guy roughed them up during the act,” I say. “Culminating in the murder of Sonya Hyder.”

“Power reassurance rapists—often referred to as the gentleman rapist, as you ironically called him—usually don’t beat on their victims,” Astra adds. “He’s escalating. Getting more violent.”

Rhodes looks interested, but McCoy squints at the board as if we’d just spoken gibberish and he’s trying to make sense of what we just said. The man is probably in his mid-forties, but his stubborn, old-school mentality makes him seem much older than that. What I don’t get about him is that he grew up in a time when the field of psychology, especially the psychology of criminals, grew in understanding by leaps and bounds, and yet he’s resistant to any sort of clinical analysis.

I’ve run into his type before, but they’re usually much older—guys who grew up before the soft sciences gained acceptance. A man as young as McCoy has no real excuse for rejecting scientific and behavioral analysis out of hand. I can only guess he was trained and influenced by one of those stodgy old-timers who thought a heavy dose of gumption is the answer to unlocking every mystery the universe holds.

Rhodes walks to the board and studies the pictures for a moment before turning back to us, a quizzical expression on her face. Unlike her partner, she doesn’t act as if she’s got all the answers. She seems interested in learning and understanding the monsters she’s chasing.

“So, if I’m understanding what I’m reading between the lines here, you’re suggesting we have two separate rapists on our hands,” she says.

“I think it’s something we need to consider. Yes,” I respond.

McCoy scoffs. “Come on, what are the odds two different men are assaulting women in the same area, using the same lines while they’re doing it?”

“The odds are low,” I admit. “But then, the odds are just as low, if not lower, that a preferential offender will suddenly change his preference.”

McCoy stares at the board, still unconvinced, then turns to me. “These women are all objectively beautiful. Would you agree to that?”

“Of course. But that’s not—”

“Then maybe that’s his preference. Beautiful women. Maybe it has nothing to do with their hair color and everything to do with whether he finds them hot or not,” he cuts me off. “Maybe you’re seeing patterns—and deviations from patterns—where they don’t exist.”

Astra frowns. “So, you think it’s purely coincidental that the first four women are brunettes—young brunettes, by the way. And the second set of five are blond and older?”

“We’re only talking about a few years’ age difference, Agent Russo,” he argues. “Most of the blonds are late-twenties—”

“Except for Vanessa Mershon who is thirty and Alexandra Crouse who is thirty-two years old,” Paige jumps in.

“Still, they’re in the same age range,” he says.

“But for a preferential offender, those years make a difference,” Astra tells him. “The look and age of the women he acts out his fantasy with are everything in the mind of an offender like this. There is something about a specific type of woman that draws him—that has him creating that fantasy in his head.”

“There’s also the escalation of violence,” Paige continues. “How does he go from simply needing reassurance to then knocking them around and eventually killing one of them?”

“Maybe Sonya Hyder fought back. Did something he didn’t like, and it set him off,” he offers. “Some of these animals run on a hair trigger. And that’s something I know you know.”

It’s a valid point. I have seen people explode like that before. But based on what we have right now, it just doesn’t feel like it fits here.

McCoy shakes his head. “I mean… like I said, it could simply boil down to this freak being turned on by a beautiful woman—a woman he’d have no real shot with. That’s his type. And because he knows he’s got no shot with them, he builds this fantasy, like you say, and goes after them. As for the violence, it’s possible it’s always been in him, but so long as the women are submissive and compliant, he hasn’t had to let that beast out of its cage. It’s possible that Sonya Hyder pushed that button and… boom.”

“It’s possible, but not likely,” I say.

“I think you’re overcomplicating this whole thing with all this psychological garbage. Criminals aren’t that hard to understand. They’re not usually complicated creatures. They see something they like… something they want… and they take it,” he says. “I’ve been doing this job for twenty years now, and I’ve rarely met a criminal who thought as deeply as you seem to think they do. Not everybody has mommy issues, Agents.”

“And not everything is as simple as you seem to think. It’s not about mommy issues. It’s about deep-seated, psychological damage. It’s about some of these offenders trying to fill some hole inside of them,” I tell him. “I agree with you that not every criminal thinks very deeply. But monsters like this—monsters who victimize women this way… there is almost always a deeper issue at play. And understanding that issue is how we’re going to catch them.”

He sighs, turning his gaze to the board once more. He frowns but doesn’t argue further. “All right, I have to go take care of some things, but I’ll check in with you later. In the meantime, if you need anything, talk to Rhodes. She knows everything I know about this case.”

“I’ll do that.”

He offers me a conciliatory expression. “I know it feels like I’m working against you. I’m not. You’re right: we both want the same thing here. I just… I have a way of doing things. It’s been ingrained in me since I was… well… a lot younger than I am now. Psychological training like this wasn’t ever part of my training. So… it might take me a little time to come around to what you’re selling. I just don’t get it. You know?”

“I appreciate that, Detective.”

“Just call me Nick.”

With a nod, he turns and heads out of the war room. It ended on a more positive note than I’d been expecting. The truce seems to be holding. And at least he seems willing to not slam the door on our methods. That’s no small thing.

“So,” Rhodes says tentatively. “Two rapists then?”

“Possibly,” I say. “The victimology is just so wildly different.”

“Not to mention the escalating violence,” Astra adds.

“That too.”

“But it’s possible it’s one guy who’s doing all this?” Rhodes asks.

“I’m not going to rule anything out. That would be foolish,” I say.

“And how are we going to go about proving or debunking that?”

“We start at square one,” I tell her.

Greens & Grains, Hillcrest District; San Diego, CA

Known for being proud of its diversity and vibrance, San Diego’s Hillcrest District is a popular neighborhood for people from all walks of life. As diverse as the population is, so too is the array of boutique shops, eateries, and cultural events. It’s the proud center of San Diego’s gay community and hosts its annual Pride parade. With its dynamic and sometimes flamboyant energy, Hillcrest’s demographics tend to skew younger.

The first person I wanted to speak with was Misty Cauley—Sonya Hyder’s best friend and the last person known to have seen her alive. But she was at work and unable to meet me until later, so I had to change tack. Bethany Pearsall, the third victim, lives and works in the Hillcrest District, too, so after making a call and getting her to agree to meet with me, I sent Paige to interview a couple of the other victims who are in the area.

Detective Rhodes seemed interested in seeing how we do things, so I sent her with Astra to talk to a couple of the others. McCoy had other things to do and didn’t want to be part of the re-interview process, and in fact, seemed a bit salty about it since, as he termed it, we’re double-checking his work. He’s not wrong, but it’s not because we think he’s incompetent. We just want a fresh base of information to work the case.

It’s entirely possible that we’ll see something he didn’t—not because he’s not good at his job, but because we look at things differently. And I give Rhodes props for being open to that and wanting to learn from us. We’re not the end-all-be-all of criminal investigations, of course, but we are pretty good at what we do. I really think not being so rigid and learning to look at things differently can only benefit her as her career continues.

Greens and Grains bills itself as the Hillcrest District’s first vegan restaurant. The interior is a riot of colors and has a lively atmosphere. Cheerful photos of who I assume are patrons line the walls, telling me they value their guests. The dining room is still half filled as a crowd of others stream out of the restaurant, the lunch rush over and everybody scrambling to get back to work. The air is redolent with a host of spices that smell surprisingly delicious.

“You must be Agent Wilder.”

I turn to see a woman I assume is Bethany Pearsall standing behind me. She’s wearing what looks to be the standard Greens and Grains uniform—black slacks, a black polo with the restaurant’s logo on the breast, and a black half apron tied around her waist. She’s my height with a thin, trim figure, chocolate brown hair, big, doe eyes that match, and the clear, smooth complexion of youth that I envy.

“How can you tell?” I ask.

“Your boots,” she replies, her voice soft and lyrical.

“My boots?”

A faint smile curls her full, heart-shaped lips. “You’re wearing a really nice pantsuit with boots, rather than pumps or flats. They’re stylish, but functional. You can run in those boots. Kick in doors. All the things you can’t do if you were actually wearing pumps or flats.”

“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “You ever consider becoming a profiler?”

“I want to be a singer,” she says, raising her shoulders.

“Tough business to break into.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Silly, huh?”

“Not at all. It’s good to have dreams. It’s even better to chase them,” I tell her.

Her expression is soft and shy, but there’s a determined gleam in her eye that I like. I can tell the girl is a fighter. She has to be to get through what she endured.

“I’ve got one table left, so why don’t you have a seat, and we can talk when I’m done?” she offers.

“Sounds good.”

She leads me to a booth in the corner and sits me down, then turns and heads off to tend to her table. I sit back and listen to the instrumental music pumping through the speakers that I can only describe as some sort of unholy fusion of pop and techno. It’s definitely not my thing, but it seems to fit the vibe of the restaurant. A couple of minutes later, Bethany comes back and sets a plate and glass of water down in front of me, then slides into the booth.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A bulgogi seitan burrito and sweet potato fries,” she replies.

“A what?”

She laughs. “Seitan is a meat replacement. It’s a type of Chinese wheat product.”

“I should tell you that I prefer real meat. I enjoy my steak so rare, it’s still mooing, and I wash it down with a glass of good scotch and jazz music. That’s my ideal meal.”

“Try it,” she insists.

“Is this how you convert people?”

“Usually,” she replies. “But in this case, Arturo accidentally made an extra one, so I thought you might want to try it out.”

I stare at the burrito skeptically for a moment. As doubtful as I am about ingesting a meat replacement, I have to admit, the aroma wafting off the plate is really good. My stomach rumbles its agreement. Against my better judgment and all my pro-meat bias, I pick up the burrito and take a bite. Flavor instantly bursts in my mouth, and although I can tell this seitan is not real meat—let’s face it, nothing will ever replace a rare, juicy steak—it’s actually not bad.

“Good, right?” she asks.

“Shockingly, yeah. It’s really good.”

“So, can I sign you up to the vegan lifestyle?”

“I’m definitely not giving up my bloody steaks and scotch, but I actually don’t hate this. Like, at all,” I tell her.

“So close,” she says and sits back.

I take a couple more bites and pop a few of the sweet potato fries into my mouth, chewing happily. For being so young, Bethany has the maturity of somebody much older about her. I don’t know if it’s because of what she went through, or if it’s just natural to her, but she isn’t your typical nineteen-year-old and seems to have a good head on her shoulders.

“So, on the phone, you said you’re here to talk about what happened,” she said.

I take a drink of water to wash down the food. “I am. That is, if you’re up to it.”

A shadow crosses her face, and her expression becomes guarded. But she swallows and lays her palms flat on the table in front of her, seeming to be giving herself a silent pep talk. Bethany clears her throat and raises her eyes.

“Yeah. Of course,” she replies softly.

“I know you’ve already spoken with the detectives, and a lot of this will be repetitive,” I say. “I apologize for that, but—”

“It’s all right. I don’t think I’m very high on their priority list anyway.”

“Why do you say that?”

There’s a slight tremble in her hands, but she keeps them flat on the table, determined to fight through whatever emotions are swelling inside her. She clenches her jaw, and anger flashes through her eyes.

“There hasn’t been any follow up with me. I’ve called to ask about the status of the investigation, but I get the runaround,” she says. “And nobody has been caught yet. It just seems like sexual assaults aren’t the highest priority for the police.”

She says that with a dash of bitterness in her voice that matches the fire in her gaze. I was right about her being a fighter. But I’ll need to redirect some of that anger of hers.

“Bethany, these cases are very complicated. It’s unfortunately not like a television show where the bad guy is caught at the end of the hour,” I tell her. “And SDPD is taking this very seriously, I assure you. That’s why we’re here. They asked my team for help because they are dedicated to finding the man who attacked you and getting him off the street. For good.”

My answer seems to mollify her—at least, a little bit. She’s still got that fire in her eye and set to her jaw that gives away the anger that’s boiling inside her.

“Are you all right to go on?” I ask.

“Yeah. I’m all right.”

“Okay, good. Now, what can you tell me about that night?”

Her body tenses, and she draws in a long breath. She holds that breath and closes her eyes, her lips quiver and move as she silently murmurs to herself. Bethany’s hands shake harder on the table, but she keeps them there as she casts her mind back to what has to be one of the most horrible and traumatic nights of her young life.

“Sorry,” she says.

“You have nothing to be sorry about. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be.”

The corner of her mouth quirks upward. “Almost a year of therapy and I’m still not completely okay with what happened.”

“I don’t think things like this have a timetable, Bethany,” I say. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing really well, all things considered.”

“Thanks.” She stares at her hands for a moment and takes a moment to compose herself. “I came home that night… I’d been out with some friends. Anyway, he was in the house waiting for me. He grabbed me from behind and pressed a knife to my throat. After that, he dragged me into my room where he… where he…”

Her voice is thick, and her face darkens. Her large brown eyes shimmer, and she’s fighting back tears as she relives the night. But she sniffs her tears back and sits up straighter, her face a mask of determination to get through this. She’s strong. I’m genuinely impressed by her.

“Bethany, I understand he spoke to you while he was assaulting you. What did he say?”

She blows out a long, trembling breath and stares at her hands. They’re shaking hard, and it seems like it’s getting tougher for her to keep her palms flat on the table, but she’s still somehow managing to do it.

“He kept asking me if I was enjoying myself. Made me tell him how good he was and how I’ve always wanted this,” she says. “And he kept asking me to compliment him on his… on his size and his performance.”

“And did you happen to recognize his voice, Bethany? Did it sound familiar to you at all?”

“It… I mean, it kind of sounded familiar, yeah. I can’t say where I heard it before, but it sounded familiar to me,” she says. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s all just in my head. But I kind of feel like I’ve heard his voice.”

“Okay, good. Can you describe that voice for me? Was it high pitched? Low pitched? Did he speak with an accent?”

“I don’t remember an accent. His voice was kind of soft. A little high, I guess? It definitely wasn’t deep or gruff or anything like that.”

“Good, okay. How about his build? What can you tell me about his physical traits?”

“I couldn’t see him—he had me face down,” she responds. “But I could tell he was big.”

“Big how? Was he muscular? Heavyset?”

“Umm… I think he was heavyset. I thought… I thought I felt a belly,” she says with a shudder. “But I can’t be sure about that. I was… I wasn’t really paying attention to details like that.”

“That’s all right—you’re doing great.”

I walk her through a few more questions but don’t get anything fresh. Through it all, her hands continue to shake, but she continues pressing them hard against the table as if she’s physically trying to keep herself grounded. She notices me glancing at her hands and gives me a sheepish shrug of her shoulders.

“It’s something my therapist suggested I do,” she explains. “She says that touching something solid will help keep me in the moment.”

I give her a warm smile. “You did great, Bethany. You are a really strong young woman.”

“Thank you. I’m… I’m working on it.”

I take her hand and give it a squeeze. “Be proud of yourself. And keep chasing your dreams. With the strength and determination I see in you, you’ve got a bright, bright future ahead of you.”

Her eyes shimmer with tears as a warm smile flickers across her lips. “Thank you, Agent Wilder. That means a lot.”

I slip a card across the table over to her. “If you think of anything else, or if you just want to talk, give me a call any time, day or night,” I say. “And thanks for lunch. It was surprisingly good.”

That finally gets a small chuckle out of her. “Good enough to make you reconsider giving up meat?”

“Never,” I say as the corner of my mouth quirks upward. “But I appreciate the effort.”

I thank her, give her hand another squeeze, then slip out of the booth and head out, anxious to get a chance to talk to Misty Cauley.

Residence of Misty Cauley, Hillcrest District; San Diego, CA

“Thank you for meeting with me, Miss Cauley.”

“Misty, please,” she replies.

“Misty then. I’m Blake.”

Her lips are a tight line as she leads me into the living room of her condo. It’s small and very tidy, neatly furnished, and mostly consists of tasteful off-white and beige accents contrasting with darker furniture. While there isn’t too much in the way of artistic décor, she’s got a few interesting tidbits—mostly celebrating local sports, in particular the San Diego Padres and the MLS team, San Diego FC. There’s even a signed jersey from Tony Gwynn, “Mr. Padre” himself, framed on the wall. In addition to this, she’s got quite a few photos of her and Sonya on the floating shelves on the far wall—at baseball games, at the beach, on the marina—telling me her friend was a big part of her life.

Misty herself has dark brown hair with a steep middle part, a fair, smooth complexion with very little makeup, and cornflower blue eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. She’s wearing a sleeveless cream top tucked into oversized straight-leg slacks, with a pair of chunky loafers sticking out. She obviously hasn’t even had a chance to change out of her office clothes.

“Can I get you anything, Agent Wilder? Water? Wine?”

“I’m fine,” I respond. “But thank you.”

She perches on the edge of the love seat, hesitating for a moment before picking up the glass of wine sitting on the coffee table in front of her. It’s hard not to notice the way her hand is trembling as she holds the glass. I’m half-afraid she’s going to slosh the wine onto the light-colored carpet beneath her. Good thing it’s white wine, I guess.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “It’s been a day.”

“By all means. I know you’ve been through a lot.”

She didn’t invite me to sit, but I assume she’ll be okay with it as I take a seat on the plush sofa that sits perpendicular to the love seat she’s on. Misty takes a long swallow of wine. She sets her glass back down, then picks up the bottle sitting next to it and tops off. She’s doing her best to hold herself together, but I can see the cracks at the edges. Her eyes are tired. Strained. They’re slightly red, a bit puffy, and her lips are quivering. This is clearly taking a toll on her.

“So, what do you do for a living, Misty?” I ask.

“I’m in public relations for the Padres,” she replies.

I smile and gesture around. “Wow, the Padres? Guess that explains all the décor. You a big fan?”

The corners of her mouth curl upward softly. “Ever since I was a kid. I love the game. My dad took me to my first game when I was four, and I’ve been hooked ever since,” she tells me, her voice thick with nostalgia.

“A bit of a dream job, huh?”

“It really is.”

“Congratulations,” I say. “Not everybody gets to do what they love.”

She raises her glass, then takes a small drink as some of the tightness in her shoulders ebbs. The pinched, tight expression on her face softens, and she seems a bit more at ease. I’ve always found that getting people talking about themselves and subjects they’re comfortable with or make them happy is the easiest way to cut through their tension. It usually leads to a more open, more productive conversation. And given that Misty Cauley is that last person known to have seen Sonya Hyder alive, we need to have a productive conversation.

Misty stares at me for a moment. “Are you doing what you love, Agent Wilder?”

“I am,” I tell her.

A small frown touches her lips, and she looks into her wine glass. “I honestly don’t know how you can do what you do. I can only imagine the things you’ve seen.”

“It’s tough—I’m not gonna lie,” I answer. “But for me, there is nothing more satisfying than putting dangerous people behind bars.”

“Yeah, I guess that has to be pretty cool.”

“It is,” I respond. “Which brings me to why I wanted to talk with you.”

Misty takes another drink of her wine, a bit of tension creeping back into her shoulders and her hand trembling a bit harder again.

“Sure,” she says, her eyes shimmering with tears. “Of course. Whatever I can do to help catch the monster who did this to Sonya.”

“You two were very close.”

“Best friends since high school.”

“What was she like?”

“She was smart. Sweet. Kind. She cared for other people more than she cared about herself. She was also driven. She focused on work and becoming a lawyer so much that getting her to come out with me was like pulling teeth,” Misty said, her voice tinged with pain. “I wish now I hadn’t pushed her to come out with me that night.”

“There was no way you could have known what was going to happen. You can’t blame yourself for any part of it.”

She lowers her gaze again, and I can tell she wants to believe that, but can’t quite turn off the tap of guilt that’s open wide and flowing through her. There’s nothing I can say that will assuage that guilt. Unfortunately, she’s going to have to come to terms with it on her own.

“Misty, can you walk me through that night?”

She let out a long breath, steeling herself. “She met me at The Lamplighter... it’s a bar down in The Gaslamp. We had a few drinks, got caught up with each other, then we went home. It was just a normal night.”

“And did anything happen while you two were there?” I ask. “Did you happen to notice anybody paying any undue attention to Sonya? Anybody she might have had an argument with? Anything out of the ordinary?”

She purses her lips and turns away, racking her brain as she recalled the evening. Misty takes a couple of moments, then turns back to me.

“You know, now that you mention it, there was a guy who was making eyes at her.”

“Making eyes?”

She nods. “Yeah, it was obvious he was checking her out. She wasn’t interested, but I remember he was looking at her pretty hard,” she tells me. “At one point, I got up to use the restroom and when I came back, she was yelling at him—”

“Yelling at him about what?”

“Because he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Just kept pressing her to go out with him. It was only when Sonya was making a scene that he left pretty quickly,” she replies, then her eyes widen. “Oh God. You don’t think that guy—”

I hold up a hand. “We can’t assume anything just yet. Right now, we’re just gathering as much information as we possibly can,” I tell her. “Now, this man who wouldn’t take no for an answer… can you describe him for me?”

“Umm… he was about six feet tall, I guess? Light brown hair. Well built. Athletic looking. Had a jawline that looked like it could cut glass,” she replies.

“That’s pretty specific.”

“He was handsome. I remember thinking that if Sonya didn’t want him, I wouldn’t have minded going home with him,” she admits, then shudders. “I’m glad I didn’t…”

“Sounds like you dodged a bullet. A guy who can’t take no for an answer doesn’t sound like the kind of guy you want to be involved with.”

“Yeah.”

“So, after Sonya sent him packing, what happened?”

She shook her head. “We had a few more drinks and then I put her in an EZ-Ride and sent her home,” she said. “We live in opposite directions, so I got my own car home.”

“And EZ-Ride is—”

“A ride sharing app.”

“And you ordered the car for her?”

“Yeah. Her phone was being wonky, so I just ordered it for her.”

“Great. Okay,” I say. “Would you mind showing me your phone?”

She picks it up off the table, opens the app, and hands it over to me. I scroll to the date and check the addresses against the rides ordered. When I find the car that took Sonya home, I jot down the driver’s name and information. Once I have it down, I give the phone back.

“Great. Thank you,” I say. “And Sonya wasn’t seeing anybody?”

“No. She had a pretty tough breakup about a year ago—after about five years together, she found him in bed with another woman,” she tells me. “She still wasn’t quite over it and threw herself into her job and school. Swore off men altogether.”

“This boyfriend—”

“Oliver Duffy,” she says, anticipating my next question. “He’s a scumbag. An absolute scumbag who should have his parts cut off.”

I can’t help but respect a woman who’s got her friend’s back so thoroughly and completely, even a year after the fact.

“And how did Oliver take the breakup?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t said a word to him since Sonya told me about what happened,” she says. “Good thing for him because I wouldn’t have very nice things to say.”

“Misty, is there anybody else you can think of that Sonya might have been having a problem with? Anybody who might have threatened her or… anything?”

She pauses for a moment and seems to think about it, then shakes her head. “Not really. Sonya pretty much kept to herself. She was focused on trying to build her career, and she normally kept her circle pretty small,” she responds. “The only other person I know she had an issue with was this lawyer who works for her firm—her boss, technically, I guess. Clark Bonham. He was always riding her, degrading her… he’s a real misogynistic piece of garbage. But she put up with it because the firm helped pay her tuition to law school.”

As I jot down the names and take a couple of notes, I think back to the file McCoy put together on the case and can’t recall whether the names Clark Bonham or Oliver Duffy were in it. They don’t stand out to me, so I don’t think they were. It doesn’t seem like McCoy dug too deep with Misty, which irritates me to no end. I don’t know if the guy just doesn’t care to do his job well, or if he doesn’t think rape is a serious crime worthy of his attention.

“She didn’t mention problems with anybody else?” I ask. “No creepy guys following her or anything like that?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“All right. Well, thank you for speaking with me today, Misty. I really appreciate your time.”

“Please find out who did this to Sonya. Please get justice for her.”

“I’m going to do everything in my power, Misty. I promise you.”

It’s the best assurance I can give her, and although disappointed, she seems to understand that. She walks me to the door, and I say goodbye before heading out.

San Diego Police Department, Sex Crimes Unit, Conference Room C; San Diego, CA

“All their stories seem to line up,” Paige says. “The women I talked to gave me the same story you got from the girl you talked to…”

“Bethany,” I say.

“Right. Bethany,” Paige replies. “I spoke with Ashley Rivera and Skye Moretti—two of the early victims—and their stories line up with Bethany’s.”

Astra leans back in her chair, a troubled expression on her face. “And I spoke with Vanessa Mershon and Kelly Joyce—two of the later victims. Their details and stories are consistent with the women Paige spoke to and Bethany’s—blitz attack from behind, dragged into their bedroom to be assaulted, same need for reassurance about his performance, and a red rose has been left at every scene,” she says. “I hate to say it, but it kind of sounds like these assaults may have actually been committed by the same guy.”

I stare at the photos on the board, starting with Ashley Rivera, the first victim, following the line to Sonya Hyder, the latest. The differences in appearance and age of the victims, from then to now, is obvious. That profiles as two different offenders.

“Preferential offenders don’t suddenly change their preferences,” I say. “If we’re talking one guy, the appearance of the victims—hair color, eye color, body type—they should all remain the same. It just doesn’t track for me, psychologically speaking, that our guy would up and switch his preference like that.”

“Yeah, but by that same token, power reassurance rapists don’t suddenly switch to murder either,” Astra said, giving her a slight raise of her shoulders.

“I mean, it kind of sounds like we’re dealing with a different kind of animal here, Chief,” Paige says. “Maybe one who doesn’t quite conform to traditional profiling models.”

“I really hate to say it, but what if McCoy is right and our guy’s preference is simply beautiful women,” Astra offers. “I mean, look at them… nobody less than an eight in that bunch, I’d say. What if, it’s not hair or eye color that drew him, but the fact that these beautiful women happened to cross his path at the wrong time?”

“I’m still kind of on board with one guy committing these crimes, but the murder is throwing me,” Paige says. “How and why did our guy graduate from sexual assault to murder? Seems to be a big leap.”

“Yeah, but if you look at the crime scene photos, you can see that evolution. You can see his MO changing,” Astra tells her. “Rebecca Kierboom, victim number five in this sequence, had her bedroom pretty broken up after she was assaulted.”

At Nina’s request, Captain Hayes brings in a computer monitor for us. The battered old relic sits at the front of the room on a wheeled cart. At least it’s functional though. Nina throws up images of the Kierboom crime scene, showing us the damage that had been done to the woman’s bedroom. A dresser had been overturned, the contents scattered across the floor, her mirror had been shattered, and a shelf of knicknacks had been destroyed.

She was the fifth victim in the series, but the first to have her bedroom trashed and to be roughed up a bit. The attacker punched and kicked her, calling her “whore” and “slut,” when he was done. His anger toward women is growing rapidly. It’s another piece of the puzzle that isn’t fitting quite right for me. Power reassurance rapists just don’t behave that way.

“If we’re assuming he’s closer to an omnivore rather than a pattern rapist, it might be his natural progression. Maybe those first few rapes he was just getting his taste for it,” I say. “But maybe, as he’s gotten more comfortable and confident, that natural anger toward women is starting to come out. If he’s evolving, maybe he’s not as inclined to hide it as he was before?”

“Why are we assuming he hates women?” Paige asks.

“He demeans them,” Astra says. “Calling them vile names as he’s beating on them makes a strong case that he’s a misogynist who hates women.”

“And maybe, the thrill of just raping them wasn’t enough anymore. Maybe he needed to level up and recreate the rush he had the first time he assaulted somebody,” Paige adds.

“He could be an incel,” Nina offers. “Maybe this is his way of taking revenge against all the women who’ve supposedly wronged him.”

“That’s what I’m thinking as well,” Astra says. “It would fit the rest of the profile.”

“Nina, what can you tell me about the roses?” I ask.

“Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve looked through all the evidence logs, and there are no identifiers—no telling where they came from,” she said. “All we know is that a single red rose was left at the scenes. There was even one in Sonya Hyder’s house. That one was probably left that night, though, given its rate of decay.”

“See, here are the things that are sticking in my brain,” I start. “He’s evolving, okay. Serial perps do that over time. I can get behind that. But if he’s comfortable enough letting this misogynistic beast inside of him out of its cage now, why continue with the roses? Maybe more importantly, why hasn’t his need for reassurance diminished?”

“Could be ritual—as far as the roses go. You, maybe more than anybody, know just how important ritual is to these freaks,” Astra responds.

“As for the continued need for reassurance, maybe if Nina is right and he’s an incel, he’s insecure, maybe about his size, or his performance, and thinks that might be why women have rejected him,” Paige offers. “Maybe he still needs that reassurance to get off.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”

I continue to stare at the photos, still not fully convinced. Psychological profiles are effective for a reason—they’re usually accurate. As soon as the thought passes through my mind, it snags on the word usually, and I frown. Nothing is ever one hundred percent—especially not when it comes to something so subjective as psychology. Certain commonalities always exist, of course, which is why profiling is such an effective art-slash-science. But if I’m being honest, I have to admit that there are always outliers and exceptions to the rule.

From the corner of my eye, I see movement in the doorway and turn to see McCoy leaning against the jamb, arms crossed over his chest, a smarmy smirk on his face. That bad attitude seems to be back, telling me the fragile truce we’d brokered is over.

“So, you’re finally coming to accept that I’m not as bad at my job as you think and we’re dealing with one bad guy, huh?” he says.

“We’re still considering a lot of things,” I say, unwilling to give him an inch. As for whether he’s any good at his job or not, the jury is still very much out.

“I got a couple of names from Misty Cauley—Oliver Duffy and Clark Bonham,” I say. “Those names weren’t in the case file and—”

“Because they’re dead ends,” McCoy cuts me off. “The ex-boyfriend and her boss. I talked to them, and they’ve both got solid alibis. They weren’t involved.”

“So, why aren’t their names in the file?”

“Does it matter? They alibied out,” he said.

It takes a colossal effort to keep from rolling my eyes, but I somehow manage it. At the very least, it’s sloppy paperwork. And in my experience, sloppy paperwork is indicative of sloppy investigative work. But that’s me.

“Believe it or not, I do know how to do my job, Chief Wilder. And not to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty good at it,” he says.

“Toot toot,” Astra says dryly.

“It would be nice to know what their alibis were,” I note.

His expression darkens, and he clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he takes a few menacing steps toward me. Astra gets to her feet and moves closer. McCoy’s eyes cut to her, and the corner of his mouth quirks upward as if he’s amused. He stops moving and turns to me.

“I checked out their alibis, and they’re airtight. I’m sorry I didn’t feel the need to put them down on paper. I’ve got a lot going on and don’t always have the time to note the useless minutiae in my paperwork. I tend to stick to the facts and important pieces of information. I’m sorry if that doesn’t meet with your approval, but my bosses are just fine with it, so if you’ve got a problem, take it up with them, sweetheart.”

This is going nowhere fast, and I just have to accept that McCoy doesn’t have the same sort of work ethic that I do.

I hold my hands up, palms facing him. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s just not how I’m used to things being done. That’s all. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Not to point out the obvious, but this isn’t your house, sweetheart. It’s mine.”

“Call me sweetheart one more time and see what happens,” I snap.

Astra gets up and puts herself between us. She turns to McCoy and holds a hand up. “Like she said, we’re not trying to offend you,” she says. “We’re just doing our best to be thorough. We want to catch this guy.”

“Are you suggesting I don’t?”

I sigh and shake my head. This is pointless. He’s on the defensive right now, and nothing I say is going to come out right. He’s going to take offense to everything. And we have better things to do with our time than debate proper procedure and work ethic.

“We’re not suggesting anything of the sort, Detective. We just do things differently is all,” I say. “And like I keep saying, we all want the same thing here. We’re on the same team.”

He glares at me like he wants to keep arguing but opts to let it drop. He runs a hand over his face and takes a breath, his expression softening.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I just don’t like having to defend my work.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to make you do. I’m just trying to understand the situation the best I can,” I tell him. “I know this is all very awkward right now. But we’ll find a rhythm. Just know we are not trying to step on your toes or second-guess you, Detective.”

He slips his hands into his pockets, seemingly mollified. “All right. I get it,” he says. “Listen, I have another case I’m working on right now and need to go talk to somebody, but if you need anything, just shoot me a text.”

“Will do.”

He turns and strides out of the room, and I can’t help but feel the sense of relief somebody who just defused a bomb must feel. Astra quirks a grin at me.

“I’m glad you intervened when you did. I was fixing to pop him,” I say.

“It was hard to keep from doing it myself.”

“Your restraint is utterly remarkable.”

“I’m just glad he left when he did,” she says. “I was going to drag him out of here just to get rid of the stink of that cologne.”

“I think it’s supposed to smell musky and masculine,” Paige says.

Nina grimaces. “It smells like something, that’s for sure.”

I laugh softly. “All right, let’s dig in.”

As Paige and Astra start gathering files, I walk over to Nina and lean close to her ear, pitching my voice low.

“Do me a favor,” I say. “I want you to do a deep dive on Detective McCoy. I want to know everything there is to know about him.”

“Am I looking for anything in particular?”

“No. Just general information,” I say. “I want to know if he’s bad at his job or if there’s something that’s taking his attention away from doing a good job. I really just want to know who it is we’re working with here, so we know what to expect.”

“On it, Chief.”

“And Nina?” I say. “Do it very quietly.”

“Like a church mouse,” she replies and tips me a wink.

The Breakers Inn, Mission Beach District; San Diego, CA

Sitting on the balcony of my room with a glass of scotch in hand, I stare out at the ocean. I watch the waves crash against the shoreline, the white foam almost glowing under the silvery light of the gibbous moon, and breathe in the briny scent of the sea. With the piano of Mary Lou Williams, a pioneer of jazz and mentor to the man who would become Thelonious Monk playing from my Bluetooth speaker, I close my eyes and lean my head back against the chair, letting the crash of the waves and the sound of the music carry away the stress of the day.

McCoy’s anger is completely outsized, in my opinion. I get that he doesn’t like feeling as if we’re looking over his shoulder and double-checking his work. He’s not the first person who’s felt that way that I’ve had to find a way to work with. I understand he feels attacked by us being here at all. And his feelings make sense. No investigator likes being made to feel that they aren’t getting the job done. It’s a matter of pride and principle. And of course, a healthy dose of ego, which is something McCoy seems to have in spades.

I’m having Nina dig into McCoy only because I want to understand him. Part of me thinks his outsized reaction to us being here and working this case is because he thinks as we dig into this, we’ll uncover his shoddy work—more than just his lax attitude toward the paperwork. Leaving the names of interviewees and potential suspects out of the reports is more than sloppy. It’s a cardinal sin as far as I’m concerned. Details matter.

He’s got a decent reputation as an investigator, so I’m simply wondering if his attention is being divided. Does he have too many cases on his desk? Too many irons in the fire elsewhere? I just need to know who this guy is so I can better plan how to attack this case and minimize his ruffled feathers. I won’t be able to eliminate them—his ego will keep this from being smooth sailing. But if I understand him, I can at least try to mitigate the impact his ego is having on the case. Or if not that, then find a way to work around him. But it all starts with figuring out who he is and what makes him tick.

Just as I feel myself start to relax and my body begin to loosen up, my cell phone buzzes on the table next to me. I sit up and let out a long sigh.

“Dammit,” I mutter.

I set my glass down and pick up my phone. My initial irritation fades, though, when I see the familiar number on the screen. I connect the call and press the phone to my ear.

“Hey, you. How’s Oklahoma?”

“Well, it’s no Texas, but it ain’t all bad. You should come down here sometime.”

“Pass. But thanks for the offer.”

Sonny laughs. “You just need to give it a chance, darlin’.”

“Right now, I’m sitting on a quiet balcony enjoying a nice breeze, the view of the waves crashing on the shore, a nice glass of scotch, and some good music,” I reply lightly. “Tell me, Agent Garland, can I get all of that in Oklahoma?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure you can get your scotch here and your music lives on your phone, so I’d say you can have fifty percent of those things. That ain’t bad, right?”

“Sure, that’s not bad,” I say. “Or I can stay here and have it all.”

“Never one for half measures, are you?”

“You know me better than that.”

“That I do, darlin’,” he says. “That I do.”

Sonny’s chuckle is slow and drawn out, colored by his Texas accent, which sounds like honey in my ears and sends a pleasant shudder through me. No man has ever made me feel like this before. And by “like this” I mean feel like an idiot. I’m not the giddy, schoolgirl type, but something about this man gets me feeling close to it. It’s confounding.

“So, how is life on the beach out there?” he asks. “Enjoying the sunshine?”

“Yeah, you know, I’m just out here, laying on the beach and working on my tan while I sip Mai Tais,” I reply dryly. “Only fair, considering you’re two-steppin’ the night away in some honky-tonk?”

Sonny barks out a genuine laugh. “You know me so well.”

“Damn right I do.”

“But really, how you doin’ out there?”

I blow out a breath and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You sure you want to hear?”

“I’d like nothin’ more.”

“You asked for it.”

I run him through everything we’ve got to this point, giving special attention to the contentiousness with McCoy. Sonny listens to me drone on without complaint. He always does. It’s one of the things I appreciate most about him.

“Well,” he says when I finally finish. “I mean, I can see why McCoy is bent.”

“You can?”

“Of course, I can,” he replies. “Do you remember when we worked our first case together? I was pretty bent about you second-guessing everything I was doin’—”

“I wasn’t second-guessing you.”

“I know that. Now,” he says. “But at the time, it kind of felt that way. You’re an acquired taste, darlin’. Your way of doin’ things takes some gettin’ used to.”

I laugh softly. “An acquired taste, huh?”

“Think of yourself like one of those fine scotches you like to drink,” he says. “They tend to burn a little at first. But a couple of drinks in, it starts to go down smooth as silk.”

“That… that was clever,” I reply. “I’ll give you that one.”

Speaking of fine scotch, I pick up my glass and take a drink, relishing that smooth burn as it slides down my throat. I think I can stand being compared to a drink this fine.

“All I’m sayin’ is maybe go easy on the guy. I’m sure he’s got a brutal caseload,” Sonny goes on. “And let’s not forget—he’s human too. Probably has some things goin’ on in his personal life. Personal drama makes people… touchy.”

I can read between the lines enough to know what he’s saying. Admittedly, I’m not the easiest person to get along with when I’m being weighed down by things in my personal life. If I’m being completely honest, I’ve been known to occasionally… lash out. Poor guy has been on the receiving end of that a time or two.

“Fair enough,” I say. “Anyway, thanks for listening.”

“Always. It’s one of my favorite things to do.”

“One of these days you’ll tire of it.”

“I doubt it,” he replies. “I find you endlessly fascinating, Chief Wilder.”

The heat creeps up the back of my neck and spreads through my face. I’m suddenly glad there are hundreds of miles separating us because my cheeks are burning and, very likely, a shade of red not normally found in nature.

“What about you?” I ask. “How’s your case?”

“Well, I called because I wanted to hear your lovely voice of course,” he said. “But also, because I’ve got a question.”

His tone abruptly changes, making me sit up. The blush fades from my cheeks, and a surge of adrenaline washes through me. In the blink of an eye, Sonny’s playful, flirty tone morphed into the serious, all-business tone of Agent Garland. Something is obviously up.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“I just needed to find out if you’ve had any luck IDing our mystery woman?” he asks.

There’s a tension in his voice that makes my belly churn. Of course, I’ve IDed her. I IDed her the moment he sent me the picture. But until I am able to talk to Kit and get a handle on what the hell she’s doing and what’s going on, I’m not going to give her up.

“Not yet. We’re still working on that,” I lie, hating myself the moment the words come out of my mouth. “Why, what’s up?”

“More bodies keep turning up. They found ten more yesterday morning. All tortured, all decapitated,” he says, his voice tight. “People are getting antsy, Blake.”

“How antsy?”

“Antsy enough to do something about it,” he tells me. “Since Inez took over her brothers’ cartel, she’s left a trail of carnage in her wake. She’s got people terrified.”

“How is this any different from any other cartel takeover?” I ask. “There’s always a period of violence with new management dropping bodies to make a point and declare themselves—”

“This one just feels different.”

“What are your bosses planning on doing?”

“Not sure yet. But I’ve heard whispers they’re coordinating with the ATF and federal forces down there in Mexico. I’m hearing rumblings about a massive strike,” he says.

“It’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Yeah, it’s not going to be pleasant. From what we’ve been able to gather, Inez is well-funded, well-equipped, and ten times more ruthless than her brothers,” he responds. “But maybe if we can figure out who this woman droppin’ bodies for Inez is, we might be able to get ahead of this. We might be able to stop what’s coming.”

I drain the last of my scotch and get to my feet, then step to the railing of the balcony and stare out at the vast expanse of the ocean. The moonlight glimmers off the water, weaving silver threads through the tapestry of darkness. In any other setting, it would beautiful. Peaceful. But not right now. No, right now, I’m debating whether to give my sister up or not.

If Sonny is right and there is a task force being put together for the purpose of coordinating a strike on Inez Arias, Kit will be caught in the crossfire. His contacts in that part of the world are better than mine. If I tell him who she is, he might be able to get a line to her that I can’t. If I do that, though, I risk exposing her to whatever the DEA, ATF, or whatever other alphabet agency might be lining up to take a piece of her hide.

As a private contractor for the CIA, she doesn’t have the same protections as a regular employee. And there’s absolutely zero chance the Agency will go out on a limb for her. If the Justice Department builds a case against her for whatever she’s doing down there, the Agency will cut her loose, her usefulness to them at an end. She’s expendable. She’s just cannon fodder—a cog in their machine. That’s how they operate in Langley—they just use people up, and when they’ve outlived that usefulness, they throw them to the wolves.

“You still there?” Sonny asks.

“Yeah, sorry,” I respond, giving myself a shake. “I’ll… I’ll keep working on it. I’ll try to find out what I can as soon as I can.”

“I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, but I’d sure appreciate whatever help you can give me here,” he says.

“I’ll do whatever I can. Promise.”

A needle of guilt pierces my heart as the lie tumbles from my lips since I already know I’m not going to do what I can. In fact, more than likely, I’m going to do what I can to impede his progress identifying Kit. But what else am I supposed to do? She’s my sister. I didn’t protect her when she was just a kid—when I should have—so I’m damn sure going to do what I can to protect her now. No matter the cost.

“Thanks, Blake.”

“Of course.”

“Listen, I have to run.”

“Heading for the honky-tonk?”

He chuckles. “You know it.”

“Well, have a good time then.”

“Call you soon.”

“Sounds good,” I say. “Goodnight.”

I disconnect the call and drop my phone on the table. Leaning on the railing, I stare into the blackness of the sea, feeling as lost as I’d be if I were floating in the middle of it all. I have no idea what I’m going to do or how I’m going to protect my sister. But if I don’t do something and they launch this strike on Inez, Kit is very likely going to wind up as dead as those bodies they keep finding in the desert.

The Lamplighter, Gaslamp Quarter; San Diego, CA

A historic neighborhood and the nightlife center of San Diego, most of the buildings in the Gaslamp Quarter were built during the Victorian era. Those buildings have all been restored as house shops, restaurants, bars, and clubs. It’s a hot, hip area that brings tourists from all over who are seeking a bit of adult fun when the sun goes down.

Sandwiched between a sushi bar and a gourmet dessert shop, The Lamplighter occupies the bottom floor of a three-story, red-brick building. A smoked window looks onto the street, emblazoned with the bar’s name in gold and black lettering written with a grand flourish across the glass. A wooden door with a glass inset also bearing the bar’s name sits to the left of the window. I pull it open and step inside.

The Lamplighter is a small but quaint little place. To my right is a long, dark oak bar with brass fixtures. Flanked by shelving that holds top-shelf liquor, a large mirror stands behind the bar with The Lamplighter etched into the glass. To my left is a row of booths along the red brick wall, and a dozen tables or so line the middle of the floor. Black and white photos of the Quarter through the years adorn the walls, and the lighting is dim. Pop music issues from speakers mounted in the corners of the long, rectangular room, which sets my teeth on edge.

Being that it’s still early in the day, the bar is empty, save for the employees rushing around cleaning, organizing, and getting ready for the rush that will undoubtedly come as the sun begins to slip toward the horizon. Well, them and one old-timer who’s sitting at the far end of the bar. He’s clutching his mug tightly with both hands, staring into its depths as if he’s searching for answers to the mysteries of life and the universe.

“Excuse me,” I say to a passing waitress.

She stops and frowns, clearly annoyed that I’ve interrupted her routine. “Yes?”

“I need to see the manager, please,” I say as I badge her.

“Yeah, she’s in the back,” she replies. “Through the door, second door on your left.”

“Thank you.”

As I head for the door in the far wall, I clock the security cameras all over the place. Very security conscious. That’s good. I follow the girl’s directions, step through the door, and find myself in a storeroom. The wall to my right is lined with metal racks that are filled with boxes of various liquors, glasses, and other supplies. The door is between another set of racks and is halfway open. The office is small and cramped with room enough for a desk and hard metal chair—the kind you’d see in a school classroom—parked in front of it.

A tired-looking woman in her mid-thirties with fire-engine-red hair and dark eyes takes off her glasses and sets them down on the desk as she raises her gaze to me.

“Yes?” she asks.

I badge her. “Unit Chief Blake Wilder, FBI,” I introduce myself. “I need your help.”

She stares at my badge, an inscrutable expression on her face. “All right, I’m Dawn,” she says slowly. “Uh, what can I do for you?”

“Were you working the night of the sixteenth?”

“Umm…” she starts flipping through a calendar on the desk and nods. “I was.”

“Okay, good. I notice you have a lot of cameras on the floor. I’m hoping they work?”

“They do.”

“Excellent,” I say. “I need to look at your footage for that night, please.”

An expression of uncertainty crosses her face. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“I’m looking into an incident involving one of your patrons on that night.”

“You think something happened here? I don’t recall anything happening, and I’m sure an incident serious enough to bring the FBI in is something I’d remember.”

I shake my head. “No, it didn’t happen on the premises. But we think it was initiated here.”

Her face is troubled, but she turns to her computer and calls up the security feeds. The view on her monitor shows eight split screens, all too small to make out individually.

“Sorry, this office is tiny,” Dawn says. “But you can probably squeeze behind me.”

It is a squeeze, but I somehow manage to fit between the back of her chair and the shelving unit behind her. So long as I don’t breathe out, I should be fine. Dawn calls up the feeds for the night I asked for and turns her head.

“Do you know around what time?” she asks.

“Start around seven thirty that night.”

“All right.”

Dawn taps a few keys, and the footage cuts to seven thirty. I watch the screens closely, noticing the mass of people coming and going from the bar.

“Popular place,” I say.

“One of the hottest spots in the neighborhood.”

We watch the feeds in silence for a couple of minutes, and I scan the faces of the women all around the bar. It’s starting to feel a bit like searching for a needle in a haystack. But then around seven-fifty, there’s a slight thinning of the crowd, and I see her.

“Wait,” I say and point to the fifth camera angle. “There. Can you blow that one up?”

Dawn does as I ask, enlarging the feed I want to see. And there she is. Sonya Hyder. She and Misty are seated at a table talking and laughing, just as she’d told me. About five minutes later, Misty gets up and leaves the table. Also, just as she’d told me. A moment after that, the man she described for me steps into the frame and talks to Sonya. It’s obvious from her body language—rigid and leaning away from him as if she’s trying to create physical distance—that she wants nothing to do with him. But, like Misty said, he didn’t take the hint. It wasn’t until Sonya got visibly upset and appeared to yell at him that the man turned and skulked away, quickly leaving the bar.

“Do you recognize that man?” I ask.

“I don’t. I’m sorry,” Dawn replies.

She works with the cameras and finds him in one feed sitting alone at the end of the bar. We watch for a moment as he seems to be staring at Sonya—or is at least staring in the direction of where she and Misty are sitting. Unfortunately, there is no camera angle that shows them both in the picture at the same time, so it’s impossible to determine. But given that he got up and headed over to Sonya’s table the minute Misty headed for the bathroom, it’s a reasonable assumption that he was sitting there watching her.

“Yeah, I was in the back. I didn’t see any of this at all,” Dawn tells me. “Did this guy do something to that woman?”

As I watch the feed, an idea occurs to me. “Can you back that feed up? I see he’s got a drink sitting in front of him, but I want to know how he paid.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Dawn rewinds the feed. We watch him sitting there for a little while before getting his drink. Other than a couple of brief words, he doesn’t speak to the bartender, or anybody else for that matter. He’s just sitting alone at the bar… watching Sonya. She freezes the picture as he’s pulling a card out of his wallet. Gotcha.

“Looks like he used a debit or credit card,” Dawn says.

“Okay, can you use the time stamp on this video to find his card transaction in your payment system?” I ask.

“Yeah, I think so.”

She minimizes the video screens and pulls up her credit transaction system. Dawn punches in the date and time, and a short list of the transactions processed at that time comes up.

“Looks like two cards were processed at that time,” she says. “One is a woman; the other is a man—Donovan Scherff.”

Donovan Scherff… yet another name that wasn’t in the file. I have to wonder if McCoy talked to and cleared him already—and didn’t feel the need to note him in the file—or if he never talked to him at all. Which, if he didn’t, is egregiously incompetent. I pull out my notebook and quickly jot down the name. I’ll have Nina do a quick and dirty on him when I get back to the war room.

“That is great, Dawn. Thank you,” I say. “I really appreciate your help.”

“Did he hurt this woman?” she asks.

“I really can’t say much. This is an ongoing investigation,” I reply. “All I can say right now is I need to have a conversation with him. That’s all.”

“Of course,” she says, but I can see her imagining the worst.

I slip her my card. “I may need to speak with the bartenders on duty that night. If you could email me their names and contact information, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure. Yeah. I’ll do that.”

“Terrific. Thank you very much for your help, Dawn.”

“I hope it works out.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

I walk out of The Lamplighter feeling a bit charged to have a lead. Of course, I have to temper it a bit knowing it’s possibly ground McCoy has already trod. And that’s why the paperwork needs to be tight and clean: so you’re not doing the same work twice. For now, though, I’ve got a thread, so I’m going to pull it for all its worth.

San Diego Police Department, Sex Crimes Unit, Conference Room C; San Diego, CA

Stepping into the war room, I close the door behind me, then give it a moment’s thought and lock it as well. I don’t need McCoy sneaking in and eavesdropping on us again. All eyes are on me as I walk in and set my things down on the table, then take a quick drink of water.

“All right, Nina, what have you found?” I ask.

“Could you be more specific? I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire,” she teases.

“About McCoy,” I reply with a grin. “Sorry.”

Nina tips me a wink and turns to her computer, tapping a few keys. She takes a moment to review what comes up on her screen as if to re-familiarize herself with the information.

“Okay, so it seems that Detective McCoy has been with the SDPD for twenty-four years, starting as a beat cop and working his way up to detective,” she says. “He’s pretty highly decorated and has numerous citations and other awards in his file. By the looks of it, he’s got an outstanding reputation within the department. But in the last couple of years, his performance reviews haven’t been quite as sterling. Still good—above average, even—but his marks haven’t been quite as high.”

“Maybe he’s hitting burnout?” Astra offers.

“Could be,” Nina replies. “But I also show that about a year and a half ago, his wife filed for divorce—they’d been married since he was twenty—and their kid, Marissa, a twenty-year-old junior at UC San Diego, went with the wife.”

“Can’t be easy losing a twenty-five-year marriage and your kid in one fell swoop,” Astra says.

“Did you find anything listing the reason for the divorce?” I ask.

“It just notes irreconcilable differences,” Nina answers.

“Ahh yes, the ole irreconcilable differences,” Paige says. “Those two words tend to do a lot of work in divorce proceedings.”

“They do,” I agree. “Do me a favor and dig a little deeper. See if you can find out what the root of those irreconcilable differences were.”

“Copy that, Chief.”

I turn to Astra. “His divorce seems to coincide with the decline in his work performance.”

“And knowing he’s slipping might explain his hostility toward us going over his work again.”

“Makes sense.”

“There’s more,” Nina says. “About a year ago, he started his own private security company. From what I am gathering, it’s completely on the down-low right now but is starting to yield fruit. It’s not a raging success just yet, but it’s doing fairly well. He’s got some pretty high-end clients.”

“Can I ask why we’re looking into Detective McCoy?” Paige asks.

“I’m just trying to get a feel for him. I want to know why he’s so defensive and is trying to cut us off at the knees,” I say.

“Sounds like he’s got a lot on his plate,” Astra says. “And like he’s got himself set up with an exit strategy when he pulls the pin here.”

“He’s already got enough time in; he can get out now with a full pension,” Paige says.

“And can double-dip with a nice side gig from his security company,” Astra adds.

His attention is split between his caseload and his fledgling company, and he’s dealing with the fallout from what sounds like a nasty divorce. That is definitely a cocktail for shoddy investigative work. And, as Astra pointed out, it could explain why he’s so snippy with us. He knows he’s dropping the ball and doesn’t want us swooping in and making him look bad by potentially cracking this case. It all makes a lot more sense now.

It’s unfortunate that he’d diminish what was probably a stellar career by tanking this badly as close to the finish line as he is, but it is what it is. There’s nothing I can do to help him on that account. All we can do is move forward with our case now that I have some context on Detective McCoy and his antics. He’s checked out, and as they say, has one foot out the door—but doesn’t want to look bad while he’s going. That’s all I needed to know.

“Okay, next item up—”

A knock on the conference room door cuts me off. Astra jumps up and opens the door, revealing a sheepish Detective Rhodes standing there.

“Hi, sorry. Am I interrupting?” she asks.

“Not at all,” I reply. “We were just digging into the day’s activities. What’s up?”

“McCoy sent me over to liaise with you guys. So, here I am… liaising,” she says.

“Glad to have you. Have a seat,” I say.

Rhodes takes a seat at the table and pulls a notebook and pen out of her messenger bag, which she then sets at her feet. She turns and gives me her full attention. Unlike her partner, she seems attentive and fastidious. Something tells me she understands that details matter and that her paperwork is always tight. But Rhodes is in her early thirties—a junior detective to McCoy—and as such, has to follow her partner’s lead. We haven’t had much in the way of interactions, but the few we’ve had make me think she’s not exactly thrilled with the way he goes about the job.

“Okay, Nina, I need you to give me what you can on Donovan Scherff,” I say, then spell out the last name.

“And who is that?” Rhodes asks.

Gritting my teeth hard enough to shatter stone, I have to keep from rolling my eyes. This one was a layup. Scherff should have been one of the first people on their list of suspects. It took me all of five minutes to get that name. This is on McCoy, I remind myself. Not Rhodes.

“Sonya Hyder had a less-than-pleasant interaction with Scherff at The Lamplighter the night she was killed,” I say. “I went by earlier today and saw the security footage from that night.”

Rhodes frowns and seems to be realizing how badly her partner failed. Realizing there’s nothing she can say that will justify or mitigate the failure, she doesn’t say anything for a long moment. But then she clears her throat and raises her head.

“When we interviewed Misty Cauley, she said something about Sonya having a bad interaction. But it was hours before her estimated time of death, so Detective McCoy didn’t think it was relevant and didn’t follow up,” she says. “I wasn’t so sure but didn’t say anything. I should have. Being assertive, especially with my superiors, has never been my strong suit.”

Astra’s expression is sympathetic. “Trust us… we know better than most just how difficult it is to speak up. It’s difficult being a woman in a field as dominated by men as law enforcement is. It’s even more difficult when you’re perceived to be… difficult,” she says, making air quotes.

“Yeah. But… I need to learn to be more assertive. To stand up—but I haven’t, and that’s on me,” Rhodes says.

“The good thing is, that’s something you can learn and start now,” Astra says.

“Don’t be so concerned with how these guys are viewing you. They don’t matter. What matters is whether you can do the job. And having worked with you a little already, I think you can do the job. Really well. Being a good cop, doing good work—that’s what is going to make them see you,” Paige offers.

“Thank you,” Rhodes says. “I appreciate that.”

“Okay, so, Donovan Scherff,” Nina cuts in. “Anybody want to hear about him?”

“Please,” I say. “Enlighten us.”

“All right then,” she chirps.

Nina hits a couple of keys, and the DMV photo of the man pops up on the computer screen. Chestnut-colored hair, short and stylishly tousled, frames a lean, angular face. He’s got high cheekbones, a strong nose, and as Misty had mentioned, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes are a golden hazel color, his eyebrows are thin and look professionally shaped, and his lips are full and bow shaped.

Paige whistles. “I mean… I know he’s a suspect and potentially a really bad guy and all, but that is one good-looking man.”

“I’ll make sure he gets your number,” Astra says.

“Meet Donovan Jacob Scherff, thirty-six years old,” Nina says. “He is a golf pro at Torrey Pines, single, never married, has no criminal record, and is current with his taxes. His social media footprint is pretty much limited to his business. There isn’t much in the way of personal posting. It’s more like he uses his socials to advertise his services. Lots of pictures from the golf course, offers of private lessons, yadda, yadda, yadda.”

I give Nina the thumb drive with the copy of the surveillance footage Dawn gave me. She plugs it in and starts to play it. The room falls silent as the footage starts to play. We watch the view of Scherff sitting at the bar, his eyes laser focused on somebody off screen. A moment later, the view shifts to the table where Sonya and Misty are sitting. On screen, Misty stands up and walks off screen, and Scherff sidles over to the table. We watch the brief but intense confrontation between them, then see him slink away and leave the bar. The video ends.

“Sonya was having nothing to do with him,” Paige says.

“Not one bit,” Nina adds.

Rhodes grimaces and lowers her gaze, an expression of frustration crossing her face as she realizes just how badly her partner screwed up. Scherff should have been the first person they interviewed, and she knows it. Part of me feels bad for her. She trusted her senior partner, and his lax attitude toward the case is tainting her reputation. But there’s not much I can do about it. Interdepartmental politics is well above my pay grade.

“Do we have a current address for Mr. Scherff?” I ask.

“We do. He’s currently living in La Jolla,” she replies. “Address is already texted to you.”

“You are good at your job,” I say.

“Glad you noticed.”

“Detective Rhodes, why don’t you come with me?”

She raises her eyes, surprise on her face. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m feeling kind of left out here,” Astra says with a faux pout.

“Fear not, I have something for you and Paige. I’m going to text you the driver information for the EZ-Ride Sonya took home from The Lamplighter,” I respond. “I’d like you two to go talk to him. Give him a thorough going-over since right now, he is the last person to see her alive.”

“Copy you,” Astra says. “Come on, Paige; let’s go have some fun and rattle his cage.”

“Excellent,” Paige says. “But I get to play bad cop this time.”

Astra scoffs. “Please. You’re too light and fluffy to play bad cop.”

They get to their feet, bickering about their roles as they walk out of the war room. Chuckling to myself, I turn to Rhodes. Her eyes are gleaming, her jaw is clenched, and her face is etched with the determination of a woman seeking to redeem herself.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Let’s do it.”

Torrey Pines Golf Course Employee Parking Lot, La Jolla District; San Diego, CA

“That looks like it right there,” Rhodes says as she consults her phone. “Plates match.”

“Good catch.”

The sun glints off the windshields of the cars that fill the employee parking lot. We find a spot a couple of spots down from the sporty, late model black BMW X1that belongs to Donovan Scherff. Rather than bust in on him while he’s giving lessons, I decided it would be better for us to catch him when he’s off the clock. If he is our guy, rather than risk spooking him with people around and having him do something rash, we thought it safer to approach him in a parking lot where the risk of collateral damage is lower.

Rhodes has been quiet since we left the station. Her posture is tense and rigid. I’m sure she’s going over the case—specifically, all that McCoy let slip through the cracks and everything she thinks she should have done. She seems conscientious, and I know this is all grating on her.

“Scherff drives a nice car,” I say, just trying to make conversation.

“Golf pros tend to make good money.”

“Looks like it.”

She pauses, a sour expression crossing her face. “We should have already talked to this guy,” she finally says. “Scherff should have been our first stop. We should have gotten the security footage from The Lamplighter.”

Saying it out loud seems to bring her some bit of relief but a greater sense of aggravation at the same time. Rhodes doesn’t seem like she’s searching for absolution. It’s more like she had that thought already and is just confirming to herself that it was the right one. Working under a strong personality like McCoy has obviously done a number on her self-confidence. And if there’s one thing an investigator needs, it’s confidence. They need to trust their instincts. Rhodes is obviously shaky on both counts right now.

“You know, when I was assigned to partner up with McCoy, I was stoked,” she says. “His reputation is stellar. He’s closed some of the biggest cases in the department’s history. The guy is a legend. I couldn’t believe I was going to get a chance to learn under him.’

“Seems like the reality hasn’t lived up to the expectation.”

She chuffs. “Far from it. He’s checked out. Doing the bare minimum, just playing out the string until he hits twenty-five,” she says. “The day he hits that magic number, he’s pulling the pin. He’s already getting his next chapter set up… but that’s not common knowledge.”

“His security company?”

“Yeah,” she replies, a tone of bitterness in her voice. “I only know about it because I’ve had to cover for him while he’s run out for a job a few times. He didn’t really have any choice but to loop me in about it.”

“And you covered him?”

“What else could I do? For better or worse, he’s a sexist prick, but he’s my partner,” she replies. “It’s hard enough to get by in the department without adding snitch to people’s perceptions of me. They already think I don’t deserve my detective’s shield.”

“How long have you had it?”

“About eight months,” she tells me. “I was given a golden ticket after an incident about a year ago.”

“Yeah? What was the incident?”

She sighs, her expression pained, as if the recollection physically hurts. “I was still on patrol… riding solo. I got a call out to a domestic one night. It was pretty nasty,” she says, her words accompanied by a grimace as the memories batter her. “A couple other units got there before I did. When I rolled up, they were under fire already. It was an ambush. Local gangbanger wanted to make his bones killing a couple of cops…”

Her voice trails off, and she turns away as if she’s reliving that night all over again. It seems to cause her as much pain today as the night it happened. Rhodes sniffs and squares her shoulders as she runs a hand over her face, quickly pulling herself together.

“The other two responders were hit,” she goes on. “I… I just reacted. I wasn’t thinking—I just saw what was happening and knew if I didn’t do something, things were going to be even worse than they already were.”

Her reluctance to talk about it shows me she’s not one for basking in her glory. To get a golden ticket, meaning her choice of assignment anywhere in the department, tells me whatever she did was heroic. Above and beyond the call of duty. Golden tickets aren’t given out lightly or without due cause.

“What did you do, Rhodes?”

Her eyes are haunted. “That piece of garbage was still taking shots at us. It was like he was intent on killing every cop who showed up—or maybe just to keep firing until he ran out of bullets. I don’t know. But I got them to safety, then engaged,” she says. “It was probably luck more than anything, but I managed to drop him.”

“I doubt it was just lucky,” I tell her. “And what you did was heroic. You earned that promotion. The people who say otherwise are idiots.”

“I just did what anybody else would have done.”

“No. They wouldn’t have,” I tell her. “Being a cop is hard. It’s dangerous. But it takes a different kind of person to do what you did. Most wouldn’t wade into live fire like that to save her fellow officers—and still manage to drop the shooter. Don’t sell yourself short, Rhodes. You earned your shield. Don’t let anybody tell you any different.”

She lowers her gaze again and says nothing. She’s stoic, but I can see that she’s glad to have somebody validate her and what she did. The lack of support she receives makes me feel bad for her. In a way, she reminds me of Opal. She found herself in a similar situation as Rhodes, and in my opinion, she reacted just as heroically. But unlike the detective, Opal drew inward after the incident, taking herself out of the field and convincing herself it was what she wanted.

“Anyway, before I got off on that tangent, what I was getting at was that I should have been more vocal. When I saw that McCoy essentially checked out of this case, I should have taken control and run it the right way,” Rhodes says. “I know how to investigate a case, and I should have done more. Done… something. But I was just following McCoy’s lead. That’s on me. If I’d spoken up before, maybe Sonya Hyder would still be alive.”

“You can’t let yourself play that game. We don’t know what would have or wouldn’t have happened,” I tell her. “Doing that is only going to make you keep second-guessing yourself. And if there’s one thing you cannot do in this game, it’s second-guess yourself. You have to have faith in yourself and your abilities, Detective Rhodes.”

“But if I had—”

I cut her off with a shake of my head. “But nothing. You’re here now. You’re present and engaged. All you can do right now is stay in the moment and work the case. And we’re going to start with our boy because here he comes. Heads up.”

We climb out of the Yukon as Scherff approaches his Beemer, getting in between him and his ride. Rhodes circles around behind him, cutting off that potential avenue of escape. Up close, he is strikingly handsome. Tall, fit, with underwear-model good looks and eyes that look gold in the sunlight. He stops, a confused, slightly concerned expression on his face. He glances at Rhodes over his shoulder before he turns to me and sets his golf bag down on the kickstand to keep from laying it on the asphalt.

“Unit Chief Wilder, FBI,” I say as I badge him. “That’s Detective Rhodes, SDPD.”

“All right,” he says. “And what is this about?”

“Sonya Hyder,” Rhodes says.

“Who?”

“The woman you harassed at The Lamplighter on the night of the sixteenth.”

His cheeks flush as he lowers his gaze. His full lips curl downward as he runs a hand through his tousled, sand-colored hair.

“I never got her name,” he said. “I didn’t harass her. She wasn’t interested and asked me to leave, so I did. Is she saying something different? Because if she is—”

“She’s not saying much anymore,” I cut him off. “She’s dead.”

His face pales, and his mouth falls open. “Dead?”

“That’s what I said.”

Almost belatedly, his eyes widen as the implication of my words seem to sink in. He stares at me for a moment in shock. I can see the gears of his brain turning from here.

“You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with this,” he says.

“We aren’t sure what to think right now, Mr. Scherff.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“We have you on video harassing her,” Rhodes says.

“I didn’t harass her!”

“You were staring at her pretty hard from across the room,” she counters.

He sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair, his expression one of confusion blended with fear. I have to admit, he’s not what I was expecting. He’s soft-spoken, his voice high and almost musical. When I saw his photo, I had expected him to be the loud, belligerent, frat-boy type. I’d anticipated him being argumentative and brash. Because of his good looks and obvious wealth, I’d figured he would be dismissive, perhaps a bit misogynistic.

But he’s not. If anything, he seems a bit uncertain. The fact that he can’t meet my eyes and continues to shuffle his feet, underscoring his nervousness and uncertainty, suggests he’s a bit socially awkward. He’s not being bold or argumentative. He’s actually being polite and reacting how I would expect anybody who’s being questioned by the authorities to react. It’s not often I’m surprised by somebody’s behavior. This is one of those times.

He finally raises his eyes but still won’t meet mine. Instead, I can tell he’s staring at some distant point over my shoulder. It’s one of the oldest tricks in the book for the socially awkward to keep from offending people by not meeting their eyes.

“I thought she was beautiful. I was staring at her because I was trying to work up the nerve to go talk to her,” he says, his voice soft but insistent.

“You? Trying to work up the nerve?” Rhodes asked.

He nods. “Yeah. Meeting people isn’t my strong suit. I have to work myself into it.”

Rhodes and I exchange a glance, her face twisted with disbelief. A guy who looks like a Hollywood leading man isn’t somebody we’d usually associate with being shy or awkward around women. Guys like Scherff tend to be overbearing and carry a sense of entitlement about them—an entitlement that carries over to women whom they seem to think owe them something. Scherff is either a fantastic actor, or he’s an anomaly.

“I finally managed to work up the balls to shoot my shot,” he said. “I tried, but she wasn’t interested. I left. If you saw me on video sitting at the bar, then I’m sure you saw me leaving as well.”

“We did,” I respond. “Where did you go after you left the bar?”

“I came here.”

“The club isn’t open that late,” Rhodes said.

“I have a key,” he replied. “I came here and used the VR simulator. It’s something I do to blow off stress and get my mind off things.”

“Can you prove that?” Rhodes asks.

“Yeah. I had a match with another player. We played until almost one that morning,” he replies. “The system records everything.”

“Can you show us?” I ask.

“Yeah. Sure.”

We give him a minute to put his clubs into his car before he leads us into the club. We walk into a large room with half a dozen simulators, each lane separated by a thick, black netting. Scherff takes us over to a desk that has so many different monitors and buttons it makes me think of Mission Control at NASA. But he drops into a chair and pulls a keyboard out, quickly typing in a series of commands.

“I usually start my clients out on the sims,” he says. “It helps me break down their swings so I can give them better advice out on the course.”

He gestures to the monitor. On the screen, we watch as Scheff steps into view and tees up one of the balls. On a small screen within the screen is another player. He and Scherff are chatting as they play. He points to the time stamp on the footage we’re watching. It’s from the sixteenth, and he teed off at about eight thirty. Another couple of keystrokes takes us to the end of the match which shows that it was almost one.

He turns. “See? I was here.”

“And where did you go after?” Rhodes asks.

“Home,” he replies. “I’ve got internal security cameras that will show you I got home about one thirty and never left again. I ate something and fell asleep on the couch. I can send you that footage if you’d like.”

“I would,” I reply and hand him a card. “I would appreciate it if you could email that footage to me as soon as you can, please.”

“Of course,” he replies.

I give Rhodes a quick nod. This has turned out to be a dead end, so it’s better to cut our losses now.

“All right. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr. Scherff,” I say. “We appreciate it.”

He frowns. “She’s really dead, huh?”

“She is.”

“That’s a shame.”

“It is,” I reply. “Have a nice day, Mr. Scherff.”

I lead Rhodes out of the simulator room and back out to the parking lot. We climb into the Yukon, neither of us speaking a word. She turns to me, a crooked grin on her lips.

“If that guy is having trouble getting a date, what hope is there for the rest of us?”

A laugh bursts from my mouth as I start the SUV and pull out of the lot, pointing us back toward the war room, back at square one.

The Current Lounge, Mission Beach District; San Diego, CA

“How’d things go with the EZ-Ride driver?” I ask.

“His name is Marvin Best, and they didn’t,” Astra replies. “We spent the whole day running around looking for this guy, and we couldn’t find him.”

“You think he’s running?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t. He has about a thousand different gigs in addition to EZ-Ride. Most are similar—grocery delivery, take out delivery, odd jobs like that. He was likely off doing one of those, and we just never linked up. I left a couple of messages for him but haven’t heard back yet.”

“I guess we have to respect the hustle.”

“I guess,” she grumbles.

“Don’t worry; we’ll run him down.”

Sitting on a bluff overlooking the Pacific, the entire rear wall of the Current Lounge is made of glass, offering a stunning view of the ocean. The interior is cozy, with booths all around, plenty of tables in the center of the floor, and a stage at the far end for live music. A long, oak bar runs along the wall opposite the windows, with brass fixtures, frosted globe lights hanging from the ceiling running the length of it, and bartenders in tuxedo shirts and bow ties.

Right now, it’s about three quarters full, the buzz of conversation soft, as is the music playing from speakers discreetly placed around the main floor. Astra and I are sitting at a table on the back deck, a soft ocean breeze stirring our hair, sipping our drinks. After a long day, I wanted to unwind, regroup, and figure out what our next steps are going to be.

“What about you?” Astra asks. “How’d things go with Scherff?”

“Not our guy. He’s on video until almost one that morning.”

“On video?”

“Golf simulator,” I say. “After Sonya shot him down, he went back to the golf club and played a round of golf with somebody on the simulator.”

“Wild times.”

“You’d think a guy like that—good-looking and wealthy—would be knee-deep in panties every night of the week,” I say. “But he’s awkward.”

“Paige will be so glad to hear that.”

“Rhodes is an interesting figure.”

“How so?”

I share what she told me about her rise to detective with Astra. I also tell her about everything else she told me about her relationship with McCoy, her own doubts, and her hesitance about stepping in when she saw her partner’s less-than-enthusiastic investigative methods.

“I think she’s got what it takes to be a good cop,” I tell her. “But she let herself get caught up in McCoy’s mystique as well as her own uncertainty which kept her from taking charge.”

“Yeah, I kind of got that sense from her. She doesn’t want to rock the boat. And she really doesn’t want to go head-to-head with McCoy. From what I’ve been hearing, the guy’s an eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the department and still has a lot of influence,” she responds. “I can’t blame her for not wanting to step in front of that train. It’s the surest way to find herself cutting parking tickets on the overnight shift.”

“At least we know what his deal is. He’s got one foot out the door, and his focus isn’t on solving these cases. It’s on his retirement and building his security firm,” I say. “I think we can run the investigation as we see fit without worrying too much about stepping on his toes anymore.”

She arches an eyebrow at me. “When did you worry about stepping on his toes?”

“Hey, I can be delicate.”

“Uh-huh. Next time you’re delicate, make sure to tell me. I wouldn’t want to miss it.”

I drain the last of my scotch and call for another round. We sit in silence until our waitress drops off our drinks and takes away our empty glasses. As we sit and relax, sloughing off the weight of the day, a deep, dark shadow crosses my heart. I taste something sour and acidic in the back of my throat and try to swallow it down.

“What is it?” Astra asks.

“I got a call from Sonny last night.”

“Let me guess: he’s pressing you for the ID on Inez’s new hitter?”

“Bingo,” I respond. “He says they found more mutilated and decapitated bodies.”

Astra sits back in her chair and takes a swallow of her drink. The news seems to be troubling her as much as it’s bothering me. She sets her glass down and turns her eyes to me.

“You don’t think there’s any way Kit really is—”

“No,” I cut her off. “There’s no way she’s doing this.”

I take another swallow of my scotch and sit back, my mind whirling a thousand miles an hour. That sour taste in my throat is only getting stronger. Astra is watching me closely, her expression neutral, but her eyes glittering darkly. I can’t say I haven’t thought about it. Given Kit’s background and the fact that her skills and training make her one of the most lethal people I know, the question isn’t whether she could do this. She could. The question is whether she is doing this.

My gut reaction, of course, is that there is no way in hell my kid sister is running around Mexico cutting people’s heads off. She’s my sister, and I don’t want to believe she’s capable of it. I want to believe she’s good and is using all those deadly skills she has for good. I may not like what she’s doing or who she’s doing it for, but ever since she got away from her former life, she’s been working to protect American lives. She’s been passionate about using her abilities to keep this country and everybody in it safe.

But if I’m being truthful and objective—something I have a difficult time doing when it comes to Kit—I have to admit the possibility exists that she might be behind these murders. I would have to admit there is a certain set of traumas and triggers that might have led to her doing something so grisly. It’s possible something might have happened that flipped that switch in her head and turned her into a monster. I just don’t know.

And that’s the problem with not knowing what she’s doing out there for the Agency. Or if she’s even working for them right now. They put her in high stress, high pressure, life or death situations routinely, and then ride her hard to accomplish their objectives. A person can only exist in those conditions, under that kind of pressure, for so long before they crack. I know my sister has a monster inside of her. Had something happened that let it back out of its cage?

“Sonny says there’s a joint task force—DEA, ATF, and Mexican federal police—putting together a strike plan,” I tell her. “They’re going after Inez—”

“And you’re afraid Kit will be caught in the crossfire.”

“Yeah. And without being able to get ahold of her, I can’t warn her of what’s coming.”

“Why not tell Sonny who Kit is? Tell him she’s working some angle for the Agency?” Astra asks. “It might get him to back off this talk of a strike.”

“I thought about it. I’m worried if I tell him who she is, her name will get out. And if it leaks that she’s an undercover Agency plant, it’ll get her killed. And I don’t trust anybody in any of those agencies to not leak her name.”

“Yeah, I probably wouldn’t either,” Astra says.

She takes another sip of her drink as I turn and watch the sun slipping below the horizon. The sky is streaked with fiery hues of red and orange, and the sun glints brightly off the surface of the ocean. The dark silhouettes of the surfers taking their last rides of the day bob in the water. Seagulls circle overhead, lazily riding the currents of wind. The entire scene is peaceful… idyllic… and seems fully at odds with the tempest raging inside me.

“What about her handler?” Astra asks. “Any word yet?”

I shake my head. “I’ve sent him an email… a few emails, actually. But I haven’t heard a single word back from him.”

“And you’ve never met this guy?”

“Never. Honestly, I’m not sure if Beck is his real name or not.”

Astra purses her lips. “I’ll just go back to what I said earlier… if there really is a problem and Kit is that far off the reservation, you would have heard from Beck by now. They’ll have to assume you have some sort of back-channel way to contact Kit and would be knocking down your door.”

“But I don’t.”

“They don’t know that though,” she says.

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’m sure I am.”

“This still doesn’t solve the biggest problem on my plate though,” I say. “How am I supposed to warn her there is an attack coming?”

Astra blows out a long breath. “That I don’t know.”

I drain the last of my drink as a host of dark thoughts spin through my mind. I don’t know the answer to that question either. And that’s the biggest problem.

What in the hell are you doing down there, Kit?

The Lamplighter, Gaslamp Quarter; San Diego, CA

After a largely fruitless day, we finally caught a break. Thanks to a tip from somebody at the EZ-Ride offices, we found out Marvin Best had signed in to work a shift. Rather than run all over town trying to find his car, we opted to have him come to us by ordering a ride, specifically requesting he be our driver. Astra and I are standing outside the Lamplighter, waiting for him to arrive. Work smarter, not harder.

“We are in position, Chief,” Paige’s voice crackles in my earpiece.

I key my mic open. “Copy you. Stand by.”

“Standing by.”

Just in case Marvin gets squirrely, we’ve got Paige and Rhodes stationed just down the street in a chase car. I’m hoping it won’t be necessary. McCoy declined to attend our little soiree, telling us he was off the clock and had things to do. I’m assuming he’s got a gig with his security company. But that’s fine. I don’t want anybody with us who’s not one hundred percent in anyway.

It’s just past seven, and the streets of The Gaslamp Quarter are already bustling with people. Music is playing at an obnoxious level from the cars cruising by, and groups of college-aged kids yelling and shouting as they pass by rings in my ears, making me grit my teeth. Astra laughs and nudges me in the side with her elbow.

“You’re in danger of turning into a grumpy old lady,” she says.

“I’m past the danger,” I reply. “I’m already there.”

“Not until you tell somebody to get off your lawn.”

“I live in a condo; I don’t have a lawn.”

“Okay. You might actually be there then,” she teases. “Come on… they’re just kids out having a good time. You remember what a good time is, right?”

“Sure. But do they have to be so damn loud about it? I was never that loud.”

“Maybe you should have been. Maybe you wouldn’t be such a grumpy old lady if you would have cut loose and screamed like an idiot while you were out having fun.”

“Pretty sure the amount of fun I have doesn’t correlate to how loud I am.”

“You wouldn’t know because you never tried it.”

I laugh. “Shut up.”

“Just sayin’.”

My earpiece crackles, and Rhodes’s voice comes through. “Contact confirmed. Blue Honda Civic, license plate Alpha-Tango-Whisky-Four-Seven-Three-November approaching.”

“Copy you,” I say, then turn to Astra. “Our ride is here.”

A couple of moments later, the Civic pulls to the curb in front of us and stops. I confirm the plate and give Astra a nod. She approaches the driver’s side from the rear as I keep Marvin’s attention on me. I lean down and give him a smile through the open window.

“Hey,” I say. “Marvin?”

“That’s me,” he says with a thick Dominican accent.

“Blake, right?” he asks.

“That’s right,” I reply. “And I’m going to need you to get out of the car.”

“Excuse me?”

I hold my badge up for him to see as Astra opens the door and hauls Marvin out. He yells in surprise and squirms in her grasp, but she pins him to the side of his car, and before he even knows what’s happening, she slaps cuffs on him in one fluid motion.

“What in the hell is going on?” he shouts.

My earpiece crackles. “Astra’s pretty slick with those cuffs,” Paige says. “Makes me wonder if she’s practicing at home on Benjamin.”

Astra turns to where Paige and Rhodes are parked and smiles wide. “Please. I’m a pro. I don’t need to practice anymore. But if you ever want to improve your skills for that special man in your life, I can give you some pointers.”

“I may just take you up on that.”

“Okay, that’s gross,” I say. “Let’s talk to Marvin, shall we?”

“Copy that,” Astra says and chuckles.

As the hordes of people passing by on the sidewalk turn to gawk at us, Astra walks Marvin to the passenger side of the car and leans him against it. He’s confused and angry, his face dark and twisted with outrage.

“What in the hell is this about?” he demands.

As I get my first good look at Marvin, I already know he’s not our guy. Astra is gnawing on her lower lip as she studies him, seeming to be coming to the same conclusion. Marvin is five-six at most and has a slight frame. He’s a small guy. All the victims we’ve spoken with mentioned that their attacker was large—and didn’t speak with an accent.

That doesn’t let him off the hook completely just yet. We never got a chance to interview Sonya Hyder, so we have no idea what her attacker looked like. And as far as we know, he was the last person to see her alive, which means he’s still a suspect. However, the fact that a red rose was left in Sonya’s house, same as the other victims, makes me doubt that this is our guy. The rose is a holdback known only to the police and not common knowledge, so there’s no chance Marvin would have read that detail in the paper and matched his crime to piggyback on it. But still, it’s incumbent on me to question him and do our due diligence.

“Marvin, the night of the sixteenth, you gave a ride to this woman,” I say and hold my phone up, letting him see the picture of Sonya.

He leans forward and stares at it closely, then grimaces and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I give a lot of people rides, lady.”

“It’s Chief,” I correct him. “Chief Wilder, and that is SSA Russo.”

“Fine. Whatever. It don’t change that one face looks like any other in the rearview mirror, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“Well, the simple fact is you picked this woman up at this very bar,” Astra says, gesturing to The Lamplighter. “And you drove her home.”

“Okay? If you say so.”

“And then you signed out after you dropped her off,” I say. “Where did you go?”

He pulls a face and turns away, seeming to be thinking about it. “What night was that?”

“The sixteenth,” I answer.

He takes another minute, then nods. “Yeah, yeah, okay. That was the night I drove some dude up to LAX.”

My expression is incredulous. “You drove somebody from San Diego up to LAX?”

“I did. It’s a dude I drive pretty regularly. Rich guy. Always off the books,” he says. “He gives me three hundred bucks and pays for gas to take him up there.”

“Why doesn’t he fly out of San Diego?”

“What do I care? It’s good money,” Marvin protests. “He wants me to take him up to LAX; I take him up to LAX. I do it a couple of times a month.”

“Can you prove that?” Astra asks.

“Check my GPS, man,” he replies. “It stores my routes.”

“We have your permission to access your device?” I ask.

“If it’ll get you off my ass, access the damn thing,” he cries. “I didn’t do nothin’.”

Astra is already in motion. She slides into the driver’s seat and opens up his dash-mounted GPS device. She takes a couple of minutes to scroll through everything, then gives me a nod before she gets out and comes back around.

“Log shows he drove from here to LA that night,” she says.

“See? I told you,” he says. “So, are we done here?”

“Not quite yet,” Astra says. “There’s a gap between when you dropped that woman off and when you headed north. Looks like an hour or so.”

“Plenty of time,” I note.

“Plenty of time for what?”

“Where did you go in that hour?” I ask.

“To get something to eat,” he says. “I worked all day—I’ve got more than just this gig—so I don’t got a regular meal break, you know? I dropped that chick off, then got somethin’ to eat, then picked up my fare and drove to LAX.”

“Do you have proof of that?” I ask.

“I can show you, man,” he says. “I just need my hands.”

With it looking like he’s not our guy, I give Astra a nod, and she unhooks him. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens it, then pulls up his banking app and signs in. It takes him a moment to find the transaction, but he turns the phone around to show me.

“See? I was at Morello’s,” he says.

The time stamp on his transaction show he paid for his food maybe twenty minutes after dropping Sonya off at her house. With drive time to the restaurant, that might have left him ten minutes to kill her. But given the state of her body and the extensive damage done to it as well as her room, I really don’t think it’s near enough time. That, combined with the man’s stature not matching the description the victims gave us, and his prevalent accent, leads me to conclude Marvin Best is in the clear. He’s not our guy.

“All right, I’m sorry if we scared you, Mr. Best,” I tell him. “We apologize for any inconvenience this has caused you.”

He frowns. “The biggest inconvenience is losing the rides I could have taken if you guys weren’t out here hasslin’ me, man.”

That’s fair. For a guy working as many gig jobs as Marvin is, I’m sure being pulled out of the rotation for this cost him a little money. I pull some cash out of my pocket and hand him a fifty.

“Sorry about the lost fares,” I say.

He takes it from me with a thankful nod. “Somethin’ really bad happened to that girl, huh? Must be to have the FBI hasslin’ people.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Something really bad happened to her.”

An expression of sadness crosses his face. “I hope you catch the guy who did this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Best. We’re doing our best.”

He nods. “Am I free to go, man?”

“Yeah. You’re good.”

He walks around his car, gets in, and drives off, leaving Astra and I standing on the curb. Paige and Rhodes pull up a moment later.

“Back to square one,” Paige says.

“Back to square one,” I confirm. “Anyway, go ahead and knock off for the night. We’ll regroup in the war room in the morning and plan our next steps.”

“Copy that,” Rhodes says. “Have a good night, Chief Wilder.”

“Yeah, you too.”

They drive off, and I watch the passing crowds, frustration bubbling up inside me. So far, we’re hitting nothing but dead ends. It happens in every case. There are always going to be false starts and blind alleys we find ourselves in. It’s the nature of the beast. And it’s all part of doing a thorough job. But it doesn’t make it any less frustrating.

“Night cap?” Astra asks.

“Yeah,” I respond. “I’d like to wash out the bad taste today has left in my mouth.”

Kinley Residence, Birdland District; San Diego, CA

Rather than gathering in the war room that morning, we got a call out to a house in the Birdland neighborhood. Tucked away in central San Diego, Birdland is a cozy community filled with mostly single-family homes on quiet, tree-lined streets, and plenty of green spaces. I pull to a stop at the curb in front of a ranch-style home that’s white with dark blue trim. The yard is meticulously neat with a white picket fence running around the perimeter.

The presence of several police cruisers, a couple of unmarked vehicles, and a black van from the county ME’s office has shattered the peaceful, idyllic vibe of the neighborhood. Uniformed officers are standing at the tape line, keeping the crowd of onlookers back. As we climb out of the Yukon, I scan the faces of the crowd and see more than a few people with tears spilling from their eyes, holding on to each other for support in their grief.

“This isn’t going to be good,” Astra says.

“Are they ever?” Paige asks.

“That’s a good point.”

A uniform holds the tape up for us, allowing us onto the crime scene, and I say a word of thanks as we pass. As we walk up the narrow stone path, we see a couple of uniforms standing with a young girl, eighteen or nineteen maybe. Her face is red and tear-stained, and her arms are wrapped around herself protectively as she sobs. The female officer is speaking in soothing tones and rubbing her back, doing her best to console the obviously distraught girl.

We step up onto the porch, then quickly don black nitrile gloves and booties before we walk through the open doorway that leads directly into a living room. The furniture is all nice, everything is clean, and the walls are lined with photographs of the family—dad, mom, and a young, redheaded girl. It’s not the girl I saw outside. The pictures progress through the years, depicting the life of the girl as a toddler, up through the most recent which show her at her high school graduation.

Nothing seems disturbed in the front room. Nothing knocked over and nothing broken. Everything seems to be in its place, and everything is perfectly clean. But the air in the house is thick. Heavy. Like most every other crime scene I’ve ever visited, it’s as if the air itself soaked in the violence and tragedy that happened there.

Rhodes leans out of a doorway to our right. “We’re back here.”

She leads us down a long hallway to the far end of the spread-out home. We step through a door and into a room that looks like a category five hurricane blew through it. The curtains have been torn down, allowing sunlight to flood into the room. Motes of dust sparkle like gold dust in the air, and the carpet shimmers with shards of glass from the large, round mirror that had been torn off the wall and shattered. The bookcase was pulled down and is half lying on the bed, its contents strewn everywhere. Everything has been torn off the walls, photos shredded, and her dresser drawers have all been pulled out and emptied onto the floor.

And lying on the bed is the girl from the photos in the living room, her green eyes open wide and fixed on something not in this world. She’s naked, and dark purple and black bruises cover most of her pale, slender body. Her thick, red hair is fanned out on the pillow beneath her head. Shallow cuts, dozens of them, mar her skin, and like Sonya Hyder, she has a thick, dark bruise around her neck. But the splay of hair can’t hide the thick, crimson stain on the sheets beneath her, telling me that also like Sonya Hyder, this girl has sustained a massive head injury. And sitting on her bare chest is a single red rose.

“Jesus,” I say.

“Pretty safe to say he was here last night,” McCoy says darkly.

“This is Monica Kinley,” Rhodes tells me. “Nineteen years old, marine biology student at San Diego State. Works as a barista at a local coffee house and is a Dean’s List student. She also volunteers at a local homeless shelter in her spare time.”

It’s starting to feel a little crowded and stuffy in the small bedroom, and I’d like to get a closer look at it all without stepping on anybody.

“Astra, can you, Paige, and Detective Rhodes check out the rest of the house?” I ask. “I want to know how he got in and whether there’s anything else we need to be looking at.”

“Copy that,” Astra replies.

She leads them out of the room, leaving me alone with McCoy and the body. I walk around the room, taking a minute to take in the scene and the body of the girl from different angles.

“Where are the parents?” I ask.

“On an Alaskan cruise,” McCoy replies. “We’ve sent word to get them back home, but it’s going to take at least a day.”

“You didn’t tell them their daughter was dead, did you?”

He pulls a face. “Of course not. What kind of jerk do you think I am?”

I bite the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to answer that question. McCoy is looking a little ragged this morning. He’s not wearing a jacket, his shirt is a bit rumpled, and the sleeves are rolled up, exposing his network of tattoos. Coffee stains dot his tie, which is loosened around his collar. The stubble that covers his chin and cheeks tells me he hasn’t seen a razor in a few days, and the dark half-moons beneath his eyes suggest he didn’t sleep much last night… if at all.

“Rough night, Detective?”

He doesn’t answer me and instead moves to the other side of the room, as if trying to put some physical distance between us.

“Client keep you out late?” I ask. “Have you even slept?”

He glares at me. “I can do my job.”

“Can you though?” I ask. “Look, I’m not one to judge. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, and I understand you wanting to set yourself up for your postretirement life. I get it. But if you’re dragging ass in here because you’re too tired to see and think straight, that’s a problem. Things are going to get missed, and these girls deserve your full attention—”

“Did Rhodes rat me out?”

“No, she didn’t,” I respond. “I looked into you myself.”

“Why in the hell are you looking into me?”

“Because there are some gimmes in this case you should have caught but somehow missed,” I tell him. “I wanted to find out what was dividing your attention and keeping you from seeing and doing the obvious things to solve this case.”

“How dare you? I haven’t missed a thing.”

“You didn’t even bother getting the security footage from the bar and tracking down the man that hassled Sonya Hyder the night she was murdered,” I respond. “Nor did you bother running down the rideshare driver, otherwise known as the last person to see her alive.”

The red in McCoy’s neck creeps into his face as he clenches his jaw and narrows his eyes. He’s so angry, he’s practically trembling and looks like he wants nothing more than to come across the room and throttle me for daring question him. But he turns to the window and draws in a breath, holding it for a long moment before exhaling, taking his time to come down before he turns back to me. Though his face is still red, he seems more composed.

“Did either of those leads yield results?” he asks.

“That is hardly the point,” I tell him. “They were valid leads that should have been followed up on… but weren’t. Either one of those two men could have been our unsub. But you missed them because you’re obviously too distracted to do the job.”

“What do you want from me, lady?”

I bristle but ignore the disrespect. “I want you to get your head in the game. And if you can’t do that, then I want you to stay out of my way,” I tell him. “I would rather not have to talk to your captain about your divided attention. But I will if I have to.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. I’m just telling you how things are,” I respond. “Nothing is more important than getting justice for these victims… all of them. Not your divorce, not your new business, not your pending retirement. Nothing.”

“You’ve got some real stones on you, lady.”

“The way I see it, you’ve got what, a few months left before you pull the pin?” I ask. “Now, you can finish out your tour the right way, without tarnishing your reputation, get your pension, and ride off into the sunset double-dipping with your new security company.”

“Or?”

“Or you can keep half-assing it, make things messier than they already are, and I’ll go to your captain and have you yanked off this case. I don’t need to tell you what happens to your reputation if you force me to do that.”

“You’re a real piece of work, lady. You know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“What the hell do you want from me?”

“I want you to let Rhodes take the lead,” I tell him. “She’s a good cop who needs to get out from under your shadow and seems invested in finding the person responsible for these crimes—in doing the job the right way. So, take a back seat and just ride her coattails. Finish out your tour and go out with your legacy intact.”

He glowers at me, his face twisted with rage. I don’t blame him, really. Strong-arming McCoy into taking a back seat on the case wasn’t on my bingo card when I woke up this morning. The idea really only came to me when I saw his unshaven, sloppy appearance. It’s clear he’s done—that he’s simply going through the motions. And I’m not going to have that. It’s time for some new blood, and Rhodes seems ready to carve out her own legacy.

“Fine. Whatever.”

Stripping off his gloves, McCoy strides out of the room, cursing darkly under his breath as he goes. Once he’s out of the room, I turn back to the girl on the bed. Stepping closer, I examine her body more closely and inspect the wounds.

“Wow. What did you do to McCoy?” Astra asks as she steps into the room.

“Nothing, why?”

“He put his fist through the wall as he stormed out of here.”

“I did nothing but explain his options to him,” I say with a half shrug. “Did he really punch a hole in the wall out there?”

“I’m pretty sure he was picturing your face when he did it. That man seems to hate you.”

“Meh. Let him. No skin off my back.”

We take a moment to study the body closely. There are deep bruises on the insides of her thighs, likely indicating a sexual assault. More than that, I can see extensive trauma to her genitals.

“Whoever did this enjoyed it. Same as Sonya Hyder,” Astra says. “Our guy seems to have really gotten a taste for violence.”

“Seems that way.”

Astra stares at me. “You’re still not convinced this is one guy, are you?”

“I’m not sure what I think yet. The only thing I do know is that we have a lot of work to do if we’re going to get ahead of this guy before the next girl ends up like this,” I respond. “Send in the medical examiner and let’s get out of here.”

“Copy that.”

San Diego Police Department, Sex Crimes Unit, Conference Room C; San Diego, CA

Nina already has Monica Kinley’s photo up alongside the others by the time we get back to the war room. My gaze travels from one side of the board to the other, taking in all their faces. She has binders for each case set out on the table with the reports and crime scene photos as well. I take a few minutes and go through each binder, familiarizing myself with them again.

There’s something I’m not seeing. Something I’m missing. Something that will either definitively tie all these cases together or will show me that my initial assessment was right and that we’re dealing with a second perp. The escalation of violence from the first attack—Ashley Rivera from last year to this most recent murder—is more than clear. Aside from the assault, the first four attacks showed very little violence at all.

Something changed with victim number five—Rebecca Kierboom—in September of last year. She was roughed up during the attack, but not extensively so. However, each of the subsequent victims, Vanessa Mershon in October, Alexandra Crouse in November, and Kelly Joyce in January, showed increasing signs of violence. Each had been beaten just a little more severely, and that culminated with the murder of Sonya Hyder, and now, Monica Kinley, both of whom were utterly savaged.

“What are you thinking, Chief?” Paige asks.

“I’m thinking we’ve got a whole lot of nothing,” I grouse.

I put the books down and fold my arms over my chest as I start to pace the room, letting my mind work the problem. When I’m stumped like this, I find the best thing to do is to go back to the basics. In this case, basics means victimology. Why these women? What about them drew their attacker’s attention?

“Not to point out the obvious, but our latest victim doesn’t match any of our previous victims,” Paige says. “She’s a redhead, and she’s only nineteen, which takes us back to the age range of the first four victims.”

“Still think we have two killers, Chief? Or given the fact that Kinley isn’t a blonde or brunette, are you thinking we have three now? What was it you called that?”

I don’t even bother turning around and dignifying McCoy’s remark with an answer. The last thing I need to see is that smarmy smirk. I might be far too tempted to smack it clean off his face to keep from actually doing it.

“Right. Preferential offenders. That’s what you called it, right?” McCoy grumbles. “Blond, brunette, and now a redhead. By your logic, we’ve got three offenders.”

I finally turn around. McCoy has cleaned himself up, shaved, put on a suit, and unfortunately, reeks of that cologne that makes my eyes burn. At least he seems more alert.

“What are you doing here, Detective?” I ask.

“I’m showing you that I’m engaged. Just like you wanted. Right?”

That smarmy smirk I hate so much appears on his face, and as if sensing my struggle to keep from thrashing him, Astra gets to her feet and steps closer to me, ready to grab me if I make any sudden movements—otherwise known as saving my career.

“You wanted to show me you’re engaged?” I ask, my voice tight. “Or you just came down here to be a jerk?”

“Can’t I do both, doll?”

“I’ve asked you to address me respectfully—”

“Right. Sorry about that, sweetheart.”

Her cheeks flushing, Rhodes puts a hand over her face and lowers her head. She takes a moment, then stands and turns to him.

“Nick, shut up,” she says.

He gapes at her, seeming to be shocked that she’s standing up to him. “What in the hell did you just say to me?”

“I told you to shut the hell up and let us do our job since you’ve obviously got no interest in figuring out who’s raping and murdering women in this city.”

“You don’t even know who you’re messing with right now, little girl,” he growls. “Who in the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m the woman who is going to blow up your whole world if you don’t walk out of this room right now,” she counters firmly. “Unless you get the hell out of here and stay away from this case from this point forward, I will go to the captain and let him know about all the shady crap you’ve been pulling—crap I’ve been covering up for you.”

He smirks. “You do that, you’re going to bury yourself. They’ll have you doing dog park poo-poo patrol.”

“Maybe. But when I tell them we might have caught the prick responsible for these attacks long before he graduated to murder if you weren’t dogging it because of your side gig, what do you think they’ll have to say about that?” she seethes as she gets to her feet. “How do you think that’s going to impact your pension? I may get demoted, but I’ll keep my badge. But as the lead investigator, I don’t think that’s going to be a good look for you.”

McCoy’s face is painted with shock. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Rhodes to stand up to him—something she clearly hasn’t done to that point. He quickly recovers, though, and casts a dark, ominous glare at her.

“You’re going to regret this.”

“What I regret is not saying something about your shoddy work before,” Rhodes fires back, her voice heated. “What I regret is covering for you when you were off working your side gig instead of doing the work here. You’ve been more worried about your clients than the victims for months now, Nick. It’s garbage. You’ve been garbage.”

He glowers at her for a moment before turning and walking out of the war room, slamming the door in his wake. Rhodes sits down and leans back in her chair, seemingly wrung out, the confrontation with McCoy having taken it all out of her. I’m proud of her though. I know standing up to her partner like that couldn’t have been easy. And it’s probably going to exact a price on her career. It’s probably going to exact a price on her personally as well.

Certainly, once her colleagues get wind of her little rebellion—McCoy will obviously make it sound worse than it was to paint himself as the victim—she’ll find herself in a tight spot with them. The boys club that is most police departments won’t forgive a woman for asserting herself the way Rhodes just did. I hope I’m wrong. I hope they’re evolved enough in their thinking that they’ll see she’s trying to do things the right way and respect her for it.

Rhodes finally raises her head. Her face is tight as if she’s already considered everything that just went through my mind and has accepted the consequences. She gives me a firm nod.

“Okay, what’s next?” she asks.

“All right, I want to drill down on the victimology. I want to know what these women all have in common,” I say and clear my throat. “If we truly are dealing with one killer, I want to know why his victimology is bouncing around like this. It’s… unusual.”

“Maybe what McCoy said is right,” Paige offers. “That what they have in common is their beauty. You have to admit, all these women are gorgeous.”

“They are.”

“Aside from that, the scenes are pretty close matches,” Astra says. “They were either in their bedrooms or dragged there, then assaulted. Their rooms were then trashed after that fact, and a red rose was left with each of them.”

“And all the victims we talked to reported the whole creepy need for reassurance and compliments on his performance thing,” Paige adds.

“Which is just another layer of nasty on this gross sandwich,” Nina says.

I don’t want to admit the answer could be something that simple. This problem just feels far more complex than that. But if I’m being honest with myself, I’d have to acknowledge that sometimes the most complicated questions have the simplest solutions. Maybe it really does all boil down to our unsub picking victims who are beautiful… and convenient. Omnivores aren’t common, but they exist. But even if that’s true, there still has to be some commonality they share… one that goes beyond their physical beauty.

“We have no prints, blood, semen, or DNA,” Astra says. “Our boy is either extremely lucky, or he’s very good at this. Might not be his first rodeo.”

“Nina—”

“Already checking for other unsolved rapes in the area,” she says.

“Also, check for nuisance crimes—peeping, touching, panty stealing. Go back, say… the last five years,” I say.

“Panty stealing?” Rhodes asks.

“Most rapists don’t begin as rapists. They have to work up to it. And typically, they begin with nuisance crimes like peeping or panty stealing,” I explain. “If we can find any unsolved nuisance crimes like that in the area, we might be able to get a line on who our guy is.”

“That makes sense,” Rhodes replies.

Nina whistles. “There is a disturbing number of perverts in your city, Detective Rhodes. Lots of peepers and gropers.”

“It’s a beach city and college town all rolled into one. Combine all that with areas like The Gaslamp where the booze is flowing freely almost all day and night, and you’re going to get a lot of people—guys, mostly—who feel courageous and entitled enough to put their hands on a woman.”

“That tracks,” Astra says.

“A lot of these cases already have a disposition,” Nina says. “But there are a heck of a lot that are still unresolved. Hundreds of them over the past five years. Do we have any way of narrowing the list?”

I slip my hands into my pockets and start to pace the room again. “Try filtering it out by any reports that include some of the power reassurance markers we talked about. Did any of our gropers talk to their victims? Did they try to create some sort of fantasy during their assault?”

“Got it, Chief,” she replies. “It’s going to take me a bit to wade through all the information, but I’ll get it to you when I have it.”

“Copy that.”

“Paige, Astra, I’d like you both to go through the socials of all the victims,” I say. “Go through their credit cards, phone’s GPS—whatever you can think of. There has got to be a nexus between them. Our guy had to have encountered them somewhere, and I want to know where.”

“On it,” Astra says. “What are you going to do?”

“Detective Rhodes and I are going to have a chat with Sonya’s ex,” I say.

“McCoy already talked to him,” Rhodes says.

“I know,” I reply. “I just want to hear what he has to say for myself.”

Her lips curl knowingly. “Right. Let’s go do it the right way then.”

“Let’s go.”

Ignite Fitness Studio, Solana Beach; San Diego, CA

Bordered by the Pacific on the west and other upscale enclaves to the north and south is the city of Solana Beach in San Diego county. It’s a coastal gem that captures the laid-back beach vibe but also has a distinct air of affluence as well. It’s a small community with just over thirteen thousand souls living within its borders and seems to nurture the sense of exclusivity common to areas that boast the sort of wealth that Solana Beach does.

We find a spot in the lot of a three-story building made of steel and smoked glass. The sign out front is made of burnished steel with the name “Ignite Fitness Studio” punched into it and bordered by rivets, aiming for an industrial feel. It’s more of a temple to fitness than a gym and probably charges an arm and a leg in monthly dues.

“This is one of those places people come to be seen more than they come to work out,” Rhodes says. “Lots of influencers inside filming themselves for their audiences on IG or whatever platform they broadcast on.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen my share of those.”

“I much prefer those hole-in-the-wall gyms the people who come here look down their noses at,” Rhodes says. “People actually tend to put in work in those places.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

We climb out of the Yukon and head for the front doors. Before we get there, they fly open. A trio of women wearing nothing but too-small and too-tight neon-colored shorts and equally loud sports bras that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination burst out. They’re all holding their phones up, filming themselves talking about what amazing workouts they all got in for their various channels. I’m not sure how amazing their workouts could have been considering there’s not a drop of sweat on any of them.

Rhodes turns to me with her lips twisted wryly. “See?”

The interior of the gym is brightly lit, and high-energy electronic dance music is pumping through the speakers so loud I can feel the fillings in my teeth rattling. A chest-high counter stands to our right, staffed by a man and a woman wearing next to nothing, bodies impeccably chiseled. The man, six-three at least, with biceps that look bigger around than my thigh, gives me a wide smile.

“Are you ladies ready to get in the best physical shape of your lives?” he asks, his voice rumbling like thunder.

I pull out my badge while Rhodes pulls her coat back to reveal hers. “Unit Chief Wilder, FBI, and this is Detective Rhodes, SDPD.”

“We have some tremendous discounts for law enforcement and first responders,” the woman behind the counter chimes in. “You should really take advantage of them.”

It’s next to impossible to not feel self-conscious in front of a pair of people who look like they were sculpted out of marble, but I’m doing my best to remind myself this is just their sales pitch and not a commentary on my physique. It ain’t easy though—not with Adonis and Athena here staring at me like I walked in eating a Big Mac and super-sized fries. The judgment is just radiating off them in waves.

“We’re actually here to talk to one of your employees,” I say.

They both recoil like I just slapped them. They exchange glances, then turn back to me, faces blank, mouths hanging open. It’s like they choreographed this.

“Who are you looking for?” Adonis asks.

“Oliver Duffy,” Rhodes replies.

“Why? What did he do?” Athena queries.

“We just need to speak with him,” I say. “Can you tell us where we can find him?”

Adonis swallows hard and frowns. “He’s with a client right now.”

“Great. Where might that be?” I ask.

“Can it wait? He’s in a session,” Athena objects.

“I’m afraid it can’t,” Rhodes says.

“He’s in one of the private training rooms,” Adonis says, pointing to a door across the floor of the gym. “Room four.”

“Terrific. Thank you,” I say.

I lead Rhodes across the floor of the gym, weaving around the throng of men and women who might as well be working out naked, for all the good the tiny, skintight garments they’re wearing are doing. Rhodes was right about how many people are filming content for their channels. A lot of these people have their phones up, explaining their workouts to their followers rather than actually doing them. And then there are the people who are taking time out of their workouts to flex and pose in front of the mirrors.

“Some of these people really are in love with themselves,” Rhodes says dryly.

“If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I suppose.”

Rhodes grins as she pulls the door open for me. We head down the long, dimly lit hallway, passing glass cubes on either side of us. Half of them are occupied by trainers leading their clients through various exercises. We stand outside the glass wall of room four watching Oliver Duffy working out a thirty-something bottle blonde. He’s standing close to her, hand on her hips, moving her body through the motions of whatever exercise it is they’re doing.

The woman, who has a very shiny rock on her left hand, is staring at him, her cheeks flushed, giggling like a schoolgirl. Duffy is pretending not to notice and playing it cool, but I can tell he’s eating it up. His hands linger on the woman’s hips, and even through the glass, I can feel the greasy smarminess oozing off him. A personal trainer and part-time surf instructor, Duffy just has that air of a guy used to getting his way with any woman he wants.

“Looks like there’s more flirting than exercising going on in there,” Rhodes says.

“He seems like the kind of guy who thinks his client list is a dating pool.”

“Right?”

Six-three with a trim and toned frame, Duffy isn’t the massive specimen of man the guy at the front desk is. But like them, his body is taut and thick with corded muscle. His brown hair is shaggy and stylishly tousled, just brushing his shoulders, and his green eyes sparkle in the bright overhead lights of the private studio. He’s got a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose and that classic California surfer-boy look about him.

Belatedly, he turns and sees us standing outside in the hallway. We both hold up our badges. The unctuous expression on his face falters, but he recovers quickly and says something to his client. She takes a break from mooning over him to turn around. When she sees us, she scowls, obviously not appreciating that we’re cutting into her time with Duffy. He says something to the woman that gets her smiling again. She gives him a wink and gives him a pat on the backside before grabbing her things and flouncing out of the studio.

As she passes by, she shoots cold daggers at us, marching her perfectly sculpted behind up the hallway and out the door into the main gym. We step into the studio as Duffy grabs a towel and wipes the sweat from his brow. I take a moment to walk around the space and look at the various equipment—kettle bells, resistance bands, medicine balls, and small hand weights. The music is still being pumped into the studio, but at a much lower volume, thank God.

“Officers,” he says. “What’s up?”

“It’s actually Unit Chief Wilder. I’m with the FBI,” I correct him. “This is Detective Rhodes with San Diego PD.”

“Sorry, my bad,” he says. “So, what’s up?”

“We need to talk to you about Sonya Hyder.”

He snorts and shakes his head. “This again?”

“This again,” I respond.

“Listen, I already talked to the other guy. Detective what’s his name?”

“McCoy,” Rhodes says.

“Right. That guy,” he says. “I told him I had nothing to do with what happened to Sonya. I’m bummed she’s dead, but it wasn’t me.”

“It’s my understanding your breakup was less than amicable,” I say.

He wipes his face with his towel again and shakes his head. “Look, I screwed up, okay? I cheated on her. I admit it. She broke it off with me right after that. And yeah, things were heated. But that’s only because I didn’t want things between us to be over. I mean, you have to understand that, right? I loved her.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Rhodes says.

“We’d been together for so long, I guess I took her for granted,” he responds. “I didn’t realize just how much I loved her until she broke things off. And yeah, I wanted her back. But she wanted nothing to do with me.”

“Did that make you mad?” I ask.

“I was upset, yeah. Who wouldn’t be? I lost the love of my life.”

Rhodes scoffs. “The love of your life? Who cheats on the love of their life?”

“An idiot, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I was a freakin’ idiot, all right?”

“Actually, what I want to hear is where you were that night,” I say.

“Like I told the other guy—”

“Detective McCoy,” Rhodes said.

He blows out a frustrated breath. “Fine. Whatever. Detective McCoy,” he says. “Like I told him, I was out with some buddies having a few drinks.”

“And where was that?”

“Juke’s,” he replies. “It’s a bar down in Mission Beach.”

“And what time was that?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I got there about eight, I think? We stayed until closing.”

“Great,” I respond. “Do you have any receipts or anything to verify that?”

“I didn’t pay for my drinks that night.”

“Lucky you,” I say.

“I won a bet.”

“We’re going to need the names of your friends,” Rhodes says.

“Why?”

“Because we need to verify your alibi.”

“This is ridiculous,” he grumbles. “I didn’t do this. I loved Sonya. Even still.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “But we still need to verify your alibi.”

“Are you kidding me?” he seethes.

“I’m not,” I respond. “Names, Mr. Duffy.”

“Fine. Whatever,” he growls. “I was with Clint Rissler and Field Sears.”

I jot down the names. “Great. Thank you.”

He runs a hand through his hair and frowns as he turns away. His face clouds over with emotion. He’s struggling with it, and part of me thinks he isn’t lying about Sonya being the love of his life. Her loss is clearly impacting him. Deeply. But then, that can be true for people who killed the person they loved. Guilt is a powerful emotion. It can be as powerful as love and hit a person just as hard.

“I didn’t do this,” he says, his voice thick. “I’m being straight up with you.”

“Mr. Duffy, did she ever mention anybody stalking her? Anything like that?” Rhodes asks. “Any creepy feelings she was having about anybody?”

“We haven’t talked much over the last year,” he says, his voice brittle. “So no. She wouldn’t have mentioned anything like that to me.”

I figured as much, but I’m glad she asked the question anyway. It shows good instincts on her part. Out from under McCoy’s thumb, it feels like Rhodes is beginning to spread her wings a little bit. She’s going to still need to work on her self-confidence, but she’ll get there.

“Great. I think that’s all we have for now,” I say. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

“For what it’s worth, I hope you catch the guy.”

“Us too.”

We turn and head out of the gym, the loud, thumping music making my eye twitch. Back in the parking lot, I stop and turn my face up to the sun, taking a moment to bask in the silence. The pounding in my head slowly begins to ebb.

“Did you want to go back in and see about a membership?” Rhodes asks.

I scoff. “I’ll pass, thanks. I’d rather use the annual fee I’d pay for this place as the down payment on a new house.”

“That’s fair,” she says with a laugh.

The Breakers Inn, Mission Beach District; San Diego, CA

“I am beat,” I announce. “I’m going back to my room to get some rest.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not even ten yet,” Astra says.

“Don’t be a buzzkill,” Nina says.

“Sorry,” I say. “But I just can’t keep up with you youngsters anymore.”

That gets a laugh out of them. After we called it a day, we adjourned to a restaurant a few blocks away from our hotel to get some dinner. Once we were done eating, the girls decided they wanted to hang out and have a couple of drinks, which is when I decided to check out. I’m worn out and want nothing more than a hot shower, a glass of scotch, and a soft bed. Not that the bed in my room is exactly soft, but it’ll do.

“Need a ride back to the hotel, Chief?” Paige asks.

“No, I’m good. But thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. I need the walk and some fresh air,” I respond and get to my feet. “Rhodes, you’re in charge. Don’t let these three get out of hand.”

She snaps me a quick salute. “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“Don’t overdo it, guys,” I caution them. “I want to see you in the war room early tomorrow. We’ve got a lot of work to do if we’re going to get ahead of this guy.”

“Copy you,” Astra says. “See you in the morning.”

As another round of drinks arrives, I make my way out of the restaurant and into the cool night air. I walk along the darkened street, breathing in the salty air. The foot traffic on the street is sparse. This side of town isn’t nearly as busy as The Gaslamp, and for that I’m thankful. There are no roving bands of drunk teenagers howling at the moon and no cars cruising down the street shaking the air with music and revving engines.

It’s because there is such little foot traffic that I become aware of the person walking behind me. Their pace is steady, their strides matching mine step for step. My stomach tightens, and my heart begins to race as I try to figure out what I’m going to do. I’ve got no idea who it is or why they’re following me—or if I’m simply being paranoid. Entirely possible. If you do this job long enough, paranoia can become second nature. And I’ve been doing this job so long, paranoia has become my constant companion.

There’s only one way to find out if I’m being followed or if I’m just letting my imagination run wild. Clenching my jaw, I take a left at the next street. This one is narrower and even darker than the street I just came off, and the foot traffic is nonexistent. Keeping my pace even and steady, I walk on. A moment later, I hear the footsteps behind me. The adrenaline is flowing through me like a raging river. My skin is warm and tingling, and the hair on the back of my neck is standing on end.

Just ahead of me is the mouth of an alley sitting between a bakery and a dry cleaner, both of them currently closed. I take the left and step into the alley. Moving quickly, I find a doorway and duck into it, pressing my back against the door and quickly draw my weapon. My whole body tightens as I listen to the footsteps draw near, moving quickly, and when the figure comes into view, I step forward and press the barrel of my Glock to their head.

“Who the hell are you, and why are you following me?” I ask.

“Put the weapon down, Blake,” she replies in a thick Boston accent.

I narrow my eyes and study the profile of the woman in front of me. She’s a couple of inches shorter than me with a thick braid of dark brown hair that falls to the middle of her back. She has dark, almond-shaped eyes, thin lips, and a thick, athletic frame. Her face is expressionless, but her eyes are hard as she coldly assesses me. I’m the one holding the gun on her, but truth be told, somehow I don’t feel like the one in control.

“I don’t know you,” I say. “How in the hell do you know who I am?”

Despite my gun being pressed to her temple, she turns and stares me in the eye. The barrel of my gun is pointed at the middle of her face, but the woman isn’t scared. If anything, she’s annoyed. So, she’s not easy to rattle, which is fine. She’s used to being around firearms—and having them trained on her. That tells me a bit about her, but it doesn’t tell me who she is.

“Who are you?” I ask again.

“Put the weapon down—”

“Not until you tell me who the hell you are.”

“My name is Freya Beckerson,” she says. “You may know me as Beck.”

“You’re Kit’s handler.”

“Bingo,” she says. “Now, your weapon?”

I lower my Glock, then holster it, never taking my eyes off the woman in front of me. She’s got a sour expression on her face.

“We need to have a conversation,” she says.

“Do you always skulk around in the dark stalking people you want to have a conversation with?” I ask. “You could have just called. Or returned one of the dozens of emails I made to you.”

“Not the way it works. And I wanted to meet you face to face. What we have to talk about isn’t the kind of thing you discuss over the phone.”

“What’s going on with my sister?”

She looks up and down the street, a frown playing across her lips. “Not here. Let’s go have a drink somewhere quieter and have that conversation.”

The idea of going somewhere quieter with this woman doesn’t appeal to me. But then, I suppose it couldn’t be any worse than standing in a dark alley with her.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s go.”

I keep her slightly in front of me as we walk down the alley in silence, my hand hovering near my weapon, just in case. It’s not that I don’t trust the woman. I just don’t trust her. She casts a glance at me over her shoulder, an amused smirk flickering across her lips. She’s cocky. Carries herself like she can take me without breaking a sweat. Maybe she can. But it’s pretty arrogant of her to act like it’s a foregone conclusion. I already don’t like this woman.

On a side street, we find a small, hole-in-the-wall spot with a red neon sign above a metal door that reads “Tooli’s.” The interior is long, narrow, dimly lit, and windowless. The air is filled with the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke, in defiance of California’s anti-smoking laws. There’s a bar to our right, a few booths along the wall to our left, and half a dozen tables run down the center of the floor.

There are only a dozen or so people in the place—eight of them sitting at the bar watching a hockey game on the pair of flat screens on the wall and the other two pairs seated at tables. The buzz of conversation is low, and the place is relatively quiet. It’s not the sort of place I’d choose to come, but it somehow feels appropriate to be sitting here with a spook like Beck.

We take the booth farthest away from the door, and a waitress comes over and takes our order. Beck and I sit across from each other silently, our gazes locked and the air between us crackling with tension. A couple of minutes later, the waitress brings our drinks back, setting a scotch down in front of me and an old-fashioned in front of her.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Of course,” she replies, then turns and slips away.

I pick up my glass and take a sip, never taking my eyes off the woman sitting across from me. The woman is cold. Unflappable. And her presence here has simultaneously piqued my curiosity and filled me with a sense of dread so strong, it’s almost suffocating.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Is this about Kit?”

“You know it is.”

“What then?”

“I want to know where she is, Blake.”

“And what makes you think I know?”

“Because you’re her sister.”

“Her sister. Not her keeper,” I respond. “She doesn’t check in with me. And that’s because of you people. You people would never let her tell me where she was or what she was doing.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “For obvious reasons.”

“Obvious to you. Not to me,” I grumble. “I’m a federal agent as well, you know. We’re all supposed to be on the same team.”

“And you really believe that? That we’re all on the same team?”

I take another sip of my scotch and say nothing. Some days I do. Other days I don’t. But it’s clear from her demeanor that Beck not only doesn’t believe we’re on the same team—she doesn’t believe we’re even playing the same sport.

“Where is your sister, Blake?”

“What makes you think I know?”

“Because you’re Kit’s touchstone. You’ve always been her touchstone,” she replies. “When she’s in trouble, you’re the one person she runs to. The one person who makes her feel safe.”

I sit back in the booth and stare at her as what she’s saying sinks in. And as it does, a frigidly cold pit opens in my stomach, and a moment after that, my heart falls into it.

“How long has Kit been missing?” I ask.

The corners of Beck’s mouth twitch again, and her face hardens. Her default setting seems to be to avoid telling me anything and sharing no information whatsoever. Share nothing and demand everything. It’s what they have drilled into them at the spook academy down in Langley. But I can see in her eyes that she realizes if she’s going to get something from me, she’s going to have to give me something in return.

“She’s been gone about two months,” she says.

“Two months? You haven’t heard from her in two months?” I hiss. “How in the hell did you lose track of my sister for two months?”

“I’m her case officer, not her mother, and not her keeper.”

Another moment of silence passes between us as I try to quiet my mind, quell my emotions, and try to figure out what the hell is going on here. The fact that Beck tracked me down is worrisome, to say the least.

“You must be in dire straits to crawl out from under your rock to come see me,” I say. “Tell me what is going on. She’s my sister, Beck. I have a right to know.”

“You have fewer rights than you think.”

“You’re here. That means you need my help,” I respond. “And if you want that help, you’re going to have to pull back the curtain and tell me what’s going on.”

Beck takes a sip of her drink, her mind spinning as she thinks it over. With an irritated sigh, she sets her glass down and meets my gaze.

“I can’t tell you everything,” she begins. “Our work is mostly still classified, and you don’t have the necessary clearances to be read in.”

“Fine. Tell me what you can.”

“Two months ago, your sister and I were overseas. Everything was fine, and the mission was a success,” she says. “But something was bothering Kit. She was squirrely—not acting like herself. When I asked her what was going on, she denied anything was wrong, but I could tell. She was off. Seemed really worried about something.”

“And what did you do about it?”

“What could I do? It’s not like I can force her to talk to me.”

“You could have refused to deploy her until she came clean.”

“I never had the chance,” Beck replies. “She went off the reservation. Like… completely off the reservation.”

I drain the last of my drink and signal for another. The waitress brings us both a fresh round and departs again without a word. I don’t know if Beck knows Kit is in Mexico and am afraid to say anything in case she doesn’t. The last thing I want is the Agency linking up with the other alphabet agencies and storming the compound since I very much doubt it would be a rescue mission. More likely, the Agency would assume Kit had been compromised and would make sure to cover their tracks by eliminating her.

Beck’s hazel eyes find mine, and she frowns. “I fear that Kit has gone over the edge. That she’s fallen back into her… old patterns. That maybe she’s gone back to working for an organization like the one that trained and employed her before.”

“Kit wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t she?”

“No,” I say coldly. “She wouldn’t.”

“It’s not the first time we took somebody in who was feral and gave them a home only to have them go back to being feral again.”

“Is that what you think you did? You gave her a home?”

“What would you call it?”

“You’re exploiting her. You’re using her,” I say. “You’re taking all the training she got—the very things that had you hunting her in the first place—and using her to do exactly the same things she was doing before. But because you wrap it in the flag, it’s suddenly somehow okay.”

“Your sister is a patriot, Blake. She believes in the mission. And she’s more than happy to use her training to do some good… to try to balance the scales.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Who are you to say what does and doesn’t work in Kit’s soul?” Beck says, then sighs. “Listen, this is going sideways. I came to you because if there is one person in this world who might know where Kit is, I thought it would be you.”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“That’s unfortunate. I can’t keep a lid on this forever,” she says. “And if I have to report to my superiors that Kit is off the reservation, they will hunt her again. They’ll believe she’s compromised and can no longer be trusted. When they find her—and they will—I don’t think they’re going to offer her a job.”

My heart flutters, and my stomach churns with worry as her words sink in. The thought of the CIA hunting my sister again sends a chill across my skin, prickling my flesh with goosebumps. And if they find her… I push the thoughts from my head. I don’t want to think about what they would do to her. No. I can’t let anybody find Kit. I need to get to her before Beck, before the Agency, and before Sonny and his joint task force.

“Are you sure you don’t know where she is?” Beck asks.

“I don’t.”

Her eyes bore into mine as she studies me closely, searching for the truth. I make my face as blank as I possibly can, giving away nothing to her. After a long minute, she nods, then drains the last of her drink. Beck fishes some money out of her pocket and drops it on the table.

“Do you have a way of contacting your sister?” she asks.

“I probably have the same channels you do,” I reply.

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t have a way to contact her that she didn’t share with me.”

I’ve got a burner email account but so far, Kit hasn’t responded to any of my notes.

“Get in touch with your sister, Blake. Believe it or not, I want to help her. I want to bring Kit in safely,” she says. “That is the team you and I are both on.”

Beck gets to her feet and pulls a card out of her pocket, then sets it down in front of me. The card bears her name and a phone number.

“Call me if you hear from her,” Beck says.

“Sure.”

“I’m being sincere. I want to bring Kit in safely. Help me do that,” Beck says. “I know you don’t know me, but I care about Kit. And I need you to trust me.”

Without another word, Beck turns and walks out of the bar, leaving me with my scotch and ten thousand questions. If this isn’t some op she’s running with her handler and the Agency, what in the hell is Kit doing down in Mexico? What is she doing with Inez Arias? And the one question that is going to keep me up tonight is this: Is Kit truly responsible for the rash of mutilated and decapitated corpses littering Mexico’s countryside?

I hope not. Dear God, I hope not.

San Diego Police Department, Sex Crimes Unit, Conference Room C; San Diego, CA

“She didn’t threaten you? Or Kit?” Astra asks.

I shake my head. “No. She didn’t make any threats. She’s just looking for Kit and thought I might have a line on her.”

Astra frowns and twirls her pen. “Doesn’t make sense that she’d not return your calls, then come all the way out here, then follow you down a dark alley like some creeper just to ask if you knew where Kit is.”

I perch on the edge of the desk close to Astra, keeping my voice pitched low. Nina hasn’t come in yet, and I sent Paige and Rhodes out to see about verifying Duffy’s alibi, giving us a little time alone to talk. I’m still a little rattled after my unexpected meeting with Beck last night, to be honest, and it feels good to get it off my chest and get Astra’s perspective. When it comes to all things Kit, she’s far more objective and level-headed than I am.

“I thought about it last night since I wasn’t really sleeping, and the only thing that makes sense to me is that Beck is trying to protect Kit,” I say.

“How so?”

“She could have gone to her superiors and reported Kit going rogue,” I say. “She said she’s trying to bring her in on her own. Quietly. She told me she cares about Kit and doesn’t want to see her hunted down by the Agency.”

“Do you believe her? That she cares about Kit?”

I gnaw on my bottom lip for a moment and think about the question again. Truthfully, I’ve been thinking about that question all night as well as whether I can trust Beck or not.

“I think she does,” I finally say. “I think she’s trying to protect her.”

“Do you trust her?”

Getting to my feet, I fold my arms over my chest and start pacing the room. That’s a much trickier question to answer. While I’m okay thinking that she’s looking out for Kit and may actually care about her, whether I trust her or not isn’t quite as simple to answer.

“I mean, can you ever really trust a spook?” I ask. “The Agency types… they make a career out of lying. The better they lie, the higher they rise through the ranks. Their entire career is built around deception and using people. So, no, I don’t think I can truly trust her.”

“But?”

“But, strangely enough, I think I can trust her when it comes to doing right by my sister,” I say. “She could have turned the dogs loose on Kit, but she didn’t. She came to me instead.”

“That’s a fair point. But assets are tough to develop. Even rarer are assets with Kit’s skills,” Astra notes. “It may not be so much as protecting Kit as it is protecting her asset and maybe covering her own butt as well. If her bosses found out her asset went rogue… that probably wouldn’t look too good for her either.”

I consider her words and nod. That, too, is a fair point. But even if it has more to do with her than with Kit, Beck seems to be trying to keep Kit safe. On that, I think I may be able to trust her.

“What are you going to do?” Astra asks.

“I’m not sure yet. Kit’s not returning any of my messages,” I reply. “I’m considering talking to Sonny about it and leveling with him. He may have some sources in Mexico who might be able to get a message to Kit.”

“That’s taking a big risk.”

“It is. But if I can’t come up with anything better—soon—I may have no other choice. Between the Agency possibly hunting for her, and this task force setting up a raid on Inez’s compound, if I don’t do something, Kit will be caught in the crossfire.”

Astra turns away for a moment, her expression darkening. It’s not hard for me to see her mind spinning with thoughts she’s trying to keep from voicing. But Astra has always been the one I can count on to give me her unvarnished thoughts and the truth of things whether it’s something I want to hear or not. She finally turns back to me.

“What if Kit is what they say she is? What if she’s crossed back over into that life?” she asks.

“I don’t want to believe that’s true.”

“I don’t either. But it’s something you need to honestly ask yourself,” she says. “It’s something you need to prepare for, just in case it turns out to be true.”

I hate that she’s right. As much as I don’t want to believe Kit has let that monster inside of her out of its cage again, it’s something I have to consider. I know she has the capacity to do the things that are being done for Inez. The things she did before she came back to me, in service of the organization that abducted and trained her, are monstrous. Unthinkable. Completely incompatible with the person I know my sister to be. She did those things to survive. To protect herself. And to put herself in a position to find her way back to me.

But the fact of the matter is that she did those things. There’s no denying it. No hiding from the fact that she had been a killer. And I know she hasn’t ever fully processed or dealt with the trauma that life inflicted upon her. Unresolved traumas have a way of springing up on a person and dragging them back down into their depths… a way of turning them back into the person they’d fought so hard to separate themselves from. I know that better than most.

A knock at the conference room door pulls me out of my head and thrusts me back into the moment. I turn to see the door open and Captain Hayes step into the room. He takes in our boards, and his face darkens as he scans the line of photos.

“I just wanted to check in on the status of your investigation,” he says.

“It’s still ongoing, Captain,” I respond.

“Obviously. But where are we? Are we any closer to finding this guy and catching him?”

“We’ve got a number of leads we’re following—”

He sighs and cuts me off with a sharp gesture. “Don’t cop-talk me, Chief. I speak the language fluently. Give it to me straight. Where are we?”

I want to be honest with him. But I don’t want to throw anybody under the bus. Not even McCoy. Trashing other cops and making them look bad… that’s just not how I operate.

“I’m under a lot of pressure,” Hayes says. “City Hall has the press breathing down their necks, which is making them put the squeeze on me. We need answers.”

“And we’re going to get them for you, Captain,” Astra says. “But you know as well as anybody in this game that it takes time—that we have to unravel a lot of knots to get to the truth. We’ve been able to find and discard a number of leads so far—”

“I hear you, Agent Russo. And I appreciate that. But with all these assaults and now two murders to go with them, I need results,” Hayes says.

“And you’ll have them,” I tell him. “We just need some time and patience.”

“Where is McCoy?”

That’s a very good question. Ever since Rhodes blew up at him, he’d made himself scarce. Because he’s been such a sexist jerk who has such an obvious disdain for women, there’s a small, vindictive piece of me that would love to tell Hayes all about Detective McCoy and his activities. But that’s not how I roll. That brief bit of satisfaction at seeing McCoy taken behind the woodshed by his captain would fade, but I’d be left feeling like I tarnished my integrity. And that man is not worth that.

“He’s out chasing down a lead, I believe,” I say.

The corners of Hayes’s mouth twitch in an almost-frown. It doesn’t seem like he believes me, but he chooses not to say anything. His eyes drift over to the boards again, taking in the line of photographs, as if committing all their faces to memory. His expression grows dark, as if the weight of all this suffering is pressing down on him. It’s a feeling I can relate to.

Hayes clears his throat and runs a hand over his face. “Get me some results, Chief. Find the creep doing this.”

“We will, Captain.”

With one final glance at the board, Hayes turns and strides out of the room, nearly colliding with Nina, who is just coming in. With a squeak, she jumps out of the way. Hayes mutters an apology but continues on down the hall.

“What did you two do to piss him off?” Nina asks as she closes the door behind her.

Astra points to me. “It was her fault.”

Nina laughs as she sets down the tray in her hands. “I figured,” she says. “Coffee and donuts for everybody. We’re running dangerously low on caffeine and sugar lately.”

“You are a saint,” Astra says.

“I know,” she chirps.

I grab a maple bar and take a bite, then chase it with a swallow of coffee. The donut is nothing special, but at the moment, it tastes like a little piece of heaven, which is probably a testament to just how tired I am after a largely sleepless night.

“Okay,” Nina says as she settles herself down at her computer. “I did some digging last night and came up with something interesting.”

“Hit me,” I say.

“The first four victims—Rivera, Reid, Pearsall, and Moretti—were all regulars at a farmer’s market in Tuna Harbor.”

“What about the others?” Astra asks.

She shakes her head. “A couple of them had charges at a farmer’s market, but not the one at Tuna Harbor. And the others didn’t seem to shop at farmer’s markets at all.”

Astra frowns. “Then it seems like an anomaly. If only four of the victims went to this farmer’s market, is it a relevant data point? It’s not a nexus for all of them.”

Cup of coffee in hand, I step over to the boards and study the pictures closely again. I can’t get my initial thought out of my mind—that we’re dealing with two separate offenders. To me, there is a bright throughline between the first set of victims—the younger brunettes. And the second set—the older blondes. But then there’s the wrench in the works—the nineteen-year-old redhead. She’s the anomaly in all this.

“It’s a relevant data point if we go back to my original theory that we’re looking at two different offenders,” I say. “The four brunettes all have the same farmer’s market in common. I don’t think that can be dismissed.”

“But if we’re thinking preferential, how do you explain Monica Kinley?” Astra asks. “She doesn’t fit either group. Does that mean McCoy is right and we’re looking at three killers?”

“I haven’t figured out where she fits into all of this yet,” I admit. “Nina, did you find any commonalities between the blondes?”

“Still working on that. When I found the nexus between the brunettes, I keyed in on that and have been digging into them,” she replied.

“Okay, good. Dig into the blondes,” I tell her. “See if you can find any commonalities between them.”

“Copy that, Chief.”

The door to the war room opens, and I turn to see Paige and Rhodes coming through. Seeing the pink pastry box, Paige’s face lights up, and she rushes over, picking out a donut for herself, and takes a bite, groaning in delight.

“Duffy lied to us,” Rhodes announces as she picks through the box. Not finding anything she likes, she turns away from it. “We leaned on his buddies pretty hard. We got his friend, Field Sears to crack.”

“He says Oliver was there for the early part of the night—got there around eight,” Paige says around a mouthful of sprinkle donut. “But he bailed about an hour later. Said he was meeting somebody at nine thirty.”

“He doesn’t know who Duffy was going to meet. He couldn’t say,” Rhodes adds.

“Sonya was killed between ten and one,” Astra says.

“Which means Duffy is in that window.”

“Great work. Really great work,” I say. “Nina, dig into Oliver real deep. I want to see if he has any connection to any of our victims. I want to know if he’s even been at the same grocery store as any of them.”

“Copy that, Chief.”

“Paige, Rhodes, I want you two to scrub his socials,” I tell them. “Look to see if there is any connection to any of our victims—tagged photos, check-ins at the same places—anything.”

“On it, Chief,” Paige says.

“Astra, you and I are going to go rattle Duffy’s cage,” I say.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“All right, let’s get to it.”

Duffy Residence, La Jolla District; San Diego, CA

After confirming that Duffy had the day off from Ignite, Astra and I made our way to the seaside neighborhood of La Jolla where he owns a condo a few blocks from the beach. We knocked, but he wasn’t there either, so we made our way down to the sand where he runs his business as a part-time surf instructor.

“Bingo,” I say as we pull into the lot and I spot Duffy’s white SUV.

I pull to a stop beside it, and we climb out. Up ahead of us is a low, one-story building made of light blue bricks with a roof made of white corrugated metal. It sits on a concrete cutout on the sand and houses a snack shop on one side and a beach equipment rental shop on the other. It’s from that side of the building that Duffy houses his boards and other equipment and runs his side business as a surf instructor.

“There are worse ways to spend a day than in the water,” Astra says.

“I don’t like the sand.”

“You really don’t like much.”

“That’s probably true.”

She chuckles as we walk around the building to find Duffy with a longboard up on a pair of sawhorses, a hose and brush in hand as he washes it down, getting all the salt off it. The top of his spring wetsuit has been unzipped and pushed down around his waist, showcasing the hard angles and planes of his torso. His skin is golden brown and smooth.

“You think he shaves his chest?” I mutter.

Astra whistles low, and when I glance at her, she winks at me. “I’m not sure, but I’m not entirely hating the look.”

“You’re as bad as Paige.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“You’re engaged.”

She grins. “Benjamin’s not here, is he?”

“I’m gonna tell him about your wandering eyes.”

“Please do. He likes knowing that he’s the only one for me.”

“You’re gonna make me gag.”

We drop the banter and shift into all-business mode. Duffy raises his gaze as we approach, and when he spots me, he frowns.

“What now?” he asks.

“You lied to us, Mr. Duffy,” I say.

Astra moves around the sawhorses, smoothly sliding in behind him, and turns off the water, the hose going limp in his hands. With a heavy sigh, he drops the hose, casting a glance over his shoulder at Astra, an expression of uncertainty flickering across his face.

“And what did I supposedly lie to you about?”

“You told us you were at Juke’s that night.”

“I was,” he grumbles.

“Only until about nine o’clock,” Astra says. “You told your friend Field that you had an appointment at nine-thirty that you had to keep.”

“Oh, where are my manners? I apologize. This is SSA Astra Russo,” I insert.

Astra gives him a wave, staring at him intently. She has a much more intimidating air than I do, and Duffy shrinks back, seeming to be trying to put a little physical distance between them. I wish I could come off half as intimidating as she does. Very few people actually seem to believe that I could break them in half the way they seem to think she can. That’s a skill I’d love to learn.

Another man, tall and lean with dark brown hair that falls to his broad shoulders and a rich, deep tan, walks out of the building. I don’t have to look over at Astra to know she’s drooling. The newcomer is wearing nothing but board shorts and flip-flops and is sporting a mustache that would have looked perfectly normal in a seventies porn flick. His dark eyes shift from Duffy to Astra, then to me, before moving back to Duffy.

“Everything okay out here, O?” he asks.

I flash him my badge. “Everything’s fine,” I say. “You can go back into your shop.”

He holds his hands up, showing me his palms. “It’s cool—it’s cool. Good luck, O.”

The man does as I say and walks back into the building, closing the door behind him. I turn back to Duffy as I slip my badge back into my pocket.

“So. Let’s try this again,” I say. “When you left Juke’s at nine, where did you go?”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Let me explain to you how this works,” I say. “We’re investigating a murder. You have a direct connection to the victim.”

“More than a direct connection,” Astra adds. “You had an acrimonious split from the victim. That’s what we call motive.”

“And then we find out you lied to us about your whereabouts the night of the murder,” I join in. “Are you starting to get the picture? Do you see how that looks, Mr. Duffy?”

He pushes an unruly lock of hair off his forehead. “I had no motive to hurt Sonya. I told you that I loved her. She was the—”

“Love of your life, yeah, I remember,” I say.

“And yet, you were diddling somebody else behind her back,” Astra notes.

He rolls his eyes. “Like I said to the other chick—”

“Detective Rhodes,” I correct him.

He sighs. “Like I said to Detective Rhodes, I made a mistake.”

“When she wouldn’t take you back, did it make you angry?” Astra asks. “Did you possibly make another mistake?”

“What? No!” he practically shouts. “I did not hurt her. Get it through your damn thick heads. I did not hurt Sonya.”

“Then why lie to us about where you were the night she died, Mr. Duffy?”

“I didn’t—”

I hold up a finger, cutting him off. “Before you compound your lie with another one, just know your buddy Field gave you up. He told us you left Juke’s about nine. You didn’t close the place down like you told us.”

“Where were you?” Astra presses. “If you weren’t at the bar like you told us, where did you go? What did you do?”

His eyes cut left and right as if he’s searching for a way out. When he sees there is no way out, his shoulders sag, and he seems to deflate. He’s caught, and he knows it.

“Do you have something to tell us?” I ask.

“I didn’t hurt Sonya. I swear to God.”

“Not good enough,” Astra says. “Tell us why you lied.”

He scrubs his face with his hands and mutters darkly to himself. Duffy turns and stares out at the ocean, a myriad of emotions scrolling across his face. But as it does with most people, the sense of self-preservation seems to take over. He knows to save his own butt, he’s going to have to put the fire to somebody else’s. He lets out a long breath and turns back to me.

“I was with a woman that night. A married woman,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t tell you about it for obvious reasons.”

“Those reasons aren’t obvious to us, Oliver,” Astra says. “Enlighten us.”

“Her husband is a public figure in town. If he knew his wife and me were having an affair, it wouldn’t be good for either of us.”

“That’s unfortunate, but we’re going to need her name.”

“I can’t—”

“Mr. Duffy, you’re looking at a murder charge right now,” I say. “I don’t think you understand how serious this is.”

His expression is tormented and terrified. Whoever this woman’s husband is seems to scare him a lot more than we do—a lot more than a possible murder charge seems to. It’s fascinating and makes me even more curious to know who the husband is.

“Who is the woman, Mr. Duffy?” I ask again. “I promise you that we will be discreet when we talk to her.”

“You can’t be discreet enough. Her husband is going to find out,” he says. “He’s plugged in. He knows people.”

“We know how to be discreet.”

“You don’t get it. He knows people in the police department.”

“We’re not part of the police department,” I remind him. “We’re feds. We don’t answer to anybody in the department. If you want us to stop squeezing you, give us her name.”

He shakes his head, miserable. To encourage his thinking and decision-making, I pull my handcuffs out and take a step toward him. His eyes widen, and he takes a step back.

“Come on, be cool,” he says.

“I’m cool. I just have a job to do,” I tell him. “And if you can’t or won’t provide us corroboration of your alibi, I have no choice but to bring you in for further questioning and regard you as the prime suspect in Sonya Hyder’s murder.”

“But I didn’t do it.”

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back, please,” I say.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Do as she says, or I’ll help you,” Astra says. “I don’t think you want me to do that.”

When he still doesn’t move, Astra grabs him and, in one fluid motion, bends him over, slamming his head into the longboard he’d been washing down. I grab his hands and start to put the cuffs on him as he squirms.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “Let me up. I’ll tell you.”

I let him up, and he rubs his wrists as he glares at us. “Damn. Ever hear of police brutality?”

“Oh, we’ve heard of it,” Astra says. “But would you like to see it?”

“Name, Mr. Duffy. Now.”

He sighs heavily, warring between his loyalty to this woman—far more loyalty than he showed to Sonya Hyder—and his sense of self-preservation. Saving his own butt finally wins out.

“Gina Olen,” he says. “Her name is Gina Olen.”

“And you were with her all night?” Astra asks.

“From about nine-thirty to about six the next morning,” he says. “Her husband was coming home from a trip, so I had to be out before eight.”

“Gina Olen,” I repeat as I jot down the name.

“You guys said you can be discreet, right?”

“We can be discreet,” I assure him.

He rakes his fingers through his hair, his face troubled. But he knows he’s got no choice other than to trust us to do our job quietly. Duffy stares at me for a long moment. It’s hard to keep from seeing the turmoil in his blue eyes.

“I didn’t do this,” he tells me again.

“I guess we’re going to find out,” I respond. “We’ll be in touch.”

As we turn away and make our way back to the Yukon, Astra can’t help the grin from spreading on her face. “You’re cool?”

“Shut it.”

Tranquility Day Spa, Del Mar Heights District; San Diego, CA

“Shtupping the wife of the deputy mayor,” Rhodes says. “That takes some serious stones.”

“Not just the deputy mayor, but the former police chief. That takes even bigger stones,” I add. “No wonder Duffy was so freaked out about giving us her name.”

Rhodes laughs. “Right?”

Just off the coast in the lush rolling hills is Del Mar Heights, a wealthy and very exclusive enclave in San Diego with the average price of a home upward of two million. I pilot the Yukon through the winding roads, marveling at some of the spreads we pass. There are some large homes that, high up on those hills, have commanding views of the Pacific. I’m not an envious person by nature, but looking at some of those homes is giving me a serious case of jealousy.

After checking in at the war room and running down the name, I grabbed Rhodes and headed out to talk to our mystery woman and Duffy’s alibi. We made sure her husband was down at city hall before stopping by their house, only to be told by their housekeeper that Mrs. Olen was at the day spa. Because, of course, she was. Day spas, shopping, and champagne brunches tend to be the sports of choice for wealthy housewives.

We pull into a lot in front of a large, white and dark glass, modern-looking building. The lot is filled with luxury cars—most of them probably cost more than I make in a year. A few have drivers lounging around, smoking and talking while they wait for their bosses to come out. We park beside a white Bentley Flying Spur, which probably cost a quarter of a million dollars. At least. A man in a black suit looks up from his phone as we climb out of the Yukon, likely making sure we don’t ding his doors. When we manage to avoid damaging his ride, he turns back to his phone, completely uninterested in us.

“Think we have time for a seaweed wrap while we’re here?” Rhodes asks.

“I’m not sure the Bureau could afford a seaweed wrap at this place,” I remark dryly. “And if I tried to expense it, I’m pretty sure they’d throw me in Gitmo for economic terrorism.”

Rhodes laughs as she pulls the door open for me. I thank her as I step into the cool, dimly lit lobby. There are several people in the area, all of them speaking in low tones, preserving the sense of peace that saturates the air around us. The lobby smells of jasmine and the ocean, and gentle string music plays softly from unseen speakers. The overall effect is an atmosphere that is, like this place’s name, tranquil. I can feel some of the tension in my body ebbing just standing here.

“I kind of understand why people pay big money to come here,” I say. “I’m already feeling a lot more relaxed than when we walked in.”

“It’s the jasmine scent in the air. It’s a natural relaxant,” Rhodes says. “And it’s a hell of a lot cheaper if you just buy a diffuser and some jasmine scented oil at a home store.”

“Good tip,” I respond.

“May I help you?”

We turn to see a woman in her mid-twenties with a model’s physique wearing black yoga pants and a black pullover with the Tranquility logo over the breast. Her pale complexion is flawless, her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail that falls to the middle of her back, and she’s got eyes bluer than the sky. She stops in front of us, giving us the elevator eyes, and I can’t not see the way the frown flickers at the corners of her mouth.

It’s only then that I look around and see that all the women in the lobby are stunning. It’s like we walked into a Victoria’s Secret runway show or something. Rhodes and I in our pantsuits and boots stand out like sore thumbs. The expression on the woman’s face makes it more than clear that we don’t belong here. I’m getting that same feeling from the other women milling around the lobby as they huddle together, sneaking not-so-subtle peeks at us while whispering to each other.

That feeling of peace and relaxation that had been settling over me a minute ago has completely gone, and my shoulders are getting tighter by the second. Clearing my throat, I pull my badge out and show it to the woman.

“Unit Chief Wilder, FBI. This is Detective Rhodes with San Diego PD,” I say.

“I’m Morgan Broome. I’m the general manager. May I ask what this is about?”

“We need to speak with one of your clients. Gina Olen,” I tell her firmly. “We were led to believe that she’s here today. We tried calling, but she’s not answering her cell.”

“Phones aren’t permitted on the premises,” she says smoothly. “We maintain a strict atmosphere of peace and calm, and phones disrupt that. So, our guests are not permitted to bring them in with them.”

“That’s a great idea,” I say. “Then we’ll need to speak with Mrs. Olen.”

“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid,” Morgan said. “She’s taking a molten mud soak.”

“I’m afraid I’m not asking,” I respond.

“What is this about?” the woman asks.

“We believe she may have been witness to a carjacking, and we just need to ask what she might have seen,” Rhodes lies smoothly.

“Well, that can surely wait until she’s done with her mud soak.”

“I’m afraid it can’t,” I say.

“I really must object. Our clients come here to relax,” she says. “In private.”

Rhodes scowls. “You can either take us to her, or I’ll hook you up for obstruction.”

We can’t really arrest her for obstruction, but the fear that flashes across Morgan’s face tells me she doesn’t know that. She crosses her arms over her chest, her already pale complexion growing paler. But she manages to hold it together and glances around the lobby, offering a reassuring smile to the women who are milling around, curious about what’s going on.

“We’ll be discreet,” I say.

“Right,” she mutters. “Follow me.”

She turns, and we follow her down a long labyrinth of corridors, walking briskly, until we come to a door with a small porthole window set into it. A silver plaque is fixed to the door that reads, “Mud Room Three.” Morgan turns to us, eyes narrow, lips twisted like she has something sour in her mouth.

“Please,” she says. “Our clients rely on our discretion. Please be… discreet.”

“Scout’s honor,” I say.

She rolls her eyes and storms away. I open the door, and Rhodes follows me in. The room is small, hot, disgustingly humid, and filled with a light floral scent that’s not entirely unpleasant. There’s a rectangular tub set into the middle of the floor that’s filled with red, bubbling mud. A plush robe hangs on a hook near the door, and a pair of soft, fluffy slippers sits beneath it. In the other corner, a nozzle sticks out of the wall with a drain in the tiled floor just beneath it.

The room is dim, with barely enough ambient light to see by. But it’s enough for me to see the woman leaning back in the tub, eyes closed, up to her neck in mud. She’s got a mask over her eyes and earbuds in, shutting the world out entirely.

I turn to Rhodes and gesture to the woman in the tub. “Is that?”

“It sure is.”

The woman in the tub, Gina Olen, wife of deputy mayor Ronald Olen, is reclining in the tub, up to her neck in bubbling mud like she doesn’t have a care in the world… and she’s the same woman we saw in Duffy’s studio getting a private workout. We must have broken her sense of Zen because she sits up and pulls the mask off her eyes. She quickly pulls the earbuds out and glares at us.

“What in the hell are you doing? This is a private soak room,” she snaps.

Gina sits forward, her eyes fixed on us, and slowly, recognition spreads across her face. Her lips immediately twist with disgust and outrage.

“You’re those cops that interrupted my workout,” she sneers.

“Detective Rhodes, SDPD,” she says. “And this is Unit Chief Wilder, FBI.”

“Wonderful,” she grouses. “Do you know who my husband is? When he finds out you are interrupting my soak and harassing me, he’s going to have your badges.”

“We’re very sorry to interrupt your soak and will be brief,” I say. “We just need to ask you a couple of questions.”

“You can make an appointment with my attorney.”

“That’s your right, of course,” I tell her. “But if you want to make this official, I can’t make any guarantees your husband isn’t going to find out about your affair with Oliver Duffy.”

The woman’s face pales, and her mouth falls open. She takes a moment to gather herself, sniffing haughtily and fixing us with a cold, imperious glare.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she says.

“Believe me, I don’t want to. It’s not my business,” I tell her. “But if you insist on making this official and getting lawyers involved, I can’t guarantee that’s not going to come out since it has come up in our investigation.”

“Or you can answer a couple of questions, and we can get out of your hair,” Rhodes says. “And your dalliance with your personal trainer remains your little secret.”

Rhodes is doing a nice job of playing off me. She’s found her way into my rhythm and is picking up where I’m leaving off, adding just the right amount of pressure at the right times. She’s natural and doesn’t force herself into the flow of the conversation.

“Fine. Whatever. Ask your questions,” she snaps.

She talks like she’s doing us a favor instead of trying to cover her own backside by keeping her affair a secret. But that’s fine. Whatever it takes for us to get the information we need.

“Mrs. Olen, was Oliver Duffy with you on the night of the sixteenth?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “What’s this about?”

“We just need to know if he was with you that night.”

She sighs. “Yeah. We were together.”

“Can you tell us from what time to what time?” Rhodes asks.

She lowers her gaze. “He came by about nine-thirty that night, I guess?”

“And when did he leave?” Rhodes presses.

“It was about six or seven the next morning,” she admits quietly.

“Because your husband was due home in the morning?”

She grimaces, and something akin to shame flits across her face. It’s gone just as quickly as it appeared, though, and she fixes me with an icy glare, seeming to be outraged that we’re forcing her to admit her sordid little secrets.

“Mrs. Olen?” Rhodes presses.

“Yeah. Because my husband was coming home that morning,” she grumbles.

It probably wasn’t necessary to get her to admit that, but Rhodes seemed to enjoy forcing it out of her all the same. Her story matches the one Duffy gave us, and since phones are not permitted on the premises, I’m fairly confident she’s telling us the truth. She’s been here all morning, so he very likely wouldn’t have been able to contact her ahead of our arrival to feed us the story he wanted us to hear. I’m fairly certain this clears Duffy. He’s not our guy.

“All right, I think that’s all we need,” I say. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Olen.”

“And… you’ll keep this between us?”

I make the motion of zipping my lips. “Your secret is safe with us.”

She cocks her head. “Is Olly in some kind of trouble?”

“No,” I say. “He’s not in any trouble. Enjoy the rest of your mud bath.”

She scoffs. “Yeah, well, I think you’ve interrupted my moment.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Right.”

“You have a nice day,” I say.

Rhodes and I make our way out of the mud room, then make a few false turns in the labyrinth of hallways before finally finding our way out of the spa altogether. We step into the sunshine and head for the Yukon, the drivers still lounging around outside giving us sideways glances as we cross the lot.

“Well, we can cross another name off our list,” Rhodes says.

“I’d like to call that progress.”

“If it’s progress, why does it feel like we’re moving backward?”

I flash her a grin as we climb into the Yukon. “Maybe you just need to go climb into a tub of hot mud and change your attitude.”

She laughs. “Pass. I have no desire to spend all the time it would take cleaning mud out from places it doesn’t belong. Pretty sure that would change my attitude right back again.”

“That’s a fair point,” I say.

As we pull out of the lot and head back to the war room, I can’t get Rhodes’s words out of my head—because right now it does feel like we’re moving backward. It’s a feeling I hate, but one I can’t shake either.

San Diego Police Department, Sex Crimes Unit, Conference Room C; San Diego, CA

“We’re striking out left and right, it seems,” Paige says.

My lips curl downward. “Nina—”

“I’ve found no link between the blonde victims, or the redhead, for that matter,” she replies.

“Wow,” I mutter. “We really do seem to be striking out left and right.”

I stare at the line of photographs for the millionth time, trying to unlock the secrets behind their eyes. How did they all connect? What binds them together other than the violence that has forever altered their lives? There has to be something I’m not seeing. The more I stare at them, the more I keep coming back to the fact that the first four all frequented the farmer’s market. Although it’s tempered by the fact that none of the other victims seem to have shopped at that same market; still, it’s not insignificant.

“Nina, tell me about the farmer’s market the first four victims shopped at—the one in Tuna Harbor, was it?” I ask.

“Yes ma’am. Tuna Harbor,” Nina replies. “According to their charge receipts, they purchased items from half a dozen different booths. Some of them intersect, some don’t. But digging deeper into their charges, I found they all purchased from a booth called Roadside Ricky’s.”

I pull a face. “Roadside Ricky’s?”

“He’s got a super rudimentary website, but he sells produce he says is as good and fresh as the produce found on roadside stands,” she informs me.

“Everybody’s got a gimmick,” Rhodes muses.

“Don’t knock roadside stand produce,” Astra says. “It’s better and fresher than what you usually find in stores.”

Everybody around the table turns to Astra, all of us with the same questioning grin on our faces. She raises her shoulders.

“What? Benjamin insists on cooking with fresh produce. He’s got a favorite booth in the farmer’s market near home and everything,” she says.

“That’s pretty bougie,” Paige remarks.

Nina nods. “I think it’s even bougier that she has her man doing all the cooking. Is he your fiancé or your staff?”

Astra winks. “Is there a difference?”

“I need to find me a man like that,” Rhodes remarks.

“If any of you had tasted her cooking, you’d understand that it’s just a matter of survival for the poor guy,” I tell them, earning an obscene gesture from Astra that gets everybody laughing.

Giving them all a moment, I grab my cup of coffee and take a drink, studying the faces of the victims again, trying to understand the change in victimology. It doesn’t make sense. The more I think about it, the more I begin to have doubts about my theory of two predators. I hate to admit to having a bit of self-doubt and questioning my theories, but I can’t find any other reasonable conclusion than to think that I’m wrong. And it’s because of our latest victim.

Monica Kinley has blown a hole straight through my theory, and no matter how I think about her, she just doesn’t fit. To go from assaulting young brunettes, to older blondes, to a young redhead, and to then shift from power reassurance, minimal violence assaults, to brutal, rage-filled murder just doesn’t track. It doesn’t conform to the typical profiles. Omnivores exist. And yes, methods evolve over time. Some men grow bored with simple assault and need to up the adrenaline rush of their attacks. Going from rape to murder isn’t unheard of. It happens.

But power reassurance rapists are usually somewhat shy and socially awkward. They need to be reassured by their victims and play out this fantasy in their heads that it’s consensual and their victim wanted them because they don’t have confidence in themselves. They are usually weak—easily intimidated. And they’re definitely not overly assertive. But as I study the crime scene photos and watch the escalating violence from then to now, I’m seeing somebody—in these later crimes anyway—who is bold. Brash. Confident. The murder scenes show me a man who is sure of himself and doesn’t hesitate to use violence to get what he wants.

It’s entirely possible that as our guy has gotten away with his crimes, his confidence has grown. It’s emboldened him. His success has encouraged him to take more chances and grow bolder. But the core insecurity of the man who forced his victims to tell him how good he was and how much they wanted this would remain. He would still seek that reassurance. His insecurity would be reflected in the scenes he left behind.

Once he shifted his preference to older blonde women, the scenes lack that sense of insecurity. They’re far more vicious and violent. It seems to be a clear line of demarcation. Blonde and brunette. Younger and older. Minimal violence and murder. Before and after. Preferentials don’t often change their preferences or their methods. It’s not impossible, of course, but from a psychological standpoint, it’s quite unusual.

But then there’s Monica Kinley. And there are also the things that tie all the scenes together. The fact that the attacker demanded his victims—his living victims anyway—tell him how much they enjoyed their violation. That they had always wanted him. His demand that they play out the fantasy he had built around them. And of course, the red roses left at every scene. Those two things seemed to be the definitive link between all the cases, telling us this is the same monster. It seems clear. And yet, there is still something that continues to churn and twist in the back of my mind.

“What’s bothering you?” Astra asks.

“Being wrong,” I admit. “I was so certain we were looking at two offenders.”

“Our guy seems like a unicorn,” Paige says.

“A unicorn?” Rhodes asks.

“Unique,” Paige explains.

“Our guy doesn’t fit the usual profile,” Astra says.

“But profiles aren’t always a hundred percent,” Rhodes says.

“No, but they’re usually right more often than they’re wrong,” I respond. “But this unsub is all over the map. His patterns don’t make sense to me.”

“He’s evolving. It happens,” Astra says. “Ted Bundy didn’t start off murdering people. He worked up to it and evolved over time.”

“That’s true, but his preferences didn’t change. The women he murdered all looked alike,” I respond. “Dark hair parted in the middle… that didn’t change. That was his preference.”

“Bundy said that wasn’t the defining characteristic,” Nina offers. “I read an interview where he said he only targeted women who were young and beautiful. He said that was his preference.”

“And yet, his victims all had dark hair parted in the middle,” I respond with a sly grin. “It’s possible Bundy himself didn’t understand the psychological underpinnings that guided him toward certain victims. He likely wasn’t even aware that his psychology made certain women stand out to him—drove him to victimize women who looked a certain way.”

I could follow this rabbit hole all day and nothing will change. We have ten victims. Two murders. And we need to put a stop to this.

“Nina, tell me about Roadside Ricky,” I say.

“Roadside Ricky, aka Richard Shimel,” she replies. “Fifty-five years old, Marine combat veteran. Did several tours in Iraq during Desert Storm. Owns a small farm in Escondido. Has been running Roadside Ricky’s for the last ten years. Pays his taxes, has a couple citations for disorderly conduct, and one arrest for assault thirteen years ago. Looks like it was a bar fight.”

Rhodes raises her head from her computer. “I’m looking at his socials, and it looks like he’s very active with his AA group. Seems like that bar fight and arrest spurred him to make some changes. He’s been sober since then.”

Arms crossed over my chest, I pace the room in front of the boards, my gaze continually drawn to the victims. My desire to get justice for these women is bordering on desperate. We just need a lead. Once we find a suspect, the rest of the pieces will fall into place. Only after we have somebody in custody will I worry about why my initial theory is so wildly off. I’ll figure it all out then. Right now, we just need a viable suspect.

“So, Roadside Ricky is a law-abiding, tax-paying, combat veteran,” Astra says.

“That would be affirmative,” Nina responds. “But…”

“But what?” I ask.

“It looks like he sees a counselor at the VA twice a week… has for years now,” she says.

“But records are private, so we’ll never know what those sessions are about,” I muse.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s PTSD,” Astra says. “He was discharged from the military a long time ago but continues to see his shrink. Does he have violent tendencies?”

“We’ll never know,” I tell her. “No VA shrink is going to talk to us.”

“Probably not. I’m just wondering if he brought home some anger issues from overseas,” Paige says. “Explains the bar fight.”

I turn and face them all. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do. Paige, I want you and Rhodes to head to the VA. Talk to the shrink. See if you can get anything about Roadside Ricky from him. Lean hard on him and see what he gives you.”

“Copy that,” Paige and Rhodes say.

“Nina, does Roadside Ricky have any other locations?” I ask. “Does he operate in any other farmer’s markets around town?”

“One moment, please.”

Her fingers fly over the keyboard as Rhodes and Paige get to their feet and head out. I doubt they’ll get anywhere with the VA shrink, but it’s possible he might give them some bit of information that could prove useful. It’s a weak lead, but a lead we need to explore nonetheless—no stone unturned and all that.

A voice from the hall says, “Roadside Ricky has permits to operate a booth two days at Tuna Harbor, two days at the North Park farmer’s market, two at the Pacific Beach market, and he takes Sundays off because even God rested on Sundays.”

McCoy is leaning against the door jamb, arms folded over his chest, his face carefully neutral.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Hayes was up my ass,” he replies. “I figured I’d come down here and impart some of my wisdom so I could tell the boss I’m contributing.”

“How do you know about Roadside Ricky?” Astra asks.

His expression is dry. “Because contrary to what you folks think, I’m actually pretty good at my job, Agent Russo.”

I cut a quick glance at Nina who gives me a subtle nod, telling me that McCoy is right, and I almost hate that he is. But we need solid leads, so it doesn’t matter where they come from.

“So, you’ll tell Hayes I’m fully engaged and contributing, right?”

“Of course,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

He gives me a wave, and without another word, turns and walks away. Astra raises her eyebrows and gives me a half shrug.

“Guess he met his contribution quota for the day,” she says.

“Make sure he gets a participation ribbon,” I reply. “Let’s go.”

Tuna Harbor Dockside Market, Tuna Harbor District; San Diego, CA

Two days a week, the docks in the Port of San Diego host the open-air seafood market. A lot like the Pike Place seafood market in Seattle, commercial fishermen hawk their catches in an array of booths where you can buy a fish that has been pulled out of the water that morning, have it cleaned and fileted, then go home and partake. Fresh seafood is always the best seafood. And it doesn’t get much fresher than these open-air markets on the docks.

The downside is that the market is saturated with a very thick fishy odor. I love eating seafood as much as the next person. What I don’t love is smelling it. In addition to the booths selling and cleaning your purchase, there are other booths hawking various other wares—kitschy trinkets, coffee, desserts, fresh-baked bread, and of course, fresh produce. We find Roadside Ricky’s booth nestled between a tent selling keychains and coffee mugs and one selling bread.

Astra and I stand on the other side of the aisle for a moment, getting a feel for the man we’re there to question. Roadside Ricky. Six-four with a head of thick, white hair, Ricky has warm brown eyes, deep lines etched into his face, and an easy smile. He’s friendly, chatting up everybody who stops by his booth, offering samples of his goods, and giving his advice about which of his vegetables pair best with the packages of fish in their hands. He’s about what I expected from somebody who calls himself Roadside Ricky. He’s equal parts salesman, farmer, and carnival barker.

A refrigerated box truck is parked behind his tent, the door down, no doubt filled with more boxes and crates of his produce. The interior of his booth has three tables set up in a U-shape with his wares set out on tiered risers for everybody to see. Asparagus, carrots, onions, beets, and leafy veggies fill the boxes on the tiers.

“I have to admit, his vegetables look a lot brighter and fresher than what I get in the store,” I say. “Bigger too.”

Astra turns to me. “When have you ever bought vegetables? I thought you existed on nothing but scotch, jazz, and the occasional burger.”

“Eat crap,” I say with a laugh.

“I think you eat enough of it for the both of us.”

Ricky is wearing blue jeans, fawn-colored work boots, a black T-shirt with his logo printed on the breast with a larger version covering the back, and a black half apron around his waist. I study him closely, searching for any hint of the monster who’s running around San Diego raping and murdering women. I just don’t see it.

“He’s friendly and outgoing,” I say. “Boisterous. Gregarious—”

“Everything your profile is saying our offender is not.”

“Exactly.” I pause for a moment and consider my words before continuing. “But then, nothing about my profile seems to be fitting anyway, so why should this be any different?”

“He might be good at putting up a front. This could all be an act.”

“Still doesn’t quite fit the profile. You need to have confidence to put up a front like this in the first place. Acting won’t be our guy’s strong suit,” I tell her.

“Only one way to find out what Roadside Ricky is all about.”

I nod. “Yeah. Let’s go have a chat with him.”

We cross the aisle and step into his booth. Ricky sends his customer away with a laugh and his hearty thanks, then turns to us, that wide, salesman’s smile creasing his lips.

“Afternoon, ladies,” he greets us. “I have the best produce in all of San Diego. What can I get for you two today?”

His face blanches as we badge him. But he doesn’t draw inward, nor does he seem afraid of us. Startled, yeah. But he quickly recovers from that and slips his hands into the pockets of his apron, squares his shoulders, and stares at us evenly. The friendly glimmer in his eyes has faded, replaced by a wary alertness.

“FBI,” he says with a polite and respectful bow of his head. “I assume you’re not here for the freshest produce in San Diego.”

“I’m afraid not,” I say. “I’m Chief Wilder, this is SSA Russo. We need to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. Go for it.”

I pull up pictures of the first four victims on my phone then turn it around and let him see. Ricky leans forward, his jaw clenched, studying the photos closely.

“Do these women look familiar to you?” I ask.

He grimaces. “Maybe. Kind of,” he says. “I think they may have come through here before, but I couldn’t swear to it. Between my booth here and the other markets I sell at, I see a lot of people, Agents. And I’ve never been real good with faces.”

He lowers his gaze to the pictures again. “Did somethin’ happen to these girls?”

“They were assaulted, Mr. Shimel,” Astra says.

His eyes widen slightly, and his expression darkens. He runs a hand over his face, the stubble on his cheeks making a dry, scratchy sound. Ricky shakes his head.

“What is this world comin’ to?” he mutters.

“I ask myself that same question at least once a day,” I tell him.

Movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention, and I turn to see a large man hovering behind one of the tables, half-concealed by a sign that hangs at the back of the tent. The man is about an inch taller than me, so maybe five-ten or so, and is heavyset. His black hair is shaggy, his cheeks are pockmarked with acne scars and dotted with dark stubble. He seems nervous, shifting from foot to foot, and peeks out at us from behind the sign.

“Who is that?” I ask.

Shimel turns. “That’s Aaron. He helps me out,” he says, then leans forward and pitches his voice lower. “He’s a little simple, but he works hard. Not a bad kid.”

“Aaron… what is Aaron’s last name?”

“Parzel, ma’am.”

I cringe at the word ma’am. “Blake is fine. Really.”

Astra walks toward the back of the tent. “Aaron, can you come out here please?”

His eyes widen, almost as if he’s surprised Astra spotted him. I’m not sure if he thinks the sign kept him concealed completely or if he thinks he’s invisible, but his surprise at being seen makes me think Ricky’s assessment that Aaron is a little simple is spot on.

“Come on out, kid,” Ricky calls.

Aaron licks his lips and comes out from behind the sign, stepping over to his boss. He stands half-behind Ricky, his head bowed, gaze on the ground.

“Aaron, I’m Blake,” I say and hold my phone up. “Tell me something, do you recognize the women in these pictures?”

The man remains silent, still not meeting my eyes. Ricky nudges him with his elbow.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asks. “Raise your head and answer her question.”

Aaron finally raises his head and stares at my phone for a moment. After staring at the pictures for almost a full minute, he shakes his head.

“No, ma’am,” he says quietly. “I’ve never seen them.”

“You’ve never seen them shopping here?” Astra asks.

He shrugs his wide shoulders. “Not that I remember. I don’t deal much with people. I mainly load and unload and keep the boxes stocked.”

Ricky subtly taps his finger against his temple as if to remind us that his assistant is a bit slow. I slip my phone back into my pocket.

“All right,” I say. “Well, thank you for your help, Aaron.”

“Can I go now?”

“Yeah, you can go,” Ricky says. “Do me a favor and get those avocados filled up, huh?”

“Sure, boss.”

Aaron turns and walks away, leaving us standing with Ricky. “I’m sorry. What happened to those girls is terrible. I’m sorry as hell I couldn’t help more.”

I cast a glance at Aaron, who is sneaking another peek at us from behind the sign in the back, then turn back to Ricky.

“You’ve been very helpful,” I say. “Thanks for everything.”

“Sure thing.”

“Before we go, I’d like to buy a few of those avocados,” Astra says.

That wide, carnival barker smile slips across Ricky’s lips again. “Best in all San Diego.”

“Aaron Parzel,” Nina says. “Thirty-one years old, dropped out of high school in his junior year. Has a history of working menial jobs. He’s been working with Roadside Ricky for the last five years, which is the longest stretch of employment he’s ever had.”

After finishing up at the farmer’s market, we made a beeline back to the war room, and I had Nina do a deep dive into Aaron Parzel. The man was unsettling to be around.

“You can’t really think that guy is our killer,” Astra says. “He’s simple. Like Lennie-from-Of Mice and Men simple.”

“Is he though? Or is he crafty?”

“I’m betting on the former,” Astra says.

“He doesn’t have much of a social media footprint,” Nina goes on. “But he does have a Facebook, and although he doesn’t post much—or at all, really—he does consistently like and comment on one woman’s posts.”

Planting my hands on the table in front of me, I brace myself. I already have a feeling I know exactly what this woman is going to look like.

“Put her Facebook up on the screen, please,” I say.

The video monitor turns on, and a moment later, the woman’s Facebook page comes up on the screen. The moment I see her, I know we’ve got our guy. The girl in the photo has dark hair, wide, dark doe eyes, and a warm, engaging smile that radiates innocence. And she’s obviously young.

“This is Blythe Watkins,” Nina says. “Eighteen years old—”

“Barely,” I mutter.

Nina nods. “Barely eighteen years old, she is a senior at Bishop Diego High School,” she says. “And before you ask, it appears that Parzel was a janitor at that school when Blythe was a sophomore and part of her junior year.”

“Jesus,” Astra mutters. “He’s been obsessing about this girl for a while.”

“It built up in him until he couldn’t take it anymore and had to act,” I say. “Can you find any reason for him leaving the school?”

“I can’t. The records are sealed,” Nina replies. “Which I assume means it wasn’t because he wanted to seek out new opportunities.”

“Yeah, probably not,” Astra says.

“Nina, dig deep. I want to know if Parzel was named in any police complaints. In particular, focus on nuisance crimes like—”

“Peeping, touching, and panty stealing,” she replies with my earlier words.

“Exactly that.”

“On it.”

Astra slips another slice of avocado into her mouth and chews. “Facebook stalking to rape is a pretty big jump.”

“Like you said before, they all start somewhere. That seems a natural escalation,” I tell her. “Far more natural than low violence, power reassurance rape to murder.”

She still doesn’t look convinced. It’s true that Parzel seems simple. Maybe a little slow. And I have no doubt that he is. But I also got the sense he was playing it up a bit for our benefit. There was a sharpness in his eyes I picked up on that makes me think he’s a little wilier than he lets on.

“He does have a record, boss. Mostly in county lockup for small-time things,” Nina reports.

“Do you really think this guy is capable of committing all these crimes without leaving a trace?” Astra asks. “I mean, he gets in and out of their houses without leaving hair, fiber, or DNA behind. Do you really think he’s that sophisticated?”

“I’m open to the idea that he is.”

“All right, we can see the similarities between Blythe and the first four victims,” Astra says, pointing to the board. “But where do the next six victims come in? I’m scrolling through his Facebook feed, and I don’t see anybody in his friends list that matches the blondes. Nobody older and not a single redhead.”

“We’ll deal with that later,” I say. “Right now, we’ve got a straight line from the first four victims to Parzel. They all bought from Roadside Ricky’s.”

Astra grimaces. “That’s not quite the straight line you think it is. Just because they purchased from his booth doesn’t put them in contact with Parzel.”

Turning back to the board, I wince like she just slapped me. She’s right. It’s a line, but it’s not quite as solid as I’d like to think it is. We need something more that puts the victims in direct contact with Parzel. I don’t think we can even get a warrant with what we have right now. I’m so desperate to find something—somebody—I’m not thinking straight. Combine that with my ongoing worry about Kit, and my head is a noisy, confused space right now.

Astra probably sees my head isn’t on straight right now and is making an extra effort to rein me in by playing devil’s advocate. For that, I’m thankful. She’s keeping me on the straight and narrow. She’s keeping me from making a mistake that will taint the case that we can’t walk back. I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to get my head right.

“I think I have something that’s going to help,” Nina says.

“What do you have?”

“Roadside Ricky’s offers delivery for his customers’ convenience,” she says. “Guess who does that delivering? And guess who had orders delivered?”

“I could kiss you,” I say.

“I’ll settle for a high five,” Nina replies.

I turn to Astra. “Think that’s enough to get us a warrant?”

“Depends on the judge. But it might be.”

“I’ll get to work on that,” Nina says. “I’ll text you with a copy once it comes through since I assume you are both heading to Parzel’s place to have a chat.”

“You read my mind,” I say.

“It’s just another of my myriad of skills.”

“Bless you, child.”

Astra and I get to our feet and head out. For the first time since we touched down in San Diego, I feel that familiar pull of momentum. I feel like we’re onto something. Astra still doesn’t look entirely convinced that Parzel is our guy, but as we head for his apartment, I couldn’t possibly be more convinced that he is. One of us is about to have egg on our face. Not that I ever want to embarrass Astra, but I really hope it’s her.

Because if it’s me, I have no idea where we go next.

Parzel Residence, San Ysidro District; San Diego, CA

Surrounded by freeways on all sides, San Ysidro is a triangular-shaped concrete jungle that sits at the southern end of San Diego and just north of the US-Mexico border. It’s a tough town with a reputation for poverty, unemployment, and violence. Probably because of that reputation, it’s one of the more affordable areas in the city, which is likely how Aaron Parzel found his way there. Working in a farmer’s market booth probably doesn’t pay much.

We pull to a stop at the curb in front of a shabby, run-down apartment complex. The four-story building is made of stucco that was once white but has turned a dull gray color. It doesn’t appear to have been refreshed in years. The landscaping out front is mostly dead and scrubby with large patches of dirt showing through the grass and weeds. The walk is pitted and cracked, and when we step into the lobby, we are assaulted by a wave of different odors.

“Jesus,” Astra says as she puts her hand to her nose. “What in the hell is that?”

I grimace. “Smells like somebody is microwaving fish.”

“Rotten fish, maybe.”

There are so many different odors, most of them absolutely terrible, it’s impossible to differentiate them. The only one I can pick out clearly is the aroma of marijuana. It’s strong, and judging by the odor, not great quality. But at least it’s helping to smother the other offensive aromas wafting through the building.

“You realize we’re going to have to burn these clothes when we’re done here, right?” Astra asks. “We’ll never be able to get the smell out of them.”

“Yeah, I had the same thought.”

The interior of the apartment building isn’t much better than the exterior. The paint on the walls is old and chipping off in some places. Graffiti mars the walls, and half the doors in the bank of mailboxes have been torn off. The carpeting that lines the hallways is thin and frayed, and we step on dark stains I’m not entirely sure aren’t blood. I don’t know the history of this place, but I’m going to guess it includes more than its fair share of gang and drug-related deaths.

Loud music pounds behind most doors we pass. There are so many people shouting in their apartments that their voices all blend together to create the sound of one large fight. The happiest place on earth this is not. Astra and I climb the stairs, making our way to the third floor. Astra still seems unconvinced that Parzel is our guy, but the simple fact that he’s got himself together enough to hold a job and an apartment tells me he’s not quite as slow and simple as he makes himself out to be. He’s got to have some level of competency to be independent.

We find our way down the hallway to Parzel’s apartment, taking spots on either side of the door, and pull our weapons. Reaching out, I pound on the door.

“Aaron Parzel, FBI,” I announce. “Open the door.”

The door, of course, doesn’t open, but I hear the sound of somebody rustling around inside. I pound on the door one more time.

“FBI, Mr. Parzel,” I call. “Open the door.”

A door opens behind us, and I raise my weapon. The older woman leaning out of the open doorway squeaks, her eyes wide and startled.

“Go back inside and close the door, ma’am,” I tell her.

She slams the door, and I hear the sound of locks being engaged. The noises we heard coming from Parzel’s apartment have stopped, and it’s quiet inside. Stepping in front of the door, I raise my foot and slam it into the flimsy wood. The door splinters with a loud, sharp crack as it bursts inward, slamming into the wall behind it with a hard crash. I come through the door, low and fast, my weapon at the ready.

The moment I step into the apartment, I have to throw myself to the side to avoid having my head taken clean off my shoulders by the bat Parzel is swinging at me. I’m quick, but not that quick, and he clips my shoulder, sending me spinning. Pain erupts in my shoulder, and my arm goes numb. My weapon hits the floor with a hard thud, and Parzel advances on me again, the bat raised over his head and a wild, feral gleam in his eyes.

Still on my butt, I crab walk away from him. Before he can get to me, Astra slides in behind him and presses the barrel of her weapon to the back of his head.

“You’re going to want to drop the bat,” she says.

His breathing ragged, his eyes wild, he grunts but doesn’t let go of his bat. He seems to be calculating whether he can get to me before Astra pulls the trigger or not. Okay, maybe he is a little slow on the uptake.

“I’m going to count to three,” Astra says. “And if you don’t drop that bat, I am going to paint the walls with your brains. Got it? Here we go. One…”

His eyes narrow, and his lips pull back over his teeth. He really wants to beat me with the bat in his hand but knows he has no shot at it.

“Two…”

He growls and drops his bat. It hits the carpet with a muffled thud, and while keeping her weapon to the back of his head, Astra kicks it away. Once that’s done, she quickly and fluidly gets Parzel’s hands behind his back, bound by a pair of handcuffs. After she has him in bracelets, she pushes him down on the stained, ratty couch, then turns and offers me her hand.

“You all right?” she asks.

My shoulder is throbbing, and my entire arm feels warm, pulsing with the pins and needles sensation of a limb you’d fallen asleep on. I take her hand and let her help me to my feet.

“Yeah. I’m good,” I say. “Thanks for the assist.”

“Assist?” she scoffs. “I saved our butts.”

“Yeah, I guess I owe you one.”

“Babe, you owe me more than I can possibly count in this lifetime.”

I laugh. “Yeah, if you say so,” I say, then turn to Parzel. “Why were you trying to brain me?”

He glares at me through narrowed eyes. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“We have a warrant that says we can,” I respond.

“Why? I didn’t do nothin’.”

“Didn’t you?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No.”

As Astra snaps on a pair of black nitrile gloves and starts moving around the small, one-bedroom apartment, I sit down on the battered coffee table in front of Parzel. He struggles with the cuffs, trying to free himself. I watch him for a long moment. He grunts and squirms, unable to free himself, and grows more agitated by the moment. Parzel’s face is red, and he’s panting, glaring at me with rage burning in his eyes.

“Why are you doin’ this?”

I pull my phone out of my pocket and pull up the pictures of the first four victims. Turning it around, I show him.

“We believe you hurt these girls,” I say.

He shakes his head like a frustrated child. “No. I didn’t hurt nobody.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I didn’t hurt nobody!” he screamed.

“See, I think you hurt these girls because they look a lot like Blythe Watkins,” I say. “You remember Blythe Watkins, don’t you?”

He shakes his head again, his neck and face a bright shade of red. “I didn’t do nothin’.”

“I think you saw Blythe. Maybe you even loved her,” I say. “But you couldn’t have her. I think you tried, and that’s why you got in trouble at the school. They made you leave—”

“No!”

“We’re digging into your past right now, Aaron. We’re going to find all your dirty little secrets. We’re going to find all the things—”

“No!”

“Anyway, I think you loved Blythe, but like I said, you couldn’t have her,” I say, shaking my phone at him. “So, you hurt these girls because they all reminded you of her.”

Tears stream down his face, and a high-pitched, keening wail bursts from his mouth. Parzel starts rocking back and forth, struggling profusely with the cuffs and howling even louder when he can’t break free of them.

“Blake.”

I look up as Astra walks back into the room carrying a shoebox. When his eyes land on it, Parzel pales and falls utterly silent. He stops rocking but begins to tremble as fresh tears streak down his face. I get up and walk over to Astra. She sets the shoebox down on the table and takes a step back, her expression grim and angry.

“Looks like you were right,” she says.

I pull a pair of gloves from my pocket and snap them on. I take the lid off the box, then set it aside and gasp when I see what’s inside. Panties. There are a dozen pairs of panties inside the box along with Polaroid photos with their names written on it attached to each garment by a safety pin. I take every pair out and set them down on the table until there are twelve young women, all of them absolutely terrified in their photos, staring back at me.

I pick out the four we’re investigating—Ashley Rivera, Stephanie Reid, Bethany Pearsall, and Skye Moretti. But there are eight faces who are strangers to us. Eight victims who didn’t report their assaults, more than likely, each of them bearing a striking similarity to the young girl who doesn’t even realize just how lucky she is. Although he’s been attacking surrogates of Blythe Watkins, there would have come a time when even that wasn’t enough, and he would have sought to fulfill his ultimate fantasy. With her.

“He didn’t want to forget,” I murmur as I touch the Polaroid of Bethany, the remarkable young woman I interviewed.

Behind us, Parzel is crying softly and whispering, “I’m sorry,” over and over again. Astra glares at him balefully, then turns to me.

“Are you all right?”

“It’s fine,” I tell her. “There’s probably going to be a hell of a bruise, but I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t talking about your shoulder.”

I pause, then nod. “I’m fine.”

She glances down at the array of panties then back up to me again and shakes her head.

“Looks like you were right,” she says.

“And yet, it doesn’t make me feel one iota better.”

“Take the win. We caught one monster and these girls,” she says, gesturing to the panties, “will all have some justice.”

“Not until we identify and interview the other eight.”

She nods. “We’ll get that done. We’ll find all eight of them. For now, I’m going to call this in. We’ll get the crime lab from the field office down here to process the scene. He may have more boxes of trophies. When they get here, we’ll take him down to SDPD for booking.”

“Good. Thank you.”

Astra turns and walks out of Parzel’s apartment, glaring icy-cold daggers at him the entire way. He seems to wilt beneath her gaze and shrinks back into the sofa. But when I walk over to him, he must see something in my face that terrifies him because his face turns deathly white, and his features are etched with fear.

As I stare at him, the blood in my veins flows with molten rage, warming my skin from the inside. My body tingles, and my heart grows darker than pitch. Bethany Pearsall’s face flashes through my mind. Although she’s proven resilient and strong, more powerful than this pathetic excuse of a man in front of me, he took a piece of her. And that piece is gone forever. What he stole from Bethany—from all these girls—they will never get back.

The desire for vengeance uncoils within me like a venomous serpent, and all I want to do is strike. To lash out. But there is nothing I can take from him that will ever replace what he stole from the girls in that shoebox. Not even his life. I open my mouth to say something but find I don’t have any words for him. Instead, I shake my head and walk out of the apartment to wait for SDPD to show up and take him in.

San Diego Police Department, Sex Crimes Unit, Conference Room C; San Diego, CA

I pull the first four photos off the board and set them in the box that holds the files for those cases. Once I’ve boxed everything from those cases, I seal it up and carry it over to a table in the corner and set it down. Justice is pending for those women, but we have the right guy sitting in a cell. What comes next is out of our hands. My only hope is that Aaron Parzel does a long, long time. In an ideal world, he only gets out of prison in a pine box, but like I said, that’s out of my hands. I can hope though.

“Four down, six to go,” Nina says.

“Six to go.”

“Are we certain Parzel isn’t good for those as well?”

I shake my head. “Definitely not. We found detailed journals.”

“Gross.”

“Beyond gross.”

“Parzel wrote a lot about the assaults of all the girls in his shoebox,” I tell her. “But not a single word about these six.”

It’s been a couple of days since we put the bracelets on Parzel, and we’ve spent most of that time tearing his apartment down to the studs looking for evidence. Aside from the shoebox with the panties and the accompanying Polaroids, we found his journals. He wrote extensively about the assaults, going into agonizing details about them. Parzel wrote extensively about how the women he assaulted told him how much they were enjoying themselves and how long they had been fantasizing about being with him.

It was obviously part of his fantasy. It was Parzel writing down what he’d forced them to say and was all part of the scenario he’d created in his head. It was everything he’d wanted and imagined, likely with Blythe Watkins playing the starring role in his mind.

“Have you found a nexus between these six?” I ask.

Nina shakes her head. “Nothing. They didn’t run in the same circles, didn’t shop in the same stores, and didn’t frequent the same places,” she says. “Three of them were teetotalers—never set foot in a bar as far as I can see. Two of them did go to bars, but not the same ones, and of course, Monica Kinley wasn’t even old enough to get into a bar. There is zero overlap between any of them on their friend’s lists on socials. I didn’t even see them check in at any of the same restaurants. I feel comfortable saying these six women did not know each other.”

“And yet, somebody out there knew all six of them,” I muse.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” she says. “They caught his eye somewhere out there in the wilds. Not that I can tell you where that might be.”

“So, it’s completely random,” I say. “They were just out living their lives and found themselves in this monster’s path.”

That these six women have nothing in common bothers me. Random encounters are hard to swallow, but I know it happens. I keep staring at the six remaining photos on the board, trying to find the pattern between them. But Monica Kinley keeps throwing a wrench into it. She doesn’t fit. She doesn’t make sense.

The door to the war room opens, and Paige, Rhodes, and Astra come in. They’re shuffling along like they’re wrung out and spent. They take their seats at the table and sit back, silent and grim. They were out doing a horribly difficult and emotionally charged task, so I give them a few moments to collect themselves.

“You guys okay?” I finally ask.

“That was rough,” Astra says.

“I don’t ever want to do something like that again,” Paige chimes in.

“I’d like to promise you nothing like that will ever happen again, but…”

“I know—I know,” Paige replies. “It comes with the job.”

“How did it go?”

The three of them broke up the list of victims in Parzel’s shoebox and went to interview the women. The more nails we have for his coffin, the harder it’ll be for the DA to cut him a deal. The more women we have testifying against him, the longer he’ll be in prison. But approaching these women is difficult. They didn’t report their assaults for a reason. There is an unnervingly high percentage of women who don’t report their assaults.

“We still have two on the list we couldn’t get to today,” Astra says.

“That’s fine. I’ll meet with them tomorrow.”

“I hate putting these women through this,” Rhodes says. “The woman I spoke with, Alyssa Reaves, practically shattered right in front of me. At first, she denied anything happened—said her assault never happened. When I showed her the picture of her panties and Polaroid, she just crumbled. I hate this, Blake. I feel like I victimized her all over again.”

“I know it’s hard, but it’s necessary,” I say. “And believe it or not, we are giving these women their power back.”

“How so?” Rhodes asks.

“They remained quiet for a lot of reasons. But at the root of it is a feeling of helplessness. Powerlessness. These women don’t report their assaults out of fear,” I tell them. “By showing them we have the monster who attacked them in a cage, that he’s nothing they have to fear anymore, and giving them the opportunity to confront him, to help put him away for good—it can be empowering. It can really help them find some sense of closure… or at least help them move on.”

“Not all these women are ready for that,” Astra says. “The woman I spoke with—Tracy Schuster—she’s still deep in denial. She’s nowhere near that place.”

“And that’s fine too,” I say. “But it’s still important they know they no longer have anything to fear—that they don’t have to keep looking over their shoulders. Some of them will find some healing in that.”

“I hope so,” Paige says.

“Same,” Rhodes says.

“Okay, it’s been a long couple of days. Let’s knock off for the night,” I say. “Food, a few drinks—blow off some steam tonight. But come back tomorrow ready to work. We’ve still got a monster out there and we need to build a profile—”

Before I can finish speaking, the door to the war room opens, and Captain Hayes steps in. His eyes quickly flit to the board, and I can see the confusion flicker across his face when he sees the six photos still up.

“I’m sorry I’ve been absent the last couple of days. I was at a symposium in Sacramento,” he says. “I assumed you’d be packing up and getting ready to head back.”

“Why would you assume that, sir?” I ask.

“I heard you collared our guy.”

“We collared a guy,” I say. “Aaron Parzel is guilty of the first four assaults.”

“And eight others that were unreported,” Astra adds.

“Jesus,” he mutters as he runs a hand over his face.

The room falls silent as he stares at the board. Hayes finally clears his throat and gestures to the photos still up.

“What about these six?” he asks. “You didn’t mention them, and it doesn’t look like you’re packing up to go.”

“Because the job’s not done, Captain.”

“The Chief thinks this case is closed,” Hayes says. “He’s holding a presser first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t know where he would have gotten that idea,” Astra says. “It didn’t come from us. We haven’t closed the case yet.”

His face blanches, and he doesn’t have to tell me where it came from. I know exactly where the Chief got that information.

“McCoy,” I mutter.

The Captain purses his lips, anger and disgust crossing his face. In his haste to take credit for the rapist being caught and adding to his legacy, as well as to cover his screwups, he didn’t bother checking with us. He saw the arrest report and ran with it. That’s the problem with glory hounds… they never stop to get the full story in their rush to get their gold star.

Hayes looks like he’s going to be sick. “So, you’re telling me that Aaron Parzel did not assault these six women?”

“We do not believe so, no,” I answer.

“We believe we have a second predator, Captain,” Astra adds.

“Second predator?”

“Yes, sir. We believe he’s piggybacking on the four original assaults.”

“How can you be certain of that?” Hayes asks.

“We didn’t find any proof that Parzel was involved with these six assaults among the boxes of evidence we pulled out of his apartment,” I say. “There’s nothing tying him to these crimes.”

“That’s hardly definitive. Maybe he just didn’t chronicle them the way he did with the first four victims,” he stammers.

He wants this case to be closed as much as McCoy does, although I don’t think it’s because he wants his slice of the credit pie. The longer this case remains open—and the more victims that crop up—the worse it looks for him. Instead of seeking the spotlight, Hayes seems invested in plunging this all back into darkness.

He clears his throat. “Chief Wilder, we have a viable suspect in custody—”

“It’s not him,” I explain.

“What about the red roses? Those were holdbacks,” he says. “Those are conclusive links between all these cases. That means if Parzel is good for the first four, then he’s good for these six.”

“Unfortunately, controlling information isn’t always possible, Captain. Even holdbacks sometimes get out into the public sphere.”

“Are you accusing my department of leaking?” His face turns red as a scowl splits his lips.

“No more so than any other department in this country,” I explain evenly. “People talk. It just happens. We try to control the flow of information the best we can, but it’s not always possible. It’s human nature to talk… to gossip.”

“I think I may be able to prove definitively that Parzel is not responsible for the six assaults still on the board,” Nina says.

“What do you have?” I say.

Nina raises her head from her computer, an inscrutable expression on her face. “Aaron Parzel did sixty days in county jail between October and November of last year for misdemeanor petty theft,” she explains. “He couldn’t have assaulted Vanessa Mershon or Alexandra Crouse—because he was in jail.”

“Christ,” Hayes mutters as he turns away. “What an absolute clusterfu—”

“I would suggest you have the Chief cancel that presser, Captain,” I say. “The last thing we want is to give out false information or give the public a false sense of security. There is still a monster roaming the streets.”

“And if he knows he can’t piggyback on Parzel’s crimes, there’s no telling what he’ll do,” Astra says.

“Not having that cover any longer makes him unpredictable,” I say.

“Which makes him infinitely more dangerous,” Paige adds.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters.

With one hand on his hip, Hayes runs his other hand through his hair. He’s right. This is an absolute crap-show because McCoy jumped the gun. He knows if he goes to the Chief to tell him to cancel the presser because this case isn’t over, he’ll look like a fool. And if there’s one thing police commanders hate, it’s being made to look like a fool. Shaking his head, his face etched with irritation, he turns back to me.

“What am I supposed to tell the Chief?” he asks.

“The truth. He can still hold his presser and let them know the SDPD arrested a man responsible for twelve assaults,” I tell him. “That’s a good thing, Captain. That will help ease the public’s mind—”

“What about this?” he asks, gesturing to the board.

I bristle at the casual way he refers to these victims as “this,” but I hold my tongue. I’m trying to learn to pick my battles, and that is probably not a hill I should die on since he probably didn’t mean it as callously as it came out. The man is flustered, and I should probably extend him a little grace.

“Don’t say anything about these women,” I say gently. “Just have him remind the public to stay vigilant without going into specifics.”

Hayes paused and lowered his gaze for a moment, seeming to be thinking it over. I exchange a quick glance with Astra who frowns. The Captain seems to come to a decision and raises his head.

“I think the Chief should hear that from you,” he says. “I think you need to explain to him what you just explained to me. He’ll hear it better coming from you.”

“Captain, I’m not much for doing PR—”

“I’m not asking you to do PR. I’m just asking you to lay out your case the way you laid it out to me,” he says. “He’s ready to close this and move on.”

“I think the facts speak for themselves. There’s no way Parzel could be responsible for these assaults,” I say and point to the board. “He was in jail.”

“I hear you, Chief. I do. Just… do me a solid and talk to the Chief. Please,” he pleads. “He’s a political guy and is more concerned with public perception than he should be. He tends to hear what he wants to hear. But if you explain to him what you just shared with me, he might hear you. And maybe you can help him shape his remarks for tomorrow’s presser. This situation requires a light touch, and I just don’t have that. I’m an old beat cop, Chief. I’m garbage at that.”

Rhodes half raises her shoulders and quirks a grin as if to tell me that the man isn’t wrong. But the fact that he’s passing the buck irritates me. We’re not here to run interference between Hayes and his boss or smooth the waters for him. We’re here to catch bad guys. We’re here to help make their city safer. I understand not wanting to rock the boat or tell his boss something that’s won’t make him happy. But that isn’t my job and shouldn’t be my focus right now. I’ve got enough pulling me in different directions as it is.

At the same time, though, we can’t have the Chief of Police stand before the media and tell them all is well, all is safe, and that the monster has been caged when it’s the furthest thing from the truth. That will only lead people to let their guard down when they need to remain vigilant.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll talk to your boss.”

“Thank you, Chief Wilder. I really appreciate it,” he says, obviously relieved.

“Sure. Why not? We’re a full-service outfit after all,” I reply dryly as Astra hides her smirk behind her hand.

The Current Lounge, Mission Beach District; San Diego, CA

“How’d things go with the Chief?” Astra asks.

“Not bad,” I say as I take a seat at the table. “Chief Saryan is actually a pretty level-headed guy. He’s not as political as Hayes made him seem. Actually, seems to want to get it right. But he told me that we need to find this guy as quickly as we can.”

A waitress bustles over to our table, so I put in my order for a glass of scotch. Judging by the empty glasses and plates on the table, the girls have been here for a little while. It’s a good thing. We need to celebrate our wins. And regardless of the fact that our work is still not done, putting Parzel in a cage is a win. It’s worth having a couple of drinks.

“But is Saryan going to hold his presser tomorrow?” Rhodes asks.

“Of course,” I respond. “Just because he’s not as political doesn’t mean he’s not political at all. Getting Parzel off the streets is still a win, so Saryan is going to cash that ticket.”

“What about our second perp?” Paige asks.

“I helped him soften that message. Told him to stress vigilance and awareness without sounding the alarm,” I respond. “We don’t want to spook our second offender any more than watching his cover get arrested will already spook him.”

The waitress brings a fresh round for everybody. She sets my glass down in front of me, so I pick it up and raise it, toasting the incredible people seated at this table.

“I just want to say great work, everybody. We’re not done yet, but we’ve gotten justice for twelve women who desperately deserved it. And that’s because of your hard work,” I tell them. “Thanks for being the best team I could have ever hoped to have.”

Everybody raises their glasses and cheers before we all tap glasses. I take a sip, then set my glass down and pull the plate of cheese fries close to pick through the remains. It’s cold, and the cheese is congealing, but I’m so freaking hungry right now I don’t care. The waitress suddenly appears at my elbow and takes the plate away, quickly replacing it with a fresh one. The steam curls off the cheese, and the fries look brown and crisp.

“They said you’d want a plate when you got here,” the waitress said.

“They are very wise. Thank you,” I say.

“Anything you need, just give me a shout.”

The waitress turns and disappears as I dig into the fries. Just as I thought, the fries are perfectly crisp, and the cheese is thick and decadent. My eyes roll back in my head, and an indecent sound drifts from my mouth as I pop a few of the fries into my mouth and chew.

“You guys are the best,” I say.

“We know,” Nina chirps.

“So, how are we going to find our second offender?” Astra asks.

“That, my friend, is a question for tomorrow,” I say. “Tonight is not for shop talk. Let’s celebrate the win we got.”

Astra pulls a face. “Who are you, and what have you done with the real Blake?”

I toss a piece of fry at her, which she deftly bats away and laughs. “You suck.”

“Admit it, Chief, you’re not exactly the celebrate-the-win type,” Paige says.

“You’re more like the brooding, immediately-move-on-to-the-next-horrible-thing-on-our-to-do-list-of-depravity-and-evil type,” Nina adds with a smile.

“Maybe I’m trying to turn over a new leaf,” I offer.

“I think we’re finally starting to rub off on her,” Astra says.

“Maybe so.”

“Well, since we’re celebrating tonight, I have some news,” Rhodes says.

I swallow another sip and take a moment to savor the amber liquid. “Let’s hear it.”

“I officially put in for a new partner today,” she says and quickly takes a drink.

Silence descends over the table as we all turn to her. That was the last thing I was expecting her to say. Judging by the shocked faces I see, it’s the last thing any of us were expecting her to say. Watching Rhodes come out of her shell and step into her own power over the course of this case has been pretty amazing to see.

A shy flush creeps into her cheeks. “I just felt it was time to make a change. I want to make my own way in the department. Carve my own niche.”

“Good for you, Sabrina,” I say. “I think that’s fantastic.”

“Thanks,” she replies with a humble smile. “I appreciate that. In fact, I appreciate all of you. Working with you guys has showed me what real police work looks like. It reminded me of exactly why I wanted to do this job in the first place. I guess I kind of lost my way working under McCoy. I just went with the flow—his flow—rather than stand up and do things the right way. But watching how you guys handled this case kind of lit that fire in me again.”

“I’m really glad to hear that,” I tell her. “You’re a good cop, Rhodes. You’re smart. You have good instincts and a solid moral compass. You’re passionate and dedicated. And all those things are going to serve you well.”

“How did McCoy take the news?” Astra asks.

She chuffs. “Not well. He was pissed. I’ve never seen him angrier before, to be honest,” she replies. “He’s taking it a lot more personally than he probably should be. I mean, he’s pulling the pin in a few months. But he thinks this is going to reflect badly on him.”

“Because it’s all about him,” Paige says with a roll of her eyes.

“Yeah,” Rhodes replies, a frown flickering across her lips. “I mean… he’s not a bad guy. Not really. He’s just… he’s—”

“Narcissistic, for one,” I respond. “Egomaniacal. I don’t doubt he was a good guy at one point. And I don’t doubt he worked hard and earned his reputation. But from what I’ve seen, he’s just coasting on that reputation here in the twilight of his career. He’s not interested in doing the work or doing things the right way anymore. He’s just cashing a paycheck.”

“Yeah. That sounds about right. Not the greatest mentor I could have had,” Rhodes says quietly. “Ironically, it’s having worked under him that’s going to get me out from under him. Having been trained by a departmental legend, I think the bosses will assume I’m primed and ready to go solo.”

“And are you? Are you ready to go solo?” I ask.

“I am. What I was lacking was confidence. You guys showed me that,” she replies. “I mean it when I say I’ve learned more from you these past few days than I did in months with McCoy. He did nothing but chip away at my confidence. He had me questioning everything, most of all myself. But you guys empowered me—showed me that I’m a pretty good cop and can do this job. For that, I’ll always be grateful to you guys.”

“No need to be grateful to us,” Astra says. “That’s all you, Rhodes. All of that has been inside you this whole time.”

She offers Astra a grateful smile. I raise my glass to Rhodes.

“Congratulations to you, Detective Rhodes,” I say. “I hope this marks the beginning of a long, decorated, and glory-filled career.”

“I don’t want decorations and glory,” she says. “I want to get justice for those who can’t get it for themselves—like the women on that board back in the war room.”

“Well, it sounds like you’re well on your way to being the kind of cop you want to be,” I say.

“To Rhodes,” Astra says, and we all clink glasses.

Morant Residence, Alta Vista District; San Diego, CA

Before we could get to the war room the next morning, Rhodes called us out to a scene. The body of another girl was found in her apartment. We pull to a stop in the lot beside a tall, three-story beige stucco building in the Alta Vista district which sits in the southeastern corner of the city. Clouds the color of slate cast the day in gloomy tones, and a cool breeze blows in off the ocean, tickling the back of my neck like the breath of a ghost. Seems fitting.

As we climb out of the Yukon, I see half a dozen squad cars blocking off the area. The officers have set up a tapeline to keep the gathering crowd of gawkers at bay. It’s then that I see several news vans pull into the lot and growl to myself.

“Wonderful,” I mutter. “Just what Saryan didn’t want.”

“The press can smell blood in the water better than a shark,” Astra quips.

“Let’s get this over with,” I say.

We march through the lot and into the building, the shouted questions of the reporters chasing us through the doorway. We take the stairs up to the third floor where Rhodes told us to meet her. It’s not hard to pick out the apartment we’re supposed to go to, given the small army of uniformed people in the hallway.

We badge the cops on the door and step into the small apartment. Sparsely furnished, the place is neat and clean. And as with all the other scenes, the front rooms of the apartment are virtually untouched. A woman wearing a dark blue windbreaker bearing the logo for the ME’s office comes out of the back and gives a start when she sees us.

“Sorry. Just caught up in my head,” she says with a soft, Southern accent. “Sabrina’s back there. She’s waiting on y’all.”

“Thank you.”

I lead Astra and Paige into the back of the small, one-bedroom apartment. There’s barely enough room for Rhodes in the cracker box-sized bedroom, let alone the rest of us, so Paige and Astra stay at the door as I walk into the room. As with the other scenes, the bedroom has been utterly destroyed. There isn’t a thing that hasn’t been knocked over or broken, and on the bed lays the body of a thin, athletic woman.

“Where’s McCoy?” I ask, surprised by his absence.

“Couldn’t tell you,” Rhodes replies. “I’m the primary on the case.”

“They sure made you solo pretty quick.”

“To be honest, I’m glad they did.”

“Me too.”

I turn my attention to the woman on the bed. Her body has been ravaged, her blonde hair fanned out around her head on the pillow and matted with her blood. She is naked, her flesh marred with dark bruises and a crisscrossing network of cuts, these deeper than previous victims. The bruise around her neck is darker, and both of her eyes are blackened and swollen shut. There is dry, crusted blood at the corners of her mouth as well as around both nostrils. And a single red rose sits on her chest. The killer is mocking us.

The savagery in this killing seems even more pronounced. The rage that went into the destruction of her room even more evident. This monster took out all his anger and frustration at losing his murderous beard out on this poor woman, and all I can do is shake my head.

“This is Zara Morant,” Rhodes says, her voice grim. “Twenty-six years old. She’s a bartender at a spot in the Gaslamp. Her sister stopped by this morning and found her. She’s really shaken up, as I’m sure you can imagine. She’s downstairs with the uniforms.”

“Good. That’s good,” I say and turn to Astra. “Can you two go talk to the sister? Get whatever you can out of her.”

“Copy you,” Astra responds, and she and Paige head down.

“Two bodies in such quick succession,” she says. “He was going about a month between attacks before—”

“We arrested Parzel, so he knows his cover is blown. He’s going to attack more frequently and more viciously until we stop him,” I say. “Unless now that he knows his cover is blown here, he decided to have one last hurrah before picking up and moving on to another city,” I muse. “Eventually, he’ll get that urge again and find somebody else’s pattern to pick up on.”

Rhodes shakes her head. “That’s unreal.”

“Not as unreal as you might think,” I tell her. “You’d be surprised at how good these animals are at smelling out their own. They’re smart and often as good at profiling as we are.”

“That’s a scary thought.”

“It’s very scary. But it’s a fact.”

“Can you imagine if they used their powers for good?”

“It would be nice,” I reply. “Unfortunately, some people are determined to do evil.”

Moving around Rhodes, who slips to the other side of the cramped room, I study the body closely. Something seems different. I squat down beside the bed and scrutinize Zara’s body, trying to figure out what my subconscious mind picked up on. After a couple of minutes, I see it.

“What is it?” Rhodes asks. “You look like you spotted something.”

I stand up again. “She put up a fight,” I tell her. “Likely scratched her attacker.”

“Why do you say that?”

I point to her hands. “Her nails were cut right down to the beds. I bet once the ME’s office gets to examining her, they’ll find some cleaning agent was used on her fingers as well.”

Rhodes squats down and stares at the woman’s hands. “Damn. You’re right,” she says. “Guess I still have a lot to learn.”

I shake my head. “I’ve just been doing this a long time now. These are things you’ll pick up with more time and experience.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so,” I respond. “Okay, let’s let the MEs have the scene. We’ll go make the notification to her family, then head back to the war room and start building our profile.”

“Copy that.”

Nina has Zara’s picture up next to the rest. Another blonde in her mid-to-late twenties in a string that’s much too long for my liking.

“Obviously, our guy went back to his preference of blondes in their late twenties,” Astra says. “So, why Kinley? The only redhead in the bunch?”

“She stands out. Why did he kill her?” Paige agrees.

It’s a question I’ve been pondering for a while now, and having gone through a thousand different answers, if not more, I think I’ve finally landed on the one that makes sense.

“She was a distraction,” I tell them. “She was meant to throw us off the track because she was not like the others. Our unsub wanted us looking in the other direction by throwing Kinley’s body at us. But now that Parzel has been arrested, he knows he can’t piggyback on his crimes anymore, so he’s back to taking what he wants.”

Astra whistles low. “That is a cold, calculating assessment.”

“I think it’s the right one.”

“He murdered a girl just to get us looking in the wrong direction?” Paige asks.

“He’d hardly be the first person to do that,” I remind them.

“That’s true,” Astra says.

My hands in the pockets of my slacks, I pace the front of the room, the dark thought that’s been nibbling at the corners of my mind growing more pronounced and insistent. At first, I tried to shrug it off, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. But right now, with my worry for Kit lodged firmly in my mind, I don’t quite trust myself and know I could be mistaking my own dislike and bias for sound theory. This is all something I should have put together earlier, but my thoughts have been so chaotic and filled with concern for Kit, I’ve been off my game.

As I stare at the board with my increasingly dark thoughts and emotions bubbling in my mind like some toxic witch’s cauldron, I know I need to talk it out and see if anybody else follows where I lead. Especially Astra. She’ll be the first to tell me if I’m off my rocker—which, admittedly, I may very well be. But then again, maybe I’m not.

“Let’s build a new profile,” I begin. “These attacks differ from Parzel’s in the level of violence. Aside from his assaults, Parzel wasn’t violent. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to make sure his victims were, for lack of a better word, comfortable. He went out of his way to keep from physically hurting them.”

“Because to him, it was a romantic fantasy,” Astra says. “He doesn’t equate violence with romance and affection.”

“Right. But that can also show a lack of confidence. His constant need for reassurance and compliments suggests he didn’t have that self-confidence. Hell, his own words tell us that.”

“Exactly,” I say and point to the photos. “Whereas these scenes were all incredibly violent. This unsub went out of his way to hurt these women. To inflict as much pain on them as he could. And when that wasn’t enough for him, he turned to torture and murder,” I say. “These scenes suggest confidence to me. These attacks were carried out by somebody who is bold and brazen. Somebody who does equate sex with violence—and somebody who has a chronic and malignant dislike of women.”

As we talk it out, I jot everything down on the board, putting it all down in black and white. I’ve always found that helps me clarify my thinking. I hope it does the same for everybody else sitting around the table as well.

“All right, I can see that,” Astra says. “But what about the power reassurance? Maybe the red rose bit gets out into the public sphere, but what he said to these women—the same things that Parzel said to them—wasn’t in anything I saw. So far as I can tell, nobody knew Parzel was asking them to compliment his performance or tell them how good he was, or…”

Astra’s voice trails off as a light bulb comes on over her head. And the glow from that realization spread quickly to the others as the idea caught fire around the room.

“You’re suggesting it’s a cop who piggybacked on Parzel’s attacks,” Astra says.

“No way,” Rhodes says, almost reflexively. “I can’t see it.”

“Who else would have sensitive information like that?” I ask.

“Like you told Hayes, we can’t control every aspect of information that gets out,” she argues. “Maybe somebody leaked it to the wrong person who picked it up and ran with it.”

“The only place those things are mentioned are in the interview reports. It’s not something everybody would have access to,” I explain. “Whereas the techs and anybody who moved in and out of the crime scenes surely would have seen the rose, only the people who interviewed the victims would know what Parzel said.”

Rhodes slumps back in her seat, her face etched with shock and disgust at the thought that somebody in her department might be responsible for these attacks. Now I just have to sit and wait for her to make the last connection I need her to make… to see the answer that coalesced and has taken firm root in my mind.

I glance at Astra whose eyes widen slightly as the connection is made in her head. Then Paige. Even Nina is staring at me, shocked by my unspoken allegation. But Rhodes isn’t there. She either can’t or won’t let herself see the obvious. I need to give her a nudge.

“Who is it that has been trying to distract and lead this investigation in the direction they want, Sabrina?” I ask gently. “Who was it that shot down my initial theory of two separate perpetrators? And who has not only been watching this case closely but also scampered to the Chief to declare it closed when we arrested Parzel like he was trying to get ahead of it?”

She shakes her head. “It can’t be.”

“I should have seen it all before. If I didn’t have a lot going on right now, I might have,” I say. “But what I took to be promotion-seeking with the Chief might have been McCoy trying to derail the rest of our case. He’s got a chronic dislike of women, he has a temper, and as the hole in the wall of Monica Kinley’s house can attest, he is prone to violence.”

“It’s all the ingredients of a toxic stew,” Astra says.

Rhodes is still shaking her head, trying to deny the reality of the moment. But as she thinks about what I’m saying, objectively and without emotion, I can see it slowly starting to seep into her. It’s not long before she stops shaking her head and her face becomes tighter and more resolved. She raises her eyes to me, her jaw clenched.

“All right. If nothing else, this at least bears looking into,” she says. “He bears looking into.”

Before I can speak another word, though, the door to the war room opens, and my entire body tenses expecting to see McCoy storm in, terrified that he’d been in the hallway listening to us the whole time. The old phrase, “Speak of the Devil and the Devil shall appear,” runs through my head. But when I see it’s Captain Hayes coming through the door, my body relaxes, and I immediately let out a breath of relief.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “I just wanted to check in and see how you are all doing?”

“We’re doing fine,” I respond. “We’re building a profile right now.”

He stares at the board, reading everything I’ve jotted down as we talked it out. Thankfully, I didn’t put McCoy’s name down on the board with my notes. Hayes finally shakes his head.

“I’m not even going to bother pretending I know what any of that means or what you’re doing,” he replies. “I was just hoping that, in light of today’s body, we’re somewhere closer to finding our guy? Chief Saryan is not enjoying the news coverage.”

“Neither are we,” I respond. “But I think we’re getting closer.”

“Anything you care to share?”

“Not at the moment. Not until we have something firmer.”

It’s then that I notice the thin line of blood on the sleeve of his shirt. Hayes follows my gaze to the crimson line that mars his white uniform sleeve and his eyes widen, as if he’s only just seeing it. He rolls his sleeve up, and I see the bandage underneath it. Muttering to himself, he rolls his sleeve back down, then returns his eyes to mine and gives me an awkward grin.

“Damn. Seeped through the bandage,” he says.

“What happened there?”

“I was roughhousing with my dog last night and got scratched,” he says with a chuckle. “That’s what happens when you have a hundred-pound Great Dane puppy. They tend to be rambunctious and unaware of their size.”

“That happens with dogs that big,” I reply.

“Yeah. It does.”

The room falls silent and is suddenly filled with a tension that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Eyes shift around the room as everybody seems to be searching for somebody to speak up and break the fragile, brittle silence. Hayes clears his throat, and in the quiet of the war room, it sounds like a cannon going off.

“Anyway, once you have something firm, let me know,” he says. “Chief Saryan is asking for regular updates, so… please. Do what you can. And do it quickly.”

“Of course.”

Hayes walks out of the war room, and I move to the door. Pressing my ear to the wood, I listen to the sound of his heavy footsteps ebb. When I’m sure he’s gone, I turn back to the room, a chasm opening in the pit of my stomach.

“I was wrong,” I say. “My God, I was wrong.”

The Breakers Inn, Mission Beach District; San Diego, CA

“Seriously? Captain Hayes?” Rhodes asks. “I thought you said it was McCoy?”

“I think I was wrong,” I admit. “You saw the blood on his shirt, right?”

“Well… yeah.”

“Does he have a dog?”

Rhodes screws up her face and grimaces. “I don’t know. He and I aren’t close like that. We don’t share pieces of our lives or anything.”

Once I saw the blood on Hayes’s sleeve, I knew we had to get out of the war room. It wasn’t safe. We wouldn’t be able to discuss Hayes as our suspect since I have no idea if there are cameras or mics in the room. That’s the downside of playing on somebody else’s field. So, I had everybody discreetly pack up, and we moved to my room at the hotel. At least this is an environment I can control. For the most part. I’m pretty comfortable in thinking my room isn’t wired.

Astra and Paige are sitting on the two queen beds, Nina is set up at the table in the corner, and Rhodes is sitting across from her. I’m doing my usual thing—pacing the room. It’s way more cramped than the conference room, but we have to make do. The last thing we need is for Hayes to be eavesdropping on our conversation. If he’s willing to murder a young girl just to throw us off the scent, there’s no telling what he’s capable of.

“Do you remember when we were at the scene this morning?” I ask.

Rhodes nods. “Yeah, of course. Tough to forget a scene like that.”

“All right. Zara’s fingernails. They were cut. I told you then I think our killer cut them because she fought and likely scratched him,” I say.

Rhodes grimaces. “It’s a big leap.”

“I don’t think it’s as big as you think,” I say. “But maybe. If nothing else, this is something we have to investigate.”

“She’s right,” Paige says. “I mean, the day after a brutal murder where the victim likely scratched her attacker, whom we pretty much know is a cop at this point—”

“We assume it’s a cop,” Rhodes corrects. “We don’t have definitive proof of that just yet.”

“Fair enough,” Paige concedes. “We assume it’s a cop. However, for him to show up with a mysterious wound the day after the attack? It doesn’t seem like something we can ignore, Sabrina.”

She ponders it for a moment before nodding. “No, you’re right. We can’t ignore it. I may not be tight with the guy, but Hayes has always been decent to me. I just can’t see him as some sadistic rapist killer.”

“And maybe he’s not,” Astra chimes in. “But we have to look into him.”

“Yeah, okay. I get it. It just feels… weird,” Rhodes says. “Investigating one of our own will never not feel weird.”

“No, it won’t. And it will never get easier,” I say. “These are the people who are supposed to be chasing the monsters… not becoming them.”

“Don’t worry—we’re looking into him quietly,” Astra says. “If he’s clean, he’s never even going to know we were poking around in his life.”

“All right. Yeah,” Rhodes says, her face tight with determination once more. “Whatever it takes to get this monster… whoever it is.”

“Nina? What do you have?”

Nina looks up from her computer. “Hayes was married for almost thirty years but divorced about two years ago.”

“Acrimonious?” I ask.

“Unclear at this point. Irreconcilable differences is the reason,” she replies. “But I’m going to keep digging deeper. I’m sure I’ll be able to find something.”

“Irreconcilable differences again. First McCoy and now Hayes,” Astra says with a roll of her eyes. “I’m starting to feel that’s the catchall phrase for bad things nobody wants to talk about.”

“Okay, so we have a possible acrimonious divorce in Hayes’s background. He has a mysterious wound. And he’s had access to our investigation from the start,” I say.

Nina frowns. “I probably should have said something earlier, but it didn’t even occur to me until right now.”

“What is it?”

“I mean, it may be nothing at all, but in this context, with us looking into Hayes—a day or two before Monica Kinley’s body was discovered, I got to the war room early and found him in there studying the board. He was looking through all our notes and things,” she explains. “Like I said, it’s his department, so I didn’t think anything of it at the time… but with what we’re thinking now, it kind of feels… off.”

She’s right, it might not be anything. But the fact that he was snooping through our notes and studying our board could be something. It could be something big. Knowing what we were thinking as we investigated would have given him a big advantage. And maybe, seeing that at least I was still thinking about a second offender, he might have killed Monica Kinley just to gum up the works and throw me off that theory.

“We need to know more about Hayes,” Astra says.

“I know. That’s why—”

Before I can finish my sentence, there’s a knock at the door. Everybody turns to me, questions on all their faces.

“This isn’t ideal,” I tell them. “But I knew we were going to need a closer, more intimate look into Hayes. More than what we’re going to find online.”

“Blake, what did you do?” Astra asks.

“What I had to do.”

I walk to the door and open it. The irritatingly cloying scent of his woodsy cologne preceding him, McCoy saunters into the room with a cocky swagger and an even cockier smirk on his face. The room is dead silent, the air crackling with tension. I step to the center of the room and clear my throat, offering everybody a weak smile.

“I guess I don’t have to make any introductions,” I say.

Admittedly, comedy is not my forte, but I thought my joke was pretty good. The deafening silence in the room, however, tells me it fell very flat. It’s not often we invite a suspect into our war room—and McCoy hasn’t been cleared yet—but given how long he’s worked with Hayes, he is in a unique position to provide us with some valuable insights. McCoy surveys the room, a smarmy half grin curling the corner of his mouth upward.

He stares daggers at Rhodes. “Should have known you’d be here.”

“We’re trying to solve this case, Nick.”

“Uh-huh,” he replies sourly, then turns to me. “So, what is going on in here? Why is the Mickey Mouse club meeting in secret?”

“Thanks for coming,” I say.

“You didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“We always have choices,” Astra says.

He scoffs. “Not always.”

McCoy walks over to the table and picks up my bottle of scotch, inspecting the label. He nods, then grabs a glass and pours himself a stiff drink. Astra’s mouth falls open, and she cuts a glance at me, likely expecting me to tear his head off his shoulders with my bare hands. I’m not entirely sure I won’t. My scotch is sacred to me. McCoy takes a healthy swallow and rolls it around in his mouth, grunting approvingly.

“That’s good stuff,” he says. “You have excellent taste.”

“Thanks.”

“I assume I’m here because you all need something from me.”

“We do,” I say.

“All right. What do you need?”

“I need you to tell me about Captain Hayes,” I say.

He cocks his head. “What about him?”

“You’ve worked with him for twenty-five years,” I say. “Pretty safe to say you know him as well as anybody, right?”

“I’d say that’s fair…”

His words trail off as a curious expression steals across his face. McCoy looks into his glass for a moment, the wheels in his mind spinning as he searches for the answers to his own questions. He glances around the room, and I see the pieces falling into place as he turns to me.

“You guys are investigating Hayes,” he says with a tone of amused wonder. “That’s why you’re all crammed in here like sardines and not at the station.”

Astra sits up. “We just need a little background information—”

He turns to me. “You guys think Hayes is your guy? Seriously?”

“We’re exploring several avenues,” I tell him. “Something came up today that we want to pursue. That’s all.”

“What came up?”

“I’d rather not say right now,” I state firmly. “We just want to get some background intel from somebody who knows him well. Can you help us or not?”

He drains the last of his scotch and flashes that smirk at me again, arrogance oozing out of every pore. He holds his empty glass up and gives it a shake like I’m a waitress. A big part of me wants to throw him out and find another way to get the information we want. But there’s nobody in that station who’s known Hayes longer. Like it or not, I’m going to have to deal with McCoy. And I don’t like it. I really don’t.

“Pour me another glass of this fine scotch. And I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” he says with a greasy grin.

Astra’s lips are curled back in a sneer, her distaste as obvious as mine. Rhodes sits quietly at the table, watching her former partner with disdain on her face. And although Paige is frowning, she’s doing a better job than any of us as appearing neutral. I grab the bottle and pour him another glass. McCoy flashes me a toothy smirk, then takes a swallow, an appreciative expression on his face. For a guy whose partner just dumped him and had himself taken off a major case, he is exceptionally cocky. But then, maybe this close to pulling the pin, he just doesn’t give a damn anymore.

“Seriously, your taste is exceptional, Blake.”

Something about hearing my name fall off his lips makes me bristle. But I somehow manage to hold myself together and not smack him into the middle of next week. Props to me.

“Now, what can you tell me about Hayes’s background?” I ask.

“Like what? Specifically.”

“You came up with the guy—”

“He was already a sergeant by the time I came up. He’s a bit older than me.”

“Fine. But you’ve been with him your entire career.”

“True.”

“And? Does he have a temper? Can he be violent?”

“Well… yeah. He’s roughed a few people up in his day.”

“Why are there no conduct reports?” Rhodes asks.

He chuckles. “You don’t think the department covers for their own?” he asks. “Besides, when Hayes was coming up, things were different. You could get away with slapping somebody around now and then. But Hayes is a great cop. Made his way through the ranks on his own. Didn’t get any special promotions he didn’t deserve because he checked some boxes.”

It’s obviously a shot at Rhodes, but to her credit, she doesn’t take the bait. She sits back in her chair and picks up her water bottle, slowly unscrewing the cap and taking a drink to give her something to do with her hands other than throttle McCoy. My arms folded over my chest, I walk to the open slider and stare out at the ocean.

“Something else you need to know is Hayes is plugged in—like real plugged in—got friends in high places. His rabbi is the Chief of Police, for Christ’s sake,” McCoy tells us. “There’s no paper trail because he knows how to sidestep problems… or they quietly go away.”

“What was Hayes’s relationship with his wife like?” I ask.

He blows out a breath and shakes his head. “You guys can’t seriously be looking into him. Hayes is a straight arrow. As straight as they come.”

“Like we said, we’re exploring every avenue,” Astra says.

“What was his relationship with his wife like?” I ask again.

He purses his lips and half shrugs. “It could be contentious. Volatile at times, I guess. Especially at the end,” he replies slowly. “Hayes can be… difficult at times. But to be fair, so could Nancy—that’s his wife. She’s a real piece of work.”

“How so?” Astra asks.

“Demanding. Real demanding. Always wants what she wants when she wants it,” he answers. “Nothing ever seemed good enough for her. She always wanted more.”

“So, they fought a lot?” Paige asks.

“Like cats and dogs,” he responds. “Honestly, I’m surprised they made it as long as they did with the way they were always getting after each other.”

A picture is forming in my mind. It’s not the one I was expecting to see, but it’s starting to come into sharper focus all the same. Even still, there are parts of it that remain opaque. There are questions I don’t yet have the answers to. And that not knowing is bugging me. A lot.

“What kind of dog does Hayes have?” I ask.

“What?” McCoy asks as if taken back by the sudden shift in tack.

“Dog,” I repeat. “What kind of dog does he have?”

“He doesn’t have a dog,” McCoy replies. “He doesn’t like animals.”

And just like that, another piece of the puzzle falls into place, and the picture becomes a little clearer.

The Breakers Inn, Mission Beach District; San Diego, CA

“We’re not anywhere close to having enough for a warrant,” Astra says.

“Nope. We sure aren’t.”

“So, what are we going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I admit.

I stand at the open sliding door, watching the surfers out on the water cutting up, then sliding down the face of the waves. They make it look so graceful. So easy. I’ve never tried surfing but know myself well enough to know that I’d probably end up in a full body cast. Or in a body bag. It’s fifty-fifty either way. All I know is it can’t be as easy as those people out there cutting up those big waves make it look.

After McCoy left, Paige and Rhodes went out to grab some lunch for us. Nina is sitting quietly in the corner, tapping away at her keyboard, her brow furrowed as she works her magic. I’m hoping she can find something to bolster our case, such as it is. Investigating a police captain is inherently risky. Especially when that police captain is the one who invited us into the case to begin with. If he finds out, he can pull our invite and send us packing. It’s risky, but unavoidable.

And trusting a guy like McCoy makes that risk we’re taking even greater. He’s as trustworthy as a rattlesnake. But I had no choice other than to invite him into the circle. He had information about Hayes that might prove critical. At the very least, he’s filled in some of the blanks and pointed us in a direction we hadn’t considered before.

“You think McCoy’s going to keep his mouth shut?” Astra asks.

“I sure as hell hope so,” I reply. “If he tells Hayes, we’re cooked.”

“I think we’re more well-done than simply cooked,” she replies. “Hayes will run us out of town on a rail if he finds out we’re looking at him.”

“We had no choice. It’s not like we can ask him about his own background or for the insights that McCoy gave us.”

“Yeah. I know. I just don’t like having to put my faith in a snake like that.”

“Neither do I,” I murmur.

There isn’t a single cloud in the azure sky overhead, and the sun glitters dazzlingly off the surface of the ocean. A soft sea wind stirs the curtains around me, and the melancholy cries of the gulls riding the currents of air ring in my ears. It’s a beautiful day outside. Throwing a blanket down and reading a good book while I soak up some sun sounds like a fantastic way to spend the day. Certainly, a lot better than being holed up in a cramped hotel room surrounded by all the thoughts and artifacts of a series of brutal assaults and murders.

Astra grabs a bottle of water and takes a long drink, joining me at the door. We stand in silence for a couple of minutes, just watching the beach scene outside. She’s quiet, but I can tell that she’s biting her tongue. Her unspoken words have a physical weight to them.

“What is it?” I ask.

“What makes you think—”

“I know you as well as you know me,” I say. “Which means I can always tell when you’re choking on all the things you want to say but aren’t actually saying.”

She chuckles. “You do know me well.”

“So, let’s hear it.”

“I just… are we really going to take McCoy at his word?”

“I don’t like it any more than you do. But what choice did we have?”

“I don’t trust him. I mean, he was—still is—a suspect.”

“He is. But he’s not our only suspect,” I reply. “You saw the line of blood on Hayes’s shirt. It could have been from a scratch wound. That alone compels us to look into him. Then there’s the fact that Nina caught him snooping in the war room.”

“I understand. But if McCoy knew we were looking into him, that gives him plenty of motive to lie to us.”

“I agree. That’s why we’re not taking him off the board yet,” I respond. “But this lead with Hayes seems a bit more pressing at the moment.”

“Blake—”

“I’m not taking McCoy off the board,” I tell her. “I just want to play this out and see where it goes. I mean, if nothing else, Hayes lied about having a dog to explain the blood on his sleeve. Why lie about something so easily verifiable?”

That crease between her eyebrows she gets when she’s frustrated forms, and the corners of her mouth pull downward. There isn’t much she can say about Hayes lying about having a dog. That’s not to say I’m taking McCoy at his word. I don’t trust the man as far as I can sling a piano. And I understand her point about him having ample motive to lie to us if he suspected we thought he might be involved with these rapes and murders. It’s why he’s still on the table and why we’re going to vet his information about Hayes.

“I, uhh, have something you two might be interested in,” Nina says.

We both turn to her as she raises her head, the glow of her screen reflecting off her glasses. She shifts in her seat and takes a quick sip of water before continuing.

“So, I found some court filings around Hayes’s divorce,” she says. “And buried in them, it looks as if there are some allegations of physical abuse. They’re unsubstantiated allegations, but they’re there just the same. I also found a few things that allude to the police being called out to Hayes’s home for domestic violence—though no charges were ever filed, and no official case was ever made against him.”

I glance at Astra. That adds another layer to this lasagna of misery we’re building here. And it seems to bolster McCoy’s information that Hayes could be violent. If we’re to believe what else he said, it also seems to bolster the idea that perhaps thanks to his volatile marriage, Hayes harbored a resentment, if not outright hatred, of women.

“So, his friends in high places may have swept it all under the rug,” I say.

“Possibly,” Astra says. “I trust what Nina’s finding a hell of a lot more than I trust anything that came out of McCoy’s mouth.”

“Same. But this seems to support what he told us about Hayes.”

“Yeah. I suppose it does.”

I start to pace the room again, letting my mind work at the knot sitting square center in the middle of my brain. It should be good news. It shows we can have some bit of faith in what McCoy told us. But all it does is deepen my sense of dread. I hate going after cops. It never feels… right. We’re supposed to be the guardians of the people. We’re supposed to be the ones protecting them and making our small corner of the world a bit safer. We’re not supposed to be the ones victimizing them. We’re not supposed to be the monsters.

I didn’t choose this path. But I will follow it all the way to the end, and if we find Captain Luke Hayes when we get there, then so be it.

“All right, so we’ve got a history of abuse, a chronic dislike of women, and the fact that he lied about having a dog,” I say. “I’d say that’s enough to put him firmly in our crosshairs.”

“Still not enough to get us a warrant.”

“No, it’s not,” I reluctantly agree.

The door chirps, then unlocks and swings inward. Paige and Rhodes come through carrying boxes. Almost immediately, the room fills with the scent of delicious, artery-clogging, fried food. They pause just inside the door and, perhaps seeing the serious expressions on our faces, glance at each other before turning back.

“What did we miss?” Paige asks.

As they passed out the food, burgers and fries—a bag of onion rings for me—we catch them up on our thought processes while they were gone. Rhodes is even more uneasy about investigating one of her own than I am. It’s to be expected, of course. I know it will make her life even harder within the walls of her precinct when it gets out that she is working with the feds to take down a cop in her squad. Her boss, no less.

Cops, be they local or federal, do not believe in going after one of their own. The blue wall is not just a myth or made-for-TV bogeyman. It’s very real. And the punishment for breaking that unwritten rule can be severe. Rhodes will be ostracized. She’ll be an outcast in her own precinct. It’s something I don’t think I’ve given a lot of thought to until this very moment.

“Rhodes,” I say. “Given what we’re doing here, you’re going to get a lot of blowback.”

“Probably.”

“You might want to step back. Let us take the heat for—”

“Not a chance,” she cuts me off. “If somebody in my precinct is dirty, or, God forbid, a rapist and a murderer, I am not going to stand back just because I’m going to catch some flak. I want to be the one to put the cuffs on him.”

“Are you sure?” Astra asks. “Go against the blue wall and bad things tend to happen.”

“I’m more than sure. If they want to give me heat for helping get a monster off the streets, then let them. I’m just going to keep doing my job.”

“Last chance to push the eject button,” I say. “Once we start down this path, there really won’t be any turning back.”

“Then let’s roll.”

Her strength and resilience are impressive, as is her courage. Going against her fellow officers is no small thing, and she is definitely going to catch heat for it. But she’s got that gleam in her eye that makes me believe she can withstand all of it. Flourish despite it. I can tell she’s going to be one of the good ones and will likely have a career that will even overshadow a departmental legend like Nick McCoy.

“All right,” Astra says around a mouthful of her bacon cheeseburger. “We still have the problem of not having enough evidence to secure a warrant. How do we get around that?”

I chew the onion ring in my mouth, then wash it down with a swallow of soda. “With some good, old-fashioned, shoe-leather police work.”

Hayes Residence, Grant Hill District; San Diego, CA

In central San Diego sits the working-class neighborhood of Grant Hill. Neither run down, nor opulent, Grant Hill is home to many of San Diego’s blue-collar workers. The homes are modest but well kept, and from my spot down the street, I watch as many of the neighbors greet one another warmly. The sense of community here is palpable. It seems like the sort of place a young family can safely raise their kids.

The sun has already gone down, and the moon is covered by a thick marine layer, cloaking me in darkness as I watch Hayes’s home. Without a warrant, there isn’t much more we can do. We have to find evidence that will lead to us getting a warrant. So, we’ve moved our operations back to the war room at the station, though we’re careful to avoid any mention of Hayes in anything we have, just to keep up appearances. And we’re taking turns shadowing the captain.

Tailing him is tricky. Because he’s a cop, he’s vigilant and probably knows how to look for tails. So, we’ve had to use a variety of undercover cars from the field office and work in shifts. For the most part, it seems that Hayes is leading a quiet and uneventful life. He doesn’t go out much at night, preferring to sit in his modest, ranch-style home. So far, we haven’t found a single thing we can use to get us a warrant—nothing that proves he’s our guy. Yet.

When I spot Hayes coming out of his house and get into his car, a dark blue Kia Telluride, I sit up a little straighter. A rush of adrenaline floods my veins as he backs out of his driveway. I slump down in my seat as he passes, then start the car and make a quick U-turn and follow him. Traffic is a bit sparse, so I keep my distance as he moves through the streets.

“Where are you going?” I mutter.

The piano of Art Tatum fills the cabin of my borrowed ride, and I weave through traffic which is thankfully growing a little heavier. It’s easier to blend in. I slip behind a Toyota, keeping myself behind and to the left of Hayes’s vehicle. At first, it feels like we’re driving around aimlessly. He doesn’t stop anywhere and just… cruises. It doesn’t seem like he has any destination in mind as we follow a circuitous route all around town. But then Hayes pulls into a park-and-ride center in the El Cajon neighborhood and drives slowly down the aisle of cars.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I watch as he pulls into a stall. His taillights flare and then go dark. I find a spot a couple of rows over, giving myself a clear vantage point. It quickly becomes clear what Hayes is doing here. A young blonde girl, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen, wearing a skirt that leaves little to the imagination, chunky high heels—stripper shoes, I believe they’re called—and a crop top under her faux-fur coat approaches his car. As she leans into the driver’s-side window, the girl smiles wide and lets out a laugh that I can both hear from where I am and tell is as fake as a three-dollar bill. She acts like she knows him well.

It’s then that I really look around and notice the transit center appears to be a hub for all manner of illicit activities. In the two minutes I’ve been here, I’ve seen half a dozen drug deals, prostitutes climbing into cars all over the place, as well as guys selling things in ominously shaped paper bags. Guns, I’m guessing. This is like San Diego’s own open-air, black marketplace. And as I watch, the young blonde girl gets into Hayes’s car. I can only see silhouettes of their two heads through his back window—and then one.

“Gross,” I mutter.

Part of me considers going and arresting him for solicitation of a girl young enough to be his daughter and for being a general creep. But that would be counterproductive since it would tip Hayes off that we’re watching him. And as much as what he’s doing sickens me, there is a bigger picture in play here that I need to keep in mind.

Ten minutes later, the girl is scampering out of Hayes’s car and strolling briskly away. A moment after that, he’s pulling out of the slot and heading for the streets again. I start my car and follow. His path back home is far less circuitous than it was heading for the transit center, and it’s not long before he parks in his driveway and heads inside.

I pull to a stop at the curb in front of Astra, who’s arrived to relieve me. She gets out of her car as I put mine into park and slips into the passenger seat, quickly turning down Ella Fitzgerald’s classic, “Ain’t Misbehavin’.”

“I’ve killed for less than that,” I say dryly.

“I like living dangerously.”

“Apparently so.”

She grins. “Field trip tonight?”

I make a disgusted, retching sound. “Captain Hayes apparently needed a little parking lot lovin’ with a girl who looked barely out of high school tonight.”

“That’s gross.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Didn’t kill anybody though, huh?”

“Nope. Not tonight.”

“How long are we going to keep sitting on him?”

“Until he kills somebody?”

“What if he doesn’t?” she asks. “What if he decides to lie low for a while now that we’ve got Parzel in a cage? Or go completely dormant?”

I sigh and gnaw on my bottom lip. It’s a thought that’s been running through my mind all night, if I’m being honest. It’s entirely possible now that we’ve arrested Parzel and taken away his cover that he’ll sit quiet for a while… maybe even a long while. Eventually, that urge will take hold of him again. He’ll only be able to keep that beast in its cage for so long before he feels compelled to take another life. He’s had a taste of it, and judging by our last few crime scenes, he liked it. A lot. Sooner or later, he’ll have to sate that urge again.

The problem is it could be weeks from now. Months. Or if he has incredible self-control, years. He could possibly wait until the set of factors line up just right to give him the cover he needs to go hunt and kill again. There’s just no telling when that might be. And realistically, we can’t sit on him the whole time. It’s just not feasible. Which means we’re going to have to come up with another plan. Another way to catch him.

“We’ll give it a little more time,” I tell her.

“How much more time?”

“No idea.”

“What if he’s not our guy? I mean, I haven’t seen anything from him yet that indicates to me that he’s our guy,” she presses.

“No. I haven’t either,” I respond, feeling troubled.

“Are we missing something?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

We sit in silence for a couple of minutes, each of us lost in our own thoughts. As I stare at Hayes’s house, I feel like I’m missing something. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is that we’re missing… that I’m missing.

“You should go get some rest,” Astra says. “I’ve got the house.”

“Yeah. Probably so.”

She slips out of my car and scurries back to her own to continue a surveillance that may be as big a waste of time as I’ve ever ordered. It’s entirely possible Hayes knows we’re watching and is curtailing his activities. He hasn’t acted any differently around us down at the station when he pops in to check on our progress. He hasn’t acted suspiciously. But maybe he’s just very good at playing pretend around other people. I just don’t know.

I pull away from the curb, leaving Astra behind to stand vigil, and drive back to the hotel. The entire way, my mind is churning with a thousand different thoughts and feelings. To say I’m a hot mess would be putting it mildly. Between this case and Kit, I’m a walking disaster zone. I can’t keep my head on straight, nor can I seem to think very clearly. In between all the images of gore and horror this case has inflicted upon me, I see flashes of the torn, broken bodies left to rot in the Mexican desert and wonder—did Kit do this?

Getting back to the hotel, I climb out of the car and lock it, doing my best to calm myself and clear my mind. The last thing I want tonight is to not be able to sleep because of all the competing, terribly dark thoughts cascading through my brain on a continuous loop. My footsteps thump hollowly on the concrete, echoing around the parking garage as I head for the elevator. Just before I reach it, though, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I break out in a rash of goosebumps up and down my body.

Like a prey animal catching the scent of a predator on the breeze, I quickly turn and reach for my weapon. Too late, though, as a fist smashes into my face. My head snaps backward, and my mouth instantly fills with the coppery taste of blood. I stagger back, pinwheeling my arms to keep my balance. By some miracle, I’m able to keep my feet, but my attacker is already advancing on me. He’s large and dressed in black from head to toe, including the balaclava over his head that covers everything but his eyes.

He drives his fist into my stomach, doubling me over with a loud grunt as the air is driven from my lungs. He doesn’t give me a chance to recover, violently pushing my head down as he brings his knee up at the same time. My face explodes with pain, and I can feel the blood spilling from my nose. I rock backward, and the man drives his foot into my midsection, stealing what little air I managed to recover.

His kick drives me backward, and I slam into the concrete wall across from the elevators, my head jerking back and banging against it so hard, my vision doubles as my brain rattles in my skull. Sucking in deep breaths and my head spinning, my legs start to buckle beneath me. My attacker pulls a knife from his belt, and all I seem able to focus on is the way the light glints off the edge of the long, curved blade. As he advances, the voice in my head whispers urgently, telling me that if I do not move, I’m going to be killed right there on the concrete floor of the parking garage.

As my attacker moves in, the corners of his eyes crinkle, and I know he’s smiling beneath the balaclava. The strangest things occur to a person when they’re facing death. He draws the blade back to strike, but summoning all the strength I can muster, I lunge forward, driving my fist straight into his throat. A choked gasp bursts from his mouth, muffled by the fabric covering his face, and he staggers backward, both hands on his injured throat as he sputters.

Seizing the advantage, I throw myself forward, and he swings the blade at me. It doesn’t have much power behind it, but it’s enough to open a shallow furrow along my upper arm that immediately begins to spill more blood. But I’m able to grab his wrist and bend it backward. The sleeve of his black shirt slides upward, revealing an intricate web of colorful tattoos. The man starts to regain his strength, so I give his wrist a vicious twist, and with a yelp of pain, he drops the knife. It hits the concrete with a sharp ringing sound, and I kick it away.

He takes a swing with his off hand that glances off my chin. Stars burst in my eyes, and I feel the blood spill from my mouth. Shaking off the pain, I bring my foot up with every ounce of strength in my body, connecting with his groin. He sucks in a breath, and his eyes grow wide as he doubles over, his hands moving to grip his crotch like he can squeeze it hard enough to keep the pain from spreading. His eyes water, his breathing is ragged, and small retching sounds burst from his mouth as if he’s about to throw up.

Pushing my jacket back, I pull my weapon out of the holster, but the man’s fist crashes into my face, sending another concussive wave of pain through my entire body. I stagger back a few steps and fire off a wild shot that rings off the concrete in a spray of sparks. My attacker reaches for the small of his back, likely for a weapon, and I try to slow my double vision enough to draw a bead on him. I’m not going to make it. If I don’t fire, he’s going to pull his own gun and put a couple of rounds into me. So, I squeeze the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times.

I want to cry as I hear the first two shots ring off the concrete. With the third shot, though, I hear the man grunt. In my blurry vision, I see him fall to a knee, clutching his side. I see a dark shape, possibly a gun, laying on the concrete in front of him. And when he raises his head, locking eyes with me, I bring my own weapon to bear again. With another loud grunt, he gets to his feet and runs. I try to track him, but with my blurred vision, it proves pointless. I throw a couple of wild shots in his direction, but he disappears from view.

Slumping to my knees, I drop my weapon onto the concrete in front of me. Blood spills from my nose, my mouth, and the slice through my upper arm. My vision wavers even harder than before, and darkness creeps in at the edges. I feel thick and clumsy as I reach for my phone. I manage to pull it out of my pocket but immediately drop it. I fumble with it again, my breathing shallow and ragged, my field of vision narrowing quickly.

All at once, I’m consumed by the feeling of falling from a great height. I feel weightless. And then, like somebody cut the power, everything goes black…

Scripps Mercy Hospital, National City; San Diego, CA

The first thing I’m aware of is how dry my mouth and throat are. I feel like I haven’t had a drink of water in days. Weeks. As my eyes flutter and open, I find myself staring at a ceiling I don’t recognize. The soft hum and beep of machinery echoes in my ears, and a sharp astringent, antiseptic odor fills my nose. As I lay still for a moment and take stock of myself, I realize there is not a square inch of my body that does not hurt.

But that means I’m alive.

“One of these days you’re just not going to wake up.”

A smile touches my lips, immediately making me wince as a sharp pain cuts through my face. A high-pitched whirring sound fills my ears, and I’m lifted to a sitting position as pain surges through every inch of my body. Astra is sitting in a chair beside my bed and offers me a weak smile with worry etched into her every feature.

“You scared me,” she says.

“To be fair, I was pretty scared too.”

“Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

Images of the fight in the garage come flooding back into my mind. I don’t recall everything just yet—I’m still only getting pieces and scraps—but it’s enough to know it was a savage fight… one that I barely survived. Astra gets up and pours some water into a cup, then sticks a straw in it and helps me take a drink. The cool liquid on my parched, burning throat is the most amazing feeling, and in that moment, the water tastes better than any scotch I’ve ever had.

“Thank you,” I gasp. “And I didn’t do anything to get myself killed. I was going back to the hotel to get some sleep, just like you told me to.”

“Trouble just seems to follow you everywhere.”

“I’m not the only trouble magnet in this room, you know.”

“Pretty sure you’ve had more ER visits than I have.”

“Not so sure about that.”

“I am.”

“Cameras in the garage?” I ask.

“Disabled. So were most of the lights. You never saw it coming.”

“Probably should have.”

She grins deviously. “Probably.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

Astra chuckles as she stands beside the bed. She takes hold of my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Some of the worry in her face begins to ebb, but not all of it.

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “I just got my bell rung.”

“You got a little more than just your bell rung considering the fact that you’ve been out for a day and a half,” she tells me.

I smile weakly. “Hey, at least I got some sleep.”

“Yeah, I guess there is that.”

“How did I get here?”

“You called me,” she replies.

“I don’t remember that.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “I found you on the ground, and at first… I thought you were dead. I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life.”

“I’m not dead. I’m good.”

“You’re far from good. But no, you’re not dead,” she says. “But one of these days, you’re going to run out of lives. Even cats only have nine.”

I press a hand to my face and wince as a thousand needles of pain lance through me. Running my fingertips across my face, I feel the swelling and the lumps.

“How bad is it?” I ask.

“You’re not going to want to schedule any photoshoots for a while.”

Just the thought of laughing hurts, so I manage to choke the urge back. I close my eyes as more memories of the fight fill my head. I remember his eyes. The strength in his punch. Being knocked around like a rag doll.

“I shot him,” I say. “I know I got him at least once.”

“Yeah, we saw the blood. There was a trail leaving the scene. And we found the shell casings from your Glock,” she says. “We put two and two together. But he’s still out there.”

But then I remember more than that. I remember the sound of his breathing. The heat from his body as we struggled. I remember… My eyes fly open, and I stare at Astra as all the pieces in my memory fall into place, and for the first time since he attacked me in the garage, the picture—the full picture—comes into focus. Adrenaline courses through me, turning my blood into liquid fire.

“It’s McCoy,” I say. “I remember smelling his damn cologne during the fight. I remember seeing the tattoos on his arms…it’s McCoy. He’s the killer!”

“We know.”

“H—how? How do you know?”

“When you called me, I was already heading back to you. It’s how I found you so quick—”

“How did you know it was McCoy and not Hayes?”

“Because I’m just that good?”

I pull a face—which hurts. So, I settle for giving her the eyes… which still hurts, but not nearly as much. I can live with it.

“Not long after you left, Hayes came out of his house again,” she says. “Do you want to guess what he was doing?”

“I’m not thinking clearly enough to guess.”

“That’s fair,” she replies. “He came out to walk his very large, very likely one-hundred-pound Great Dane puppy. When I saw that, I knew he wasn’t our guy and knew that McCoy had lied. Ergo, McCoy is our killer. Then there’s the fact he hasn’t been seen or heard from in the last day and a half, so another two and two equals four kind of thing.”

“Jesus,” I mutter darkly. “How did we get this so wrong again? Correction, how did I get this so wrong again?”

“You followed the evidence we had in hand. Same as any of us would have.”

“You weren’t sure Hayes was our guy.”

“I wasn’t sure he wasn’t either,” she says. “You pivoted to McCoy as a suspect early on, but you backed away from it. Why?”

“Didn’t trust my instincts,” I reply simply. “My head is so messed up with this Kit situation that I’m second-guessing everything. Besides, like you said, I was also going with the evidence we had in hand, which wasn’t much.”

“That’s true.”

“No idea where McCoy is?”

She shakes her head. “He’s in the wind.”

“Great,” I say. “I need to get out of here. We need to—”

“You don’t need to do anything but lie there, rest up, and unring your bell.”

“Not sure it works that way.”

“I’m telling you that’s how it’s going to work. You need rest. You need to recover.”

“Where’d you get your medical degree?”

She laughs. “From the university of I’m going to kick your ass if you don’t listen to me.”

“Not a very catchy name for a school. What’s the mascot?”

“My foot in your backside.”

“That would be the most unattractive mascot in college sports history.”

“Probably,” she says. “Oh, hey, check this out.”

She turns and rummages through her messenger bag, then pulls out a photo and shows it to me. It’s a wedding photo of a much younger Nick McCoy and his wife, a blonde who bears a striking resemblance to the line of photos on the board in the war room.

“You were right about the offender being a preferential,” she says. “And it looks like you were also right about Monica Kinley being a distraction just to throw us off the scent.”

I shake my head. “It compounds the tragedy this whole thing is.”

She turns the photo around and stares at it, a myriad of emotions cycling across her face. “Yeah. It really does,” she says, her voice tight with anger. “I really want to get this guy.”

“What are we doing to find him?”

“You are doing nothing. We have lines in the water,” she says. “We had to loop in Hayes, who of course, had to loop in Chief Saryan. But we’re keeping the circle tight. The last thing we need is for one of McCoy’s loyalists to tip him off that we’re coming when we do manage to track him down. And we will.”

“I’m going to be there.”

“Nah. Not this time.”

“The hell I’m not.”

The door to my room opens, and I turn to see Paige, Nina, and Rhodes all walk in. The concern on all their faces quickly melts away when they see me sitting up and talking, replaced by matching expressions of relief. They gather around the bed and stare at me in silence, making me squirm beneath the thin sheet.

“Okay, you can stop staring at me like I’m on my death bed. You guys are freaking me out,” I tell them. “I’m fine. All good.”

“That face says otherwise,” Paige cracks.

“Thanks for that.”

Rhodes cocks her head and stares at me for a moment. “Why risk it? Why risk tussling with you and using a knife when he could have just shot you? There was a gun at the scene I’m assuming is his, so why didn’t he use it?”

“The gun was a last resort,” I tell her. “A knife is more personal—just like with his other victims, he enjoys getting his hands dirty. Enjoys getting up close and personal. He gets off on watching them die slowly and having his hands on them when the light goes out. It’s why he battered those women the way he did. They were a surrogate for his wife, and he was acting out his rage fantasy on them.”

Rhodes shakes her head. “I just can’t believe I never saw it.”

“Nobody did,” Astra says. “Guys like McCoy are pretty adept at hiding their true nature from everybody around them. They have to. It’s a matter of their own survival.”

“They’re like chameleons,” Paige offers. “They can blend in anywhere.”

“What they said,” I tell her. “Do we have a line on where he might be?”

“Actually, yeah,” Rhodes says. “We just got it, and I figured you’d want to know—”

“She really doesn’t,” Astra cuts her off.

“I really do,” I say firmly.

“Blake—”

“I told you: I’m not sitting this one out.”

“The doctors are never letting you out of here.”

“I’m going AMA.”

“You cannot go against medical advice,” Astra says.

“Sure, I can. Wouldn’t be the first time,” I respond. “Rhodes, where is he?”

Astra sighs and shakes her head. “I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?”

“Not in a million years,” I say. “Rhodes?”

The detective casts an apologetic glance at Astra who merely shrugs in resignation. I appreciate her worry, but if I’m on crutches or in a wheelchair, I am going to be there when we take this monster down. I want to look him in the eye as the cuffs are being put on. Knowing how much he hates women, it’s going to be incredibly satisfying watching him squirm when it’s a woman putting him in chains.

“His brother-in-law has a fishing cottage down on the beach in Imperial Beach,” she says. “We have somebody down there watching it right now, and he reported back that somebody is there. We don’t know for sure it’s him, our guy can’t get a visual, but we’re betting that it is. I was going to offer to get you a live camera feed so you can watch when we hit the place.”

“I don’t want a camera feed. I’m going down there with you,” I say.

Astra grimaces. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Noted. And I appreciate the concern,” I respond. “But ask the doctors to give me some ibuprofen and the AMA forms for me to sign, and let’s get the hell down there. He’s got a gunshot wound, and I want to put the bracelets on him before he bleeds out.”

Rhodes turns to Astra. “Is she always this hardcore?”

A pained sigh passes Astra’s lips. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

Joseph Wynn Fishing Cottage, Imperial Beach; San Diego, CA

Known for its stunning coastline views, Imperial Beach is a small city in San Diego county that sits about fifteen miles south of downtown San Diego and just a few miles north of Tijuana and the Mexican border. Over the years, it has transformed from a town filled with working-class people to a popular tourist destination and, along with Black’s Beach, has become known as one of San Diego’s best surf spots. The influx of wealth and prime real estate has largely pushed the former working-class residents further inland.

There are few spots in Imperial Beach that remain untouched by the developers, but here and there, isolated pockets still remain. It’s in one of those pockets, a small cove that runs exceedingly close to the border where Joseph Wynn, the brother of McCoy’s ex-wife, owns a fishing cottage on the beach. It’s been in their family for generations as they’ve refused to sell to the land development companies, preferring to keep their secluded hideaway for their own. And I can’t say I really blame them.

Standing on a bluff at the back of the cove, we stare through binoculars at the cottage fifty feet below us. Situated far enough from the shoreline to avoid the erosion provided by the constant battering of the waves, the small cottage sits on thick wooden pilings above the sand. Made of wood made to appear weathered and with a faux-thatched roof, it would probably fit right in somewhere in the tropics and is isolated from the rest of the tourist-filled town. Yeah, I could really get behind having a place like this of my own.

“Is he still in there?” I ask.

“Yeah, he hasn’t left,” our guy replies. “He ain’t movin’ around too well, so even if he was to go out, I don’t think he’s goin’ to get very far.”

“That happens when you get shot.”

The San Diego County Sheriff’s Department is responsible for policing Imperial Beach, and Rhodes’s guy, a young deputy named Jeremy Bruno, has been sitting on the cottage since it was discovered. He hasn’t been able to stop stealing glances at me since we got out of the cars. Bruno is doing his best to keep from appearing too aghast at my bruised and battered face, but he can’t quite keep it all under wraps. He’s horrified by my appearance. And having gotten a peek at myself in the mirror, I can’t say it’s unwarranted.

But whatever. Nothing I can do about it. At least the pain meds I got from the hospital are taking the edge off. I’m still moving a bit gingerly, and I’m likely not going to be able to kick in the door, but at least my body isn’t screaming at the slightest movement anymore. I can stand upright and walk close to normally, so that’s something.

I turn my gaze to the waves crashing onto the shore, kicking up tall towers of ocean spray. The air is warm and thick with the briny scent of the sea, and gulls circle overhead, their plaintive cries almost mournful. The tranquility of the scene is interrupted by the deep growl of the sheriff’s department tactical transport that rumbles to a stop in the parking lot behind us. The doors fly open, and men in black fatigues, armored vests, and helmets come pouring out like a swarm of angry bees from a hive. A tall, imposing man strides over to us, his M4 Carbine cradled loosely in his arms.

“Oh my,” Astra gasps breathlessly. “Look at this tall drink of water.”

“Calm yourself, woman.”

The man’s every movement is efficient and screams military precision, and when he stops in front of us, I see my own reflection in his mirrored tactical glasses. Beads of sweat glisten on his ebony skin. He takes his glasses off and wipes his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve before putting them back on. His bearing is no-nonsense and stern. But I sense that underneath that hard-as-nails exterior, the man is a teddy bear. He just seems to me like the kind of man who smiles easily.

“Lieutenant Maurice Kopeka, SWAT team commander,” he says. “You can call me Maury.”

“Unit Chief Blake Wilder, SSA Astra Russo, and Special Agent Paige Boyle, FBI, and this is Detective Sabrina Rhodes, SDPD,” I respond.

“I’m deputy sheriff Jeremy Bruno.”

Maury nods to him, and I feel a small prick of guilt for forgetting Bruno was even standing right here with us. I offer Bruno an apologetic shrug. He merely rolls his eyes in response.

I turn back to Maury. “Thanks for coming out.”

“It’s what we do, ma’am.”

“Please. It’s Blake,” I respond. “I already feel old enough most days as it is.”

And then he favors us with one of those smiles I suspected lurked beneath his prickly exterior, and it is just as warm as I imagined it would be. But then like a fleeting shadow, it’s gone. It doesn’t stop Astra from mooning over him.

“Understood,” he replies, though less sternly this time. “What do we have?”

“Bad guy in that cottage down there,” I say.

Maury takes his glasses off again and studies my face. “Bad guy do that to you?”

“He did much worse to seven other women.”

His gaze lingers on me for a moment before he replaces his glasses and nods curtly. “I think our bad guy is going to have a very bad day.”

Astra nudges me with her elbow. “I like this guy already.”

A grin flickers across Maury’s face as he steps to the edge of the bluff and stares down at the cottage. The rest of us fall into place beside him as he scans the area.

“What’s the bad guy’s disposition?” Maury asks.

“He’s got a gun shot wound, but I don’t know how severe it is,” I reply. “And we don’t know what kind of stockpile he’s got in that cottage, but we should assume it’s heavy.”

Maury nods. “Probably better to be prepared,” he says, his voice as deep and rumbling as the transport he rode in on. “Not great ground. No cover. It’s all open ground. He’s going to see us coming from any direction.”

“So, maybe we don’t present one unified front,” I say.

“What are you thinking?”

“We divide his attention,” I tell him. “I see three sets of stairs that lead from the bluff to the sand. We send people down each of them and flank him from all sides.”

Maury surveys the cove, his gaze fixed on the stairs that lead down to the sand, for a long, silent moment and nods.

“Smart,” he says grimly. “Given our lack of options, I think that’s probably the best we’ll be able to do.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I tease.

The hint of a grin flickers at the corners of his mouth, but he suppresses it, then turns and strides away to brief his men. Astra turns to me and giggles like a schoolgirl.

“I’m going to tell Sonny you were flirting,” she says.

“Oh, shut up,” I say with a grin.

“She was totally flirting,” Paige says. “I can back that up.”

“Sounded like flirting to me,” Rhodes echoes.

I throw up my hands and laugh as I turn and walk away and quickly realize I’m not helping myself when I make a beeline straight over to Maury. I only wanted to hear his planning, but given the childish cackling I hear behind me, I’m sure they’re turning it into something it’s not. I roll my eyes and shake my head. Children.

“Chief Wilder, you and your team will come down the north staircase with me,” Maury says. “Berks, you’ll take Halbert and Saurbron down the east staircase. Howard, you’ll lead Tunsil and Gray down the west staircase. There is no cover down there so spread out. Do not give this prick a clean shot at you.”

“Blake, we’ve got movement,” Astra calls.

I turn quickly and move back to the edge of the bluff. Astra hands me her binoculars, and I quickly train them on the cottage. A figure emerges from inside and picks up a couple of boxes, then carries them inside.

“It’s McCoy,” I say. “Confirmed.”

“And he’s not moving real well,” Astra says. “I’d say you winged him pretty good.”

“Not good enough since he’s still moving at all.”

“It would have made this a whole lot easier.”

“It would have. But this will be more satisfying,” I say. “Okay, Paige, Rhodes, Astra… we’re coming down this staircase with Maury. He’s splitting the rest of his team and sending them down the eastern and western cases. We’re going to flank McCoy from all sides and not give him one consolidated target to shoot at.”

“What are the odds he comes out peacefully?” Rhodes ask.

“Slim to none,” Paige says. “He knows the game is up.”

“And a narcissistic personality like McCoy is not going to let himself be taken in easily,” I say, “if he lets himself be taken in at all.”

“That works. Let’s do it,” Astra says.

“All right,” Maury calls. “Break into your teams, and let’s go get this chump.”

The teams split up, and we all head down our assigned staircases. I pull my weapon and move down the stairs as swiftly as I can, which isn’t very swift at all I’m afraid. Because of my current limitations, I volunteered to bring up the rear to keep anybody from stumbling over me. The air is as thick with tension as it is with sea salt as we make it to the sand without incident. McCoy has either not spotted us yet, or he’s waiting until we get closer before unloading on us.

“All teams, proceed forward.,” Maury calls into his radio. “Reminder, suspect is trained law enforcement and likely armed. Move with caution, but move with purpose and keep your eyes up.”

Moving low and cautiously, we creep forward, weapons up and trained on the cottage. From the corners of my eye, I see Maury’s two other teams moving forward, weapons at the ready. The crash of waves on the shore is the only sound in my ears. Not even the seagulls are crying out overhead anymore. It’s as if even they can feel the current of violence filling the air.

The shots ring out, shattering the stillness of the world around us. Men hunker down and return fire. Dozens and dozens of bullets punch into the side of the house with muffled thumps, the smell of gunpowder blending with the salt in the air. Maury holds his hand up.

“Hold fire. Hold fire!” he calls.

The shots stop, and the sudden silence is as surprising as the burst of gunfire that sparked the firefight to begin with. Everybody is crouched down, weapons raised. A full minute goes by without a shot. Without a sound. I stand up and take a couple steps toward the cottage.

“Chief Wilder, stand down,” Maury hisses.

“McCoy!” I call. “Come out with your hands in the air. It’s over!”

A pair of shots ring out, hitting the sand in front of me with a dull thump. Maury and his men return fire, peppering the side of the cottage with dozens more shots. In the silence that follows Maury’s command to hold fire, I hear McCoy groan followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps. From my vantage point, I can see him shuffle onto the porch, then drop onto the sand. He’s weak and moving slowly. McCoy stumbles and falls to a knee, then tries to rise again.

“He’s hit,” I say.

“I’d be shocked if he wasn’t after that barrage,” Maury replies.

Walking as briskly as I can, I head for the injured man. Maury and Astra both are shouting at me to fall back into the line, but I ignore them and keep walking until I reach McCoy. His body is riddled with bullets, his clothes soaked through with his blood. One arm clamped around his midsection, a weapon dangling from the other at his side, he turns to me. Blood pours from the corner of his mouth, and his face is a deathly shade of white.

“It didn’t have to go down this way,” I tell him.

“There’s no other way it could have gone down,” he replies, his voice raspy and weak.

“Drop the weapon,” I say. “Let’s get you some help.”

“I’m not going to prison.”

“Drop the weapon, McCoy.”

His breath is a shallow wheeze, and when he coughs, it’s wet and he spits a thick, scarlet blob onto the sand in front of him.

“Why’d you do it?” I ask. “Why did you do that to all those women?”

When he smiles, his teeth are streaked with blood, making his appearance ghastly. “Because I could,” he says. “Because they deserved it.”

“Deserved it? How did they deserve it?”

“Because they’re all lying whores,” he growls, his voice harder than stone.

“Because they remind you of your ex-wife?”

His eyes narrow, and he spits another glob of blood onto the sand. His breathing is growing more ragged, and sweat pours down his face in sheets. But he grits his teeth and stands firm.

“Exactly. She was the worst of them all,” he says.

“Come on, McCoy. Drop the weapon.”

“I told you… I’m not going to prison.”

“McCoy—don’t. Don’t do it.”

He starts to raise his weapon, but before he can even get it waist high, the chatter of gunfire rings out. I watch in horror as McCoy jerks and twitches as the hail of bullets punch into his flesh. He falls to his knees, then flops down, face first into the sand and is still. I turn to see Maury standing to my right, a thin tendril of smoke curling from the barrel of his weapon. He lowers it, then pulls his glasses off and offers me a half shrug and dark grin.

“I told you,” he said. “Bad guy was going to have a bad day.”

He turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, looking at McCoy’s lifeless body. The sand around him begins to turn a deep shade of red. As I stand there staring at him, all I can hear is the roar of the waves crashing upon the shore. A moment later, the cries of the seagulls overhead begin again, as if they can sense the crisis is over.

It’s over. And yet, it doesn’t feel like we got those women justice. McCoy got off far too lightly. But maybe he was right. Maybe there was no other way this was realistically going to end. If nothing else, at least those women can take comfort in knowing Nick McCoy will never hurt them or another woman again. Ever.

Even knowing that, the victory feels hollow. As I told my team just a few days ago, we are going to celebrate the wins, and hollow or not, this is a win. A monster is off the streets. This isn’t how I wanted the story to end, but it’s not nothing.

I guess it’ll have to do.

San Diego Police Department, Sex Crimes Unit; San Diego, CA

“I’m sorry, Captain Hayes,” I say. “I’m sorry we suspected you in the first place.”

I expected him to yell. I expected outrage and some display of his wounded pride. I expected something. But what I got was a grin and a laugh. Astra and I exchange glances with each other, both of us confused. Hayes just shakes his head.

“Is that funny?” I ask.

“A little bit, yeah,” he replies. “The idea that you thought I could be a serial killer. It’s just so bizarre that I find it… funny.”

“You have a dark sense of humor.”

“I’m sure you do too,” he replies. “It’s how we survive this job, isn’t it?”

“That’s true. I’m just surprised you’re not offended.”

“Taken aback, maybe. Not offended. Why should I be? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Aside from patronizing barely legal prostitutes in the El Cajon Transit Center, that is. But I bite my tongue. No need to bring that up since it’s not relevant to our case.

Paige and Nina are packing up the war room with Rhodes’s help. Everything is going to be catalogued, labeled, and filed away just in case it’s needed for anything. It’s unlikely given the fact that McCoy is dead, so it’s not like there will be a trial. I watch Rhodes take the pictures off the board and slip them into the binders. She puts them all in a box, and I feel a wave of sadness wash over me. It’s so thick, I can’t breathe for a moment.

The suffering and lives of all those women has been reduced to what fits into a binder which will then be sealed and stored away, likely never to be seen again. And there will be nobody to answer for those crimes. Nobody to shoulder the weight of responsibility for what was done to them. For murdering three woman and forever altering the lives of four others. Nobody to be punished for what was done to them. It just doesn’t sit right with me.

“What made you suspect me in the first place?” Hayes asks.

“Originally? It was the blood on your uniform shirt,” I respond. “And then McCoy told us you didn’t have a dog.”

“He also told us there were allegations of domestic violence in your marriage.”

His face darkens, and he lowers his gaze, an expression of shame touching his features. “Yeah, I didn’t always do things right. I used to drink a lot. And I’m ashamed to admit that things between me and Nancy sometimes got heated, but I never put my hands on her. That was also a long time ago,” he admits. “We got past that, I quit drinking, and we did really well for a while. But we eventually grew apart. We wanted different things. Our divorce was amicable, believe it or not. We’re actually still good friends. We just had dinner the other night.”

“That’s not how McCoy characterized your relationship,” I say. “And it shames me to admit that I bought into it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. You were working with the evidence you had like any good investigator should,” he says. “You can never ignore a lead. How’d you figure out it was McCoy?”

“I was surveilling your house when I saw you come out with your Great Dane,” Astra says. “The dog McCoy said you didn’t have.”

“And when he attacked me in the garage, his cologne gave him away,” I tell him. “That and I got a look at his tattoos while we were fighting.”

“Yeah, that cologne was… distinctive,” he says ruefully.

“That’s one way to put it,” Astra says.

“Thank you for being so understanding about it all, Captain,” I say.

He waves me off. “You were doing your job. And you got the right guy in the end. That’s all that matters. It’s the result that counts. And thanks to your team, we now have two fewer monsters roaming our streets.”

“Detective Rhodes played a big part in all this.”

“Yeah? How’d she do out there?”

“She’s a good one, Captain,” I tell him. “She’s one of those you’re going to want to nurture because she’s going to do great things. She’s going to be a rock star. I’m sure of it.”

Hayes glances over at Rhodes as if seeing her for the very first time. I can see in his eyes that he’s appraising her in a different light: she’s not just McCoy’s tagalong, wet-behind-the-ears partner, but a full-fledged, competent and skilled investigator in her own right.

Hayes glances at his watch and frowns. “I need to run. I’m meeting the Chief and the Mayor. They’re holding a press conference.”

“Of course they are,” I say with a chuckle. “But I think you should take Rhodes with you. Without her help, we might not have closed this case.”

He considers it for a moment and nods. “Yeah, that’s not a bad idea. In fact, why don’t you and your team accompany me as well. You should be recognized for your efforts.”

“Appreciate the offer, but that’s not why we do this,” I tell him. “But raising the profile of a detective like Rhodes will be a boon for your department.”

Hayes smirks. “I see you’re pretty good at politics yourself, Chief.”

“Like gallows humor, it comes with the job. You have to learn to swim if you’re going to be in the water with sharks.”

“Truer words have never been spoken,” he replies. “Hey, Rhodes?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Come on, you’re with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hayes extends his hand. “Thank you for all your help, Chief. You and your team more than lived up to your billing. I appreciate what you did for us.”

“Our pleasure, sir.”

He shakes my hand, then offers it to Astra, who shakes it as well. With a firm nod, he turns and heads out of the war room. Rhodes stops on her way out and turns to us.

“I guess this is it,” she says.

“For now,” I reply. “I have a feeling we’ll see you again somewhere down the line.”

“I hope so.” She pauses and seems to consider her words carefully. “I want to thank you guys. Not just for this case, but for what you did for me personally. You really helped me find my confidence. You helped me find my voice.”

“You would have found your way there, Sabrina,” I say.

“I’m not so sure.”

“I am.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Astra says. “You’re a great cop. A great investigator. Don’t let anybody tell you or make you feel otherwise. You’ve earned your spot.”

Her cheeks color, and she falls silent, but she looks pleased. Content.

“How are things out in the squad room? You okay?” I ask.

“I think everybody is still processing the fact that McCoy was… well… what he was. That none of us saw it,” she says. “Things are tense, but I think it’ll be okay. We’ll get past it.”

“What about you? Are you okay?”

She nods. “I am. For the first time since I put on the uniform, I feel like I’m right where I belong. I feel strong.”

“Good. Hold on to that. Trust your instincts and trust yourself,” Astra says.

“I will—”

“Rhodes, let’s go!” Hayes’s bellowing voice echoes down the hall.

She smiles sheepishly. “Sorry—I have to go.”

“Go,” I say. “Take your turn in the spotlight. You earned it.”

“And you know how to get in touch with us if you need us,” Astra adds.

“Don’t hesitate,” I say.

“I won’t.”

She gives us both a quick hug, then hurries from the room. Astra turns to me.

“Ready to go home?” she asks.

“I am,” I answer.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. A frown touches my lips when I pull it out and see that it’s Sonny. I send the call to voicemail and slip the phone back into my pocket.

“You can’t duck him forever,” she says.

“I know. But I’m not ready to talk to him just yet.”

“Are you going to tell him about Kit?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I say. “All I know is right now, all I want is a hot bath, some good scotch, and some good music. Maybe that will give me a little clarity.”

“Well then, let’s finish getting packed up and get home.”

We finish packing everything up, get the boxes sealed and labeled, then stack them all on the conference room table to be stored away. As we head out of the room, I pause and turn back to the boxes again, recalling the faces of the women whose lives were forever shattered by a predator and a monster with a badge. All I can do is shake my head.

This isn’t the happy ending I’d been hoping for. Not that this kind of case was ever going to have a truly happy ending. But with McCoy’s death, the hope that these women could ever truly be made whole again—or at least as close to it as they could get—died with him. No, there was never going to be a storybook ending. But I was hoping for something that would give them a bit of justice… something that would help them sleep at night. It was not to be.

But then I think of Bethany Pearsall, one of Parzel’s victims whom I spoke with. I recall her strength and resilience. I remember the light she carried inside her—a light within her that no monster like Parzel could ever dim. We’ll never know if Sonya Hyder, Monica Kinley, and Zara Morant would have been able to overcome what McCoy did to them, but I like to think maybe they would have. Maybe they would have flourished despite their wounds. And maybe, the others who survived their ordeals will too. Maybe, like Bethany, they’ll rekindle those lights inside them and let them burn brightly for all the world to see. That’s what I’m hoping for them.

Turning off the light in the war room, I close the door behind me.

The Lotus Luxury Apartments, Chinatown-International District; Seattle, WA

The flight home from San Diego took a little more than three hours, but by the time I’m locking my door behind me, I feel like I’ve been on the road for three days. I’m wrung out, feel grimy, and want nothing more than to collapse on my bed and go to sleep—not before I’ve had a shower though. My hot bath/jazz music/glass of scotch self-care routine can wait until tomorrow since, barring an emergency call in, I’ve given my team a couple days off to recover.

I drop my keys into the dish on the table beside the door, then drop my bag. The moment I do, though, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and a numbing cold steals over me. Goosebumps prickle my skin. Maybe it’s my subconscious picking up on a faint smell—or a sound so soft it’s almost imperceptible. Or maybe it’s just knowing the vibration of my home so well, but I know when those currents have been disturbed. When somebody who shouldn’t be there, is there.

When I know I’m not alone.

Pulling my Glock from the holster on my hip, I move slowly out of the entryway and into the darkened living room, taking a position just inside the archway, and sweep the area, giving my eyes time to adjust to the gloom. It’s then that I spot the dark silhouette sitting on the couch. My entire body is vibrating, and my heart is pounding in my ears, louder than a drum. Raising my weapon, I take aim at center mass and slide my finger onto the trigger.

“Turn on the light,” I say. “Slowly. No sudden movements.”

“Blake—”

Her voice is groggy and raspy, but I’d recognize it anywhere. “Jesus, Kit.”

Relief washes through me as I holster my weapon. The light snaps on, chasing away the darkness to reveal my baby sister. Her strawberry-blonde hair is tousled, and dark half-moons mar the pale skin beneath her eyes which are bloodshot and puffy. Honestly, she’s a little rough, like she hasn’t slept in days.

“Sorry, I fell asleep waiting for you to come home,” she says through a yawn.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Can I get a water?”

I hurry to the kitchen, my mind spinning furiously as I pull two bottles of water out of the refrigerator. Coming back into the living room, I hand her one, then drop onto the couch beside her. We both open our bottles and take a drink. While I try to slow my racing heart, I study my sister closely. She appears unharmed. A little thinner than normal maybe, but in terrific shape. She takes a long swallow, then turns to me, her eyes widening as she sees me for the first time.

“Jesus, Blake. What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing. I’m fine—”

She reaches out and gingerly touches my face, taking in the deep bruises and lumps, her face lined with worry and fear.

“Blake, who did this to you?”

“Somebody we’ll never have to worry about again,” I respond. “But that’s not important. Kit, I know you were in Mexico with Inez Arias. What in the hell are you doing?”

“Working. I’m on a job.”

The lie rings in my ear and raises the specter of doubt all over again. When I saw it was Kit in my living room, I had hoped she would explain away all the fears that had been racing through me from the moment I saw the photo of her with Inez. But the fact that she’s looking me in the eye and lying… it sends a fresh torrent of fear and uncertainty flowing through me.

“Kit, what are you really doing down there?”

“I told you. I’m working.”

She gets to her feet and starts to pace the room. As I watch her for a moment, a memory stirs in the back of my mind. I remember being young—a kid—and watching my mother pace the room when she was working something out in her mind. It’s kind of nice to see that a little bit of our mother still lives on in both of us.

But that hit of nostalgia fades quickly as the reality of the moment sets in. Kit is lying to me. She’s working with a cartel boss for reasons unknown not only to me but also to her Agency handler. And then there are the bodies… so many bodies.

“Kit, Beck came to see me,” I tell her. “She tracked me down in San Diego—”

Kit stops pacing and turns to me. “You talked to Beck?”

“I did,” I tell her. “She told me that she has no idea where you are or what you’re doing—”

“Because it’s better that way… for the moment.”

“What in the hell is going on? What are you doing?”

“I told you, I’m on a job.”

“Is somebody else in the Agency handling you?”

“No,” she responds with a slight quaver in her voice. “This one… it’s off the books.”

I open my mouth and close it several times before I’m even able to process it. “Off the books… Kit, do you even know—”

“I’m a contractor, not an official special agent,” she cuts me off. “That means I’m free to do what I want, when I want, and I don’t require oversight unless I’m working directly for them.”

Her voice is raw, her words packed with heat. She’s angry. About what, I have no idea, but something has gotten under her skin and is stuck there. Deep. I get to my feet and walk toward her. I take her hand and lead her back to the couch, sitting her down, then take both her hands in mine. I let her sit quietly for a moment before forcing her to look me in the eye.

“Talk to me,” I say. “What is going on?”

Her eyes shimmer with tears, and her lips quiver. She lowers her gaze and takes a couple of moments to gather herself. When she finally looks up, I can still see the emotion in her eyes, but she’s got herself under control again. She takes a deep breath and holds it, then slowly exhales. Her eyes still shine with feeling, but she’s calm.

“Kit, Sonny told me they are putting together a joint task force—DEA, ATF, FBI, and the Mexican federal police,” I tell her. “They’re going to hit Inez’s compound. I don’t want you getting caught in that crossfire. Please, tell me what is going on.”

“I figured it was bound to happen sooner or later. I told Inez, you can’t drop that many bodies and not have some blowback.”

“Speaking of those bodies,” I say. “Kit, did you—”

“God, no,” she cuts me off. “I had nothing to do with that. Why would you even ask?”

“Everything I’ve heard is that you are Inez’s number two—that you’re her top lieutenant.”

“I am. But for that kind of work, she has her goons do it. They’re the blunt sword. I’m a scalpel. She’s not going to send her scalpel out to do… that.”

“So, you knew it was happening.”

“Of course, I did,” she tells me. “I’m the one who told her she should purge a few of her brother’s loyalists to make an example. I just never imagined she would purge them all.”

“You’re ordering murders now?”

“I’m playing a role,” she replies smoothly. “A certain level of brutality is expected of me.”

My grip on her hands tightens, and I find myself fighting off waves of nausea that are battering my insides.

“Blake, the world I operate in… it’s not as clean-cut, or black and white as your world. I operate in the gray and have to do things—be things—that might not align with your moral compass but are necessary,” she says gently. “You know this. You’ve always known this.”

She’s right. I have always known this. But for some reason, it was never really real for me until I saw the photos of those mutilated and decapitated bodies in the desert. She may not have been the one wielding the blade, but Kit had a direct hand in those grisly murders. And I’m not sure how to feel about that. About her. That she can speak about it as if it’s no more remarkable than filing her taxes scares me… and makes me wonder at the monster living inside her.

Kit’s changed over the years. She’s grown harder. Colder. More calculating. And far more ruthless. The problem is that I still see her as the spunky, precocious eight-year-old I knew before she was taken. She still has that light inside her. I see it now and then—when I see her at all. But there’s this darkness that surrounds her now. And my biggest fear is that the darkness will eventually consume her, blotting out that light I know is still inside her.

“Why did you come here?” I ask.

“Because I know you’re hunting for me. I knew it the moment I heard you were working with the ATF on the Arias case.”

I nod. “So, you were our mystery informant.”

“I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you.”

“You also played me. Played my team.”

“How do you figure?”

“You put us in position to take the Arias brothers off the board to clear the way for Inez.”

She pulls a face, which tells me everything I need to know. I rake my fingers through my hair and sit back, putting a little distance between us. Kit seems to notice, and I see the hurt flash through her eyes.

“I needed them gone. And I needed to get Inez into the top spot,” she says, her voice a cold monotone. “I’m sorry if you feel like I played you. That wasn’t what I intended. But I did my best to keep you safe while also protecting my mission objectives.”

“And what is your mission objective?” I ask. “Or better yet, who gave you this mission?”

“Inez did, in an ironic way.”

“Explain.”

She sighs, and it’s then I can see the deeper pain behind the mask of the ruthless, emotionless spy she tries to hide behind. Kit takes another long swallow of water, then grips the bottle in both hands. She doesn’t speak for a moment, and when she finally does, I barely recognize her voice. It’s strained and saturated with an agony and torment I can’t possibly understand.

“I developed an asset down in Mexico. A kid, really. He was fifteen. Goya. A really sweet kid who got caught up with the wrong people. He was a soldier for a cartel we were working down there—not Inez’s—but another,” she says, her voice hollow. “Anyway, I know we’re not supposed to get invested in our assets, but I couldn’t help it. He was a really sweet kid. Smart. Creative. Funny. Blake, the kid was hilarious. In another country, I think he would have done amazing things with his life. But he was stuck in Mexico working as cannon fodder for the cartel.”

She pauses her story for a moment and blinks away the tears welling in her eyes. It’s impossible not to see just how hard whatever happened is impacting her. I hate to even have the thought right now, in the face of my sister’s suffering, but I’m glad to see it. Her tears tell me the darkness hasn’t enveloped her… hasn’t eaten away and rotted her soul. Not completely. Her pain shows me the light still burns in her heart.

“Inez used to be one of her brothers’ top lieutenants. She was a killer. She enjoyed doing it too. Took pride in her work,” Kit tells me. “Not very long ago, she was to them, essentially what I am to her right now.”

“Should I take a guess who put the idea in her head that she should be the one running the show?” I ask dryly.

Her dark grin is answer enough. “Anyway, one day, she showed up to a small town with some of her guys. They’d gotten reports people in the town were cooperating with the Americans. So, she gathered all the people together, picked one at random, and started cutting pieces off until somebody told her where the soldiers were. Nobody told her anything,” Kit tells me. “Eventually, she got to Goya and realized he worked for a rival cartel, so she decided to mix things up. Made her spectacle even more brutal. The things she did to him… it’s unspeakable. And she laughed the entire time she did it.”

Something in her voice sends a dagger of ice into my heart. She’s not just relating a story she heard secondhand from somebody.

“You were there,” I say.

Her lips start to quiver again. “I was. Inez never saw me, but I saw her. I watched the whole thing because…” her voice trails off in a choked sob. “Because I thought turning away would somehow dishonor Goya and what he did. He never gave me up. Not even when he was screaming for his mother. He never gave me up when he could have. When he should have, just to make the torture stop.”

I sit back, too stunned to speak for a moment as the enormity of what happened to Kit’s asset sinks in. I’ve always labored under the belief that the things I see every single day are the worst humanity has to offer. What I’m realizing now, though, is that I’ve seen nothing. Not compared to the things my sister has seen. The things my sister has endured.

“Kit, I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I know how inadequate it is, but I’m so sorry.”

She sniffs and wipes her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. And for a moment, huddled in on herself, arms wrapped around her midsection, eyes red and tears hanging from her lashes, I see that girl she used to be again. Briefly, but she was there. Kit quickly sits up and lets out a long breath, taking a minute to compose herself.

“That’s why I’m down there. That’s why I’ve put myself in a position to be Inez’s second in command,” she tells me.

“Why aren’t you working with your handler? Is Beck compromised?”

“No. Beck is great. We’ve got a great relationship, believe it or not,” she says. “But I don’t want her anywhere near this. This is toxic, Blake.”

“Okay, but why cut the Agency out altogether?”

“Because Beck isn’t compromised, but somebody is,” she says. “How else would Inez have known I was down there? That somebody was working with me? She wouldn’t have. Not unless somebody told her. So, part of my mission is to find out who on the American side is feeding her intel. She’s guarded with her sources, but she’ll tell me. Eventually. But I went off the reservation to keep Beck’s hands clean.”

“Are you sure she’s trustworthy?”

“I’ve put my life into her hands more times than I can tell you, and she’s never let me down,” Kit says. “I never have to question whether she has my back or not.”

The way she delivered the line makes me cringe. Makes me wonder if she’s taking a shot at me and wondering whether I have her back. I push it from my mind for now. This isn’t the time to get into our interpersonal dynamics and problems in our relationship. This isn’t about me. Or us. This is about Kit.

“What is the other part of your mission?” I ask. “Justice for Goya?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I will see that he is avenged.”

Her voice is so cold and foreign to me that I can hardly believe I even saw a glimmer of the girl she used to be a moment ago. Kit is a layered and complex creature, to say the least.

“But the main thrust of my mission is the same as it always is—to protect people and save lives,” she tells me. “Inez Arias is one of the most evil people on this planet. And her cruelty has only grown with her rise in power. She has her fingers in a lot of pies, including human trafficking.”

“So, why help her rise to power in the first place? Surely, you could have put a bullet in her, left her in the desert, and avoided all this?”

“That’s small-picture thinking, sis,” she says with a flash of a grin. “Inez is a big-picture planner. She is far more ambitious than her brothers ever were. And while serving as their top lieutenant, she was busy making a lot of connections—putting together the infrastructure for something massive. Guns, women, drugs, but even more than that.”

“What?”

“She’s got connects with a lot of groups here at home and abroad, Blake. She’s working on some massive sales of traditional arms but also bioweapons. Dirty bombs,” Kit states. “I didn’t just put a bullet in her because through Inez, we’ve got a shot at rolling up extremist organizations all over the world. When I tell you she’s got contacts everywhere, I’m not kidding. And there is no shortage of people wanting to buy weapons of mass destruction from her. Through her, we’ll be able to take a lot of very bad people out of the game.”

“That’s why you helped her rise.”

“And it’s why I can’t involve Beck or the Agency until I know the mole has been found and neutralized,” she says. “If they find out who I am, I can promise you that I’ll be the next headless body you find in the desert.”

Her words, cold and blunt, send a river of ice flowing through my veins. But it’s probably a fair assessment of the facts, which scares me more for my sister than I think I’ve ever been. And given her history and what she does for a living, that’s already a pretty high bar to clear.

“I need your help, sis,” she says.

“What can I do?”

“First, I need you to talk to Sonny. Get them to call off the strike,” she responds. “We need to keep Inez at the top of the garbage heap. For now. I can’t afford to have her killed, or worse, slip away. She’s going to be supplying bioweapons and dirty bombs to buyers, which means, I need to have my eyes on her if we hope to stop them.”

“I can tell Sonny—”

“You can’t tell him about me. Not yet.”

“Getting them to back off is going to be a really tough sell.”

“I have faith in you, sis. Always have.”

“And yet, that somehow doesn’t make me feel one iota better.”

She gives me a tired smile. She’s exhausted.

“Why don’t you get some sleep,” I offer. “We can have breakfast in the morning and talk it all out then and hopefully come up with a strategy.”

She nods. “I can’t stay long tomorrow. I need to get back to Inez,” she replies. “But breakfast with my big sister sounds nice.”

I pull her up and into a hug for a long moment. “I love you, Kit.”

“I love you too,” she whispers.

We stand there in my living room for what could be a minute or could be an hour. Eventually, we break the embrace and both wipe tears out of our eyes. Kit gets up and pads off down the hall to the guest room, leaving me on the sofa with a million thoughts and feelings coursing through me. Any hope I had for getting some sleep tonight went right out the window with Kit’s story. On the one hand, that she’s doing this to avenge a kid she cared about gives me some semblance of hope for her. Maybe the monster inside Kit isn’t taking over completely. On the other hand, though, that she can suggest Inez execute a few people so casually fills me with a profound sense of dread for her.

Whatever happens and however this all plays out, I know that Kit is not coming out on the other side the same person she went into it as. All I can hope is that when this is done, more of the light remains and is somehow able to burn away the darkness that seems to be clinging to her like thick cobwebs.

I lost my sister once. I don’t want to lose her again.

Thank you so much for joining me on Blake Wilder’s latest adventure in THE SILENT HUNT! There’s a point in every book where I think, “Yep, this is the one that finally breaks me.” For this one, that moment came somewhere between the cartel chaos, the serial predator case, the hostile detective, and the emotional landmines. Basically, everything was on fire, but in the best, most unputdownable way. At one point, my outline looked like a tangle of threads barely holding together. But somehow, it all managed to weave into a story. Writing it was a wild ride, and if you’re here at the end, I’m guessing you managed to hang on, too.

I thought this book was a challenge to write, but the next one is already testing me in new ways. Blake and her team are heading to New York to investigate the murder of an undercover federal agent, only to realize he’s just the first. As more agents turn up dead, a dark pattern begins to emerge, one tied to a past case that went horribly wrong. While they work to solve the case, an even more personal threat begins to close in.

Your support is invaluable to indie writers like myself, helping to spread the word and keep these adventures alive. If you enjoyed THE SILENT HUNT, I’d be so grateful if you could take a moment to leave a review or recommend it to a fellow reader who loves action-packed mysteries. Every review, recommendation, and kind word truly helps Blake’s journey reach new readers, and I can’t thank you enough for being part of this adventure.

If it’s been a minute since you last visited Chesapeake Valley, I hope you haven’t forgotten about Sheriff Eve Wicker and the secrets that always seem to find her. THE SECRET CABIN, the fourth book in the series, took a little longer to release, but I promise it’s worth the wait. Between a layered investigation and the simmering tension between Eve and Roman, this story digs deep into both the heart of a case and the heart of its characters. If you enjoy suspense and a cast that feels like real people, it might just be the perfect next stop after Blake’s latest case.

Thank you again for joining me on this exciting journey. Whether you’re rooting for Blake, Eve, or both, I can’t wait for you to dive into their next adventures!

By the way, if you find any typos or want to reach out to me, feel free to email me at egray@ellegraybooks.com

Your writer friend,
Elle Gray

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Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thrillers

Book One - The 7 She Saw

Book Two - A Perfect Wife

Book Three - Her Perfect Crime

Book Four - The Chosen Girls

Book Five - The Secret She Kept

Book Six - The Lost Girls

Book Seven - The Lost Sister

Book Eight - The Missing Woman

Book Nine - Night at the Asylum

Book Ten - A Time to Die

Book Eleven - The House on the Hill

Book Twelve - The Missing Girls

Book Thirteen - No More Lies

Book Fourteen- The Unlucky Girl

Book Fifteen - The Heist

Book Sixteen - The Hit List

Book Seventeen - The Missing Daughter

Book Eighteen - The Silent Threat

Book Nineteen - A Code to Kill

Book Twenty - Watching Her

Book Twenty-One - The Inmate’s Secret

Book Twenty-Two - A Motive to Kill

Book Twenty- Three - The Kept Girls

Book Twenty- Four- Prison Break

Book Twenty- Five - The Perfect Crime

Book Twenty-Six - A Shot to Kill

Book Twenty-Seven - Double Cross

Book Twenty-Eight - The Silent Hunt

A Pax Arrington Mystery

Free Prequel - Deadly Pursuit

Book One - I See You

Book Two - Her Last Call

Book Three - Woman In The Water

Book Four- A Wife’s Secret

Storyville FBI Mystery Thrillers

Book One - The Chosen Girl

Book Two - The Murder in the Mist

Book Three - Whispers of the Dead

Book Four - Secrets of the Unseen

Book Five - The Way Back Home

A Sweetwater Falls Mystery

Book One - New Girl in the Falls

Book Two - Missing in the Falls

Book Three - The Girls in the Falls

Book Four - Memories of the Falls

Book Five - Shadows of the Falls

Book Six - The Lies in the Falls

Book Seven - Forbidden in the Falls

Book Eight - Silenced in the Falls

Book Nine - Summer in the Falls

Book Ten- The Legend of the Falls

Book Eleven - Whispers in the Falls

Book Twelve - Sins of the Falls

Book Thirteen - Shades of the Falls

A Chesapeake Valley Mystery Series

Book One - The Girl in Town

Book Two - The Lost Children

Book Three - The Secrets We Bury

Book Four - The Secrets Cabin

Olivia Knight FBI Mystery Thrillers

Book One - New Girl in Town

Book Two - The Murders on Beacon Hill

Book Three - The Woman Behind the Door

Book Four - Love, Lies, and Suicide

Book Five - Murder on the Astoria

Book Six - The Locked Box

Book Seven - The Good Daughter

Book Eight - The Perfect Getaway

Book Nine - Behind Closed Doors

Book Ten - Fatal Games

Book Eleven - Into the Night

Book Twelve - The Housewife

Book Thirteen - Whispers at the Reunion

Book Fourteen - Fatal Lies

Book Fifteen - The Runaway Girls

Book Sixteen - The Woman Next Door

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Book One - New Girl in the Springs

Book Two - The Maid of Honor

Book Three - The Girl in the Cabin

Book Four- Fatal Obsession

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The Florida Girl FBI Mystery Thrillers

Book One - The Florida Girl

Book Two - Resort to Kill

Book Three - The Runaway

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Book Five - The Unknown Woman