SO SHATTERED

(A Faith Bold Mystery —Book Twenty-Four)

B L A K E   P I E R C E

Blake Pierce

USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake's most recent latest releases are the Jenna Graves, Alison Payne, Isla Rivers and Kari Blackhorse series.

Please visit blakepierceauthor.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2025 by Blake Pierce. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Stone36, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

SERIES BY BLAKE PIERCE

KARI BLACKHORSE

ISLA RIVERS

ALISON PAYNE

JENNA GRAVES

THE GOVERNESS

RACHEL BLACKWOOD

SHEILA STONE

FINN WRIGHT

MORGAN CROSS

JULIETTE HART

FAITH BOLD

FIONA RED

DAISY FORTUNE

AMBER YOUNG

CAMI LARK

NICKY LYONS

CORA SHIELDS

MAY MOORE

PAIGE KING

VALERIE LAW

RACHEL GIFT

AVA GOLD

A YEAR IN EUROPE

ELLA DARK

LAURA FROST

EUROPEAN VOYAGE

ADELE SHARP

THE AU PAIR

ZOE PRIME

JESSIE HUNT

CHLOE FINE

KATE WISE

THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE

RILEY PAIGE

MACKENZIE WHITE

AVERY BLACK

KERI LOCKE

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

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

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Patricia Wells sighed with relief as she finished the last of the night’s paperwork. Ordinarily, she would have Roxy do that, but Roxy had a night class, and she had to leave at five o’clock. It was now eight o’clock. Patricia’s private session with Baxter—a rambunctious and mischievous St. Bernard whose owner had been far too indulgent with him—had ended a half hour ago.

Patty could have left the paperwork until the morning, but she didn’t believe in leaving things unfinished. If one took on a task, one had to see it through to the end. Besides, Roxy was a good worker: diligent, positive, and flexible. Well, mostly flexible, but Patty could hardly hold her desire for a good education against her.

She started to lock up the studio, heading first to the back door. She wasn't surprised to see it unlocked. Roxy was a good worker, but her weekday assistant trainer, Yolanda, left a lot to be desired. Patty was sure the woman meant well, but her head was so far in the clouds that Patty was sure she hadn't seen the ground in years.

Patty sighed and locked the door. She’d have a talk with Yolanda in the morning. Another talk. That was, what? The twelfth one?

With another sigh, she realized that tomorrow’s talk would have to be a serious one. She didn’t like letting people go, but she couldn’t train people the way she could train dogs. If Yolanda couldn’t figure some things out herself, then she would have to find employment elsewhere.

Besides, she had Marcus now. Marcus was incredible. Patty had a feeling he was going to be her best protégé yet.

As Patty moved through the grooming station, veterinary station, and feeding room—locking each door in turn—she felt a rush of pride. She had worked hard to make this business successful, and she had succeeded brilliantly. Wells-Mannered Pets was the most sought-after dog training school in Pennsylvania. Owners from all over the state and even the neighboring states called for slots in her classes. Many, like Baxter’s owner, also opted for private sessions.

The dogs in the kennels were barking. Probably some new arrivals who hadn’t yet internalized the rule that all dogs were to be silent unless instructed to speak. As soon as she entered the kennels, the barking instantly stopped. The veteran dogs assumed the submissive pose Patty required—sitting with head between front paws, eyes on the human leader. The newer dogs backed against the rear walls of their pens, whining softly and looking at her with fear. They’d get over that. They weren’t in any danger. They only thought that because they were new to the idea of following instructions.

She checked the pens one by one, pulling on the gates to ensure the locks were latched. Halfway through, she realized that one of the pens on the end was open. And it was empty. The dog who was supposed to be inside of it—a gentle Great Dane who was one of her best students in this class—was standing outside, watching Patty solemnly.

She sighed. She definitely needs to talk with Yolanda.

“What are you doing out, Trent?” she scolded. “You know better than that. You’re a good dog.”

She walked forward, reaching for Trent’s collar. The Dane backed away, keeping a wary expression on her.

She stared at him. “Honestly, what has gotten into you?”

She reached for him again, and he backed away again. She frowned.

“Sit.”

She blinked. That was the word she intended to say, but the voice wasn’t hers.

A chill ran through her as she realized that Trent wasn’t looking at her but behind her.

She turned around. She had just enough time to catch a glimpse of a figure in a training vest rushing toward her.

Then she knew nothing more.

CHAPTER ONE

Special Agent Faith Bold drifted her 2008 Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor to a stop against the curb in front of the Washington Row Apartments in the Chestnut Hill neighborhood of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. As she and her K9, Turk, leaped from the car, she heard the squeal of burning rubber and saw her partner’s late-model Grand Wagoneer skid to a halt behind her car.

Special Agent Michael Prince hopped out and pulled the slide of his handgun back. “Do they have her yet?”

“I don’t know,” Faith replied. “I just got here.”

“She’s barricaded herself in her unit,” Special Agent Gloria Chavez replied.

She was one of the youngest agents in the Philadelphia field office, though no longer the newest, with close to three years of experience now. Her partner, Special Agent Etienne Desrouleaux, was the oldest agent, and—with twenty-one years of experience—the most tenured.

He was talking to the Philadelphia Police sergeant in charge of the blockade Faith and Michael had just pulled up to. “I want guns on her at all times. Don’t be fooled by her size. This bitch is dangerous.”

That was an uncharacteristic display of vulgarity for the gentlemanly Desrouleaux, but Faith could forgive him for that. This bitch was dangerous. She was responsible for four brutal murders over the past year, including that of the Philadelphia field office’s chief, Special Agent-in-Charge Grant “The Boss” Monroe.

A month ago today, she had broken into the home Faith shared with her fiancé, veterinary doctor David Friedman, and poisoned Turk. In addition to nearly killing her dog, the vicious serial killer known as the Messenger had come within a split second of beating Faith to death before the surprise arrival of Michael and his wife Ellie had driven her away.

Now Faith was going to return the favor.

“Which unit is she in?” she asked Desrouleaux.

“One-oh-three,” the grizzled Desrouleaux replied. “You’d think that meant she was on the first floor, but she’s on the second floor.”

“Where exactly?”

“Second door on the right. She has a planter with…” Desrouleaux frowned at Faith. “You’re not going up there. We called you as a courtesy, but if you involve yourself in our collar, you’ll destroy our entire case.”

“Any hostages?” Faith asked.

“Yeah, the property manager. The cops went up to get her because they’re too fucking stupid to wait for us!”. He shouted that part at the red-faced police sergeant. “They took the manager with them to get the keys. Bitch opened the door, shot the officer, and dragged the manager into the room.”

“If there’s a hostage, and I have the ability to save her life, then I don’t need to wait down here,” Faith said.

Desrouleaux blinked. “What? Come on, Faith, don’t do this to me. I called you because you deserve to know we got her, but please don’t muddy things up.”

“You get credit for the collar,” Faith said, checking the load on her service weapon. “But I’m getting her out of that room.”

“I don’t give a shit about the credit,” Desrouleaux protested, “but there’s a sixty-nine-year-old woman in that room with her. Don’t let your emotions get in the way of your judgment and get an innocent person hurt.”

Faith glared at Desrouleaux. “I am in complete control of my emotions, Desrouleaux, thank you very much.”

“Faith—”

“Let it go, Etienne. You knew what was going to happen when you called her.”

Surprisingly, that was Chavez, not Michael, who said that. She nodded at Faith. “But seriously, don’t fuck up, okay? We’ve worked really hard on this.”

“I know,” Faith said. “Don’t worry. I’ve done this many times before.”

“Where do you want me?” Michael asked.

“I want you talking to her,” Faith said. “Turk and I are going to sneak in through the fire escape. You keep her attention on you. If she happens to surrender, then I’ll let her walk out the front door. If pigs choose not to fly today, then Turk and I will take her down.”

“And if so much as a hair falls off of that old woman’s head, I’ll have your ass,” Desrouleaux warned. “I like you, Faith, but this is too risky.”

Faith squeezed the old agent’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay. Trust me.” She looked down at her dog. “What do you say, Turk? Want to go catch a bad guy?”

Turk barked firmly. His eyes gleamed as hard as diamonds, and his muscles were tense but also relaxed like coiled springs.

“Good boy.”

She led Turk into the complex, walking under the right-side landing to keep herself obscured from the Messenger’s view. Turk padded silently ahead of her, ears up, eyes flicking right and left. Michael’s footfalls echoed as he climbed the steps and approached the front door.

Don’t stand in front of the door, Faith willed. Come on, you know better.

Fortunately, Michael stopped to the side of one-oh-three where the Messenger couldn’t reach her with her weapon without opening the door or window and leaving herself vulnerable. “Ma’am? This is Special Agent Michael Prince.”

“Eat my ass!” the Messenger called. Her shrill voice sounded a little higher-pitched than Faith remembered, but that was probably due to the stress of realizing she was trapped.

"Look, it's over. You know it is. There are a dozen officers outside of your apartment and four FBI agents on top of that. Don't make things worse for yourself. Release the manager, and come out with your hands up."

Faith didn’t hear the Messenger’s response because she and Turk reached the parking lot at the rear of the complex and turned right. The complex was a large horseshoe with a single parking lot ringing a single two-story building. There were thousands of apartment complexes like it in the world, and as Faith familiarized herself with the layout, she realized there would be no fire escape. To get to the second floor, she’d have to climb a backyard fence on the first floor and jump to 103’s balcony.

She could do that, but Turk probably couldn’t. She cursed and whispered, “Go to Michael. Stay quiet.”

She texted Michael, Sending Turk to you. No way to get him upstairs.

Turk hesitated, looking pensively up at the balcony. When Faith repeated the command, he reluctantly jogged back the way they came.

Faith crouched low, then leaped. She planted her feet on a fence post and leaped again, grabbing the railing with both hands and landing her feet on the edges of the Messenger’s balcony. She pulled herself over the railing, moving as smoothly and quietly as she could.

From here, she could hear the Messenger’s side of the conversation with Michael. “Sure! I’ll send her out! Which part do you want first?”

Her speech was slurred and gravelly. Apparently, she’d taken to drinking since failing to kill Faith and Turk.

“West will free me!” she cried, presumably in reply to another of Michael’s warnings. “He’ll hear about me, and when he breaks out of prison, he’ll take me with him! We’ll leave a river of blood in our wake, and no one will ever find us!”

This was followed by cackling laughter that boiled Faith’s blood even as it made her eyes roll.

The Messenger came about when a seriously disturbed woman decided she was in love with Franklin West, the infamous Copycat Killer had himself been inspired by an obsession with Jethro Trammell, the storied Donkey Killer who murdered Turk’s original FBI handler, Jack Preston, and tortured Faith almost to death. Ironically, Michael had rescued Faith from that killer too, breaking into the barn where Trammell was holding her and shooting Trammell right between the eyes moments before he made his final cut across Faith’s throat.

West’s obsession with Trammell centered on Faith, who he believed was the Donkey Killer’s unfinished business. His dream was to surpass his idol by “breaking” Faith mentally, torturing her psychologically until she gave up, then forcing her to live with her failure to stop him.

He had nearly succeeded. He had posed as Faith’s therapist for months without anyone becoming the wiser, not even Faith herself. He had killed Faith’s old lover from the Marine Corps, killed her mentor, Special Agent Gordon Clark, kidnapped Turk briefly, and beaten David almost to death. By the time he was arrested, Faith had one foot out the door and had lost most of the spark that motivated her as an agent.

And then this Messenger had arrived, taking up West’s mantle and deciding that the best way she could prove her love to the serial killer was by murdering Faith. She had tried to draw Faith’s attention by murdering three people: an innocent electronics shop owner, Faith’s old next-door neighbor, and finally, Faith’s boss.

And, after failing to kill Faith, she had taken her anger out on another innocent woman, borrowing West’s and Trammell’s MO for the first time—binding and cutting her until she bled out. Unfortunately for her, she’d left clues at that crime scene, and Philadelphia PD had followed those clues back to this apartment.

Faith slid a flexible aluminum blade in between the sliding glass doors of the balcony, searching for the latch so she could unlock the door and open it without making a lot of noise. If she could get inside without alerting the Messenger, then she could sneak up behind the woman. Depending on the situation, she could either shoot the Messenger through her brainstem, preventing the reflex that would cause the Messenger to fire her gun, or she could grab the woman, wrestle the weapon from her hand, and hold her on the ground so the hostage could escape.

Faith hoped very much for the latter. She wanted the Messenger alive to know that she had lost.

“Fuck you!” the Messenger cried. “He loves me! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Her shrieking protest allowed Faith to jimmy the latch and open the door without being heard. She pushed through the blinds and found herself in a small bedroom. The door to the bedroom was open. Through it, she could see the shadows of two women.

Inside the house, she could hear Michael’s voice through the door. “It’s you against a dozen officers, four FBI agents, and a K9. Come quietly, and you get through this process comfortably. Hurt that woman or try to hurt any of us, and we don’t make it comfortable for you. Think about the rest of your life, Jill. Think about how much suffering you want to endure. Believe me when I tell you, there’s a difference between a medium-security ward with a private cell and Ultramax with its own special interpretation of a private cell. You don’t want to experience that difference firsthand.”

Lara used Michael’s voice to disguise the noise of her footfalls as she walked through the hallway, gun drawn, toward the apartment’s living room. When she reached the end of the hallway, she peered around the corner.

The Messenger stood with her back to Faith. A bony arm was wrapped firmly around the property manager’s throat. A knife was pressed to the woman’s temple. Thankfully, the hand holding the knife was closest to Faith.

The Messenger laughed. “I won’t be living in a cell! Franklin will rescue me! We’ll live like Bonnie and Clyde, killing assholes and drinking their blood!”

Faith holstered her gun and prepared to move.

“Jill,” Michael said. “We’re going to come get you. If we find that woman harmed, we’re going to make it hurt. I don’t know how to make it any clearer.”

“Why don’t you shove it up your—”

Faith rushed as the Messenger spoke. At “your,” she ducked low, stepped in front of the Messenger, and drove both hands up toward her wrist. The knife snapped upwards, and Faith got a brief look at the Messenger’s shocked face before her head slammed into the woman’s nose, pulping it.

The Messenger shrieked and released the hostage. Faith slapped the knife out of the Messenger's hand, wrapped her arms under the woman's armpits, and threw her over her hips to the ground.

The door burst open an instant later as Michael reacted perfectly to the sound of the takedown. Turk ran inside with a growl and barked viciously at the woman.

Three times. Then he stopped, blinked, and tilted his head. Faith got up, drew her weapon and shouted, “Stay down, mother… fuck!”

She lifted her hands to the top of her head and looked at the back wall of the apartment while police officers cuffed the cursing and spitting suspect.

Who was not the Messenger? Faith had no idea who the woman in front of her was, but she wasn't the woman who'd broken into her home and nearly killed her and her dog.

This had all been for nothing.

CHAPTER TWO

“The Philadelphia Police Department would like to extend their thanks to you, Special Agent Bold, as well as the family of Hera Demopoulos. You as well, Special Agent Prince.”

Faith managed a transient half-smile. “Thank you, Director Smythe.”

Lately, Deputy Director Smythe had been spending a lot of time at the Philly office, mostly to check in on their temporary leader, ASAC Tabitha Gardner, and see how she was handling the stress of managing the FBI’s most celebrated field office. The answer was not well, and Tabitha’s pale expression and fiddling fingers showed it, but Faith didn’t give a shit about that right now.

“I understand that it’s disappointing to learn that Miss Jill Reynolds was not the Messenger killer, but I believe we should focus on the positives. Another Trammell copycat is off the streets.”

Faith nodded, but she couldn’t manage even a half-smile this time. It was good that Mrs. Demopoulos was unharmed. It was better that Jill was in custody and couldn’t harm anyone else.

It was very, very bad that there was another West admirer and Trammell copycat. It was confirmation of Faith’s longstanding fear that Trammell’s mythical status would inspire a new generation of serial killers. The fact that the onus was West’s career and not Trammell’s specifically didn’t mean anything. In fact, it probably made it worse since West had over thirty confirmed kills compared to Trammell’s seven.

“In any case,” Smythe said with a sigh, “you handled yourself well. As did your K9 unit.”

Turk barked and stood proudly. That earned a smile from Faith. “He’s a good dog, sir.”

“He is. He’s been an outstanding asset to this Bureau.”

Faith noticed the way Smythe said that, and her smile twisted downward. “Been sir?”

Smythe sighed again. “Yes. I’m afraid that the question of Turk’s retirement has come up again.”

Faith’s frown deepened. “Is this because of what I told you the last time we met, sir? Because if so, I’d like to reiterate that I retracted that statement. I was emotional after the Messenger’s attack on my home, and I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“I’m aware of your position on the subject, Special Agent,” Smythe said. “ASAC Gardner has repeatedly reminded me of your desire to remain on active duty.”

Faith looked at Tabitha in surprise. Tabitha had been the loudest voice in the Bureau calling for Faith’s removal from field work. Had she also changed her mind? Tabitha met her eyes briefly but looked away before Faith could get a read on her.

“If I could say something, sir,” Michael said. “It’s my professional and personal opinion that Turk remains a capable and competent member of our investigative team. It’s not an exaggeration when I say that we owe him a great deal of the credit for our success, and the official records of this Bureau and many client law enforcement agencies reflect that.”

“I assure you, Special Agent, Turk’s ability isn’t in question. However…” He folded his hands on the desk and thought a moment before continuing. “Frankly, the Bureau’s decision to waive the mandatory retirement age in Turk’s case has set a concerning precedent for other K9 handlers. In the past eleven months, we’ve processed no fewer than thirty applications for extended service for K9 units across the country.”

“Well, if they can do the job, then why not?” Michael pointed out.

“That’s the problem, Special Agent,” Smythe replied. “They can’t do the job.”

Michael paused briefly. “Ah.”

Smythe shrugged. “To say that Turk’s service record is unique would be an understatement. Much like his handler, he has achieved a level of success that places him too far off the charts to even reliably be considered an outlier. The simple fact is that he’s done things that other dogs just aren’t capable of doing.”

Faith felt another rush of pride in Turk, but she knew where this was going, and it dampened her excitement. “When are you pulling him from the field?” she asked Smythe.

“To be honest, Special Agent, I intended to retire both of you from field work this afternoon. However, at ASAC Gardner’s request, I have agreed to allow Turk to continue as a field agent until his tenth birthday.”

That was one month from today. Thirty-one days. Faith blinked, trying to process this new information. Thirty-one days until Turk was no longer a field agent. Thirty-one days until she either gave Turk up or stopped being a field agent herself. Thirty-one days until a nearly four-year partnership and a nearly thirteen-year career and partnership ended for good.

Thirty-one days until the Messenger and every other bad guy out there became someone else’s problem.

She got to her feet slowly. “May I have a minute?”

“Of course,” Smythe replied. “Take as much time as you need.”

Faith forced another smile, but she was sure it looked exactly as fake as it was.

She stepped from the room, Turk following her. As the door closed behind them, she overheard Michael say, “This is going to kill her, Smythe.”

Faith chuckled bitterly. It wouldn’t kill her, but if the Messenger—the real one—was still out there when she and Turk hung up their vests, it would probably break her. West would get his wish, hand-delivered to him not by his wannabe girlfriend, but by the Deputy Director of the agency that brought him to justice.

“Hey, Faith!” Chavez called, jogging up to meet her. “Etienne and I were wondering if you—”

“Not now, Chavez,” Faith replied. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but… not now.”

Chavez blinked and stopped. “All right. Is everything okay?”

“Sure,” Faith said without looking back.

She and Turk stepped out of the field office. The warm midday air washed over them, and Faith inhaled deeply. It smelled like motor oil and dust. She’d never realized before how much she loved that smell. What would she do when it was gone?

“Faith? Faith, wait up!”

That was Michael. This time, Faith allowed the distraction to catch up. When he did, she started walking down the street. She wasn't going anywhere, in particular, just taking a walk around the block and getting what counted for fresh air in the city of brotherly love.

Michael didn’t say anything. Her partner’s best quality was always knowing what to say, especially when that was nothing. She stayed quiet until she rounded the first corner of her circuit. Then she said, “I want to laugh at myself. I mean, I’ve been swinging my foot in and out of the door for so long now, I’ve let flies into the building. I just… I guess… I mean…”

“It’s different now that the end’s finally here.”

She took a deep breath and released it in a shuddering sigh. “Yeah.”

Michael nodded. He looked down at Turk. “What do you think, boy? You still have some fight left, or do you want to go running and playing for the last few years of your life?”

Turk barked affirmative. It was the best answer he could give. What he was really saying was, Yes, I want to go where you go and do what you do. I don’t care if we’re catching bad guys or catching butterflies, I want to be with you, Faith.

They reached an intersection, and while they waited for the light to change, Faith squatted down and scratched Turk behind both ears. “Good boy. You’re such a good boy.”

He was a good boy. The best boy. But he was also an old boy, and Faith couldn’t pretend not to see that anymore. The white on his muzzle had crept halfway to his eyes now. The “saddle” of once-dark fur on his back was more gray than brown now. She lifted his lips, and his teeth were white and healthy, but his molars seemed a little worn. Nothing to be concerned about yet, but a sign that age was finally catching up to the old warrior.

“Good boy.”

The light changed. Faith gave him a brief hug, then stood and started across the street.

“It’s the right decision,” she said. She was both surprised and not surprised to hear herself say that. “He’s getting older, and I can definitely see other handlers not being able to let go any more than I can.”

Michael nodded. “Yeah, well when you were gone, Smythe mentioned that they’ve had to discipline fifteen handlers for falsifying reports to make it look like their dogs had passed fitness tests when they hadn’t.”

“Damn,” Faith said, grimacing. “I didn’t realize that was happening.”

Michael shrugged. “Well, it’s hard. You get to know a dog, and he’s strong and powerful and smart and just perfect. Then… well, he gets old. I don’t know, I look at Turk, and I think he could drag an elephant to the ground and have enough energy left to play frisbee, but then I wonder if maybe that’s true, or if maybe I just don’t want to admit it isn’t. I can’t imagine how hard it is for you.”

Faith nodded. “It’s just the unfinished business. That’s what really sucks. I know the Messenger isn’t our case, but it also is, you know?”

“Yeah,” Michael agreed. “I know.”

“I just hate knowing that bitch is still out there, and we’re going to leave, and she’s still going to be out there. I know it’s stupid, but it just feels like she wins somehow. Like West wins. Like we’re finally beaten, and we’re leaving because we’re not good enough. I know that’s not the truth, but that’s what it feels like.”

“Yeah,” Michael repeated. “I know.”

“So what do I do? I mean, I know it’s the right thing to do, but I don’t know if I can do it. You said before that I won’t be able to handle it if I walk away before this job is done, but…” She stopped and looked at Michael. “I’m going to walk away. It’s the right thing for Turk. So what do I do? How do I convince myself that it’s okay?”

Michael sighed. He looked down at his feet and shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t. Maybe… Maybe it’s something you just have to do. Even if it’s not okay.”

Faith nodded. She stood there for a moment longer, then turned around and headed back to the field office.

In thirty-one days, she would come back one final time to clean out her desk. Then she would be on to her next adventure, whatever that may be. She wasn’t ready.

But that didn’t matter. Time didn’t care any more about her than it cared about Turk. In thirty-one days, time would remain undefeated, and Faith and Turk would begin the process of fading into memory.

Then fading out of memory.

CHAPTER THREE

Faith moaned and collapsed back on the bed, breathing deeply and clinging to the perfection she felt in her body. David sighed and tried to get up, but she wrapped herself around him and pulled him close. “No, not yet. Just stay here. Stay with me.”

David relaxed and pushed closer to her. She closed her eyes and sighed, holding him and focusing on the sensation and nothing else.

But that sensation—like all good things—faded eventually. Finally, Faith had to admit that the moment was over. She released David and allowed him to roll over. He groaned and kissed her cheek. “I know I say this a lot, but you are freaking amazing.”

The corners of her lips turned up briefly, then fell again. She stared at the ceiling, letting emotions drift through her without trying to nail any of them down to a specific thought.

David propped himself up on his elbow. “Okay. Fess up. Something’s wrong. What is it?”

She rolled her eyes. “We just had incredible sex, David. Can’t we just lay here a while and enjoy it?”

“Nope. You’re already not enjoying it anymore. So tell me what’s wrong.”

David’s most annoying quality as a lover was that he almost never knew what the right thing to say was, especially when it was to say nothing at all.

But maybe that was also his best quality. Faith had gotten comfortable. Michael was comfortable. For a brief while, she had allowed herself to believe that meant that she had romantic feelings for him, but they’d tried that already years ago, and she’d realized quickly that the man who always knew what to say wasn’t the man she wanted in her bed.

David challenged her. Michael challenged her, but not in the same way. David challenged her because his entire worldview was different. He didn't see things the same way she did, and that meant he could find solutions that were, from her point of view, utterly off the wall.

Maybe that was what she needed right now. Her entire world was about to change. It might not be a bad idea to start changing her worldview.

She sat up, pulling the covers over her body in an instinctive act to hide her vulnerability. “Turk’s going to retire in a month,” she told him. “On his tenth birthday. I’m going to retire with him. From the field, anyway.”

David’s eyes lit up. “Really? That’s wonderful, Faith! I’m so happy for you!”

This was exactly the reaction she’d expected, but at that moment, she resented it. “You’re happy for you,” she corrected. “You’re happy because you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

“Or about people breaking into my house and leaving potassium cyanide in my pantry,” he said. “Or beating me or you half to death.”

He wasn’t angry when he said that, but his words cut Faith to her core. She lowered her eyes to her chest, and the fact that she was covered by a thick quilt didn’t do anything to make her feel less vulnerable. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be sorry,” David replied. “It’s okay that you’re upset. I should have been more considerate. I just… well, I instinctively felt very excited about the fact that you’re going to be safe.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I know. I just… I don’t know, I mean… what am I going to do?”

“Literally whatever you want. You’re going to be thirty-six years old and retired. You can literally do anything you want for the rest of your life.”

She rolled her eyes but managed a smile this time. “Yeah. I guess.”

“So what do you want to do?” he asked.

She turned to their bedroom window and looked out at the moon. Dark bars split the moon into sections, the steel bars that David had installed on all the windows in the house after the Messenger broke in. Her smile faded. “I want to feel safe.”

The words surprised her. This was the first time she’d been able to say it since Tramell cut her: she didn’t feel safe.

David reached for her, but she got to her feet before he could wrap her in his arms, and she could let herself ignore this thought. She paced, arms crossed over her breasts, and she was glad that her nakedness made her feel vulnerable right now.

“I want to stop worrying about the bogeyman breaking in and hurting me or people I care about. Or bogeywoman. I want Trammell to stay right where he is: buried in the ground. I want Franklin West to spend the rest of his life staring at the sun through a four-inch slice in his steel-reinforced concrete wall. I want the Messenger to be locked in a padded room and fed pills that keep her too stoned to go berserk and tear people apart. I want no more serial killers to decide I’m the Messiah they need to crucify, and I want Turk to be free.”

She stopped and looked at him. “That’s the problem. Honestly, I’ve done this job long enough. I did six years with the Corps and earned every stripe and every medal I received. I’ve done almost thirteen years with the Bureau and earned quite enough scars along the way. I’ve saved a lot of lives, put a lot of bad guys away, and inspired a lot of good people to take up the cause of justice. I don’t feel unaccomplished or unfinished. I just feel…”

She tapped her arm and looked past him at the headboard of their bed. “Chased. Clung to. Like I’m trying to climb out of a pool, but something in the water is latching onto me, and it refuses to let go. Honestly, I want the Messenger out of the picture, but even if I catch her tomorrow, I’m afraid some new asshole will just pop up and set their sights on me.” She sighed. “I just want to stop being the Number One Target for every psychopath on planet Earth.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, and when David put his arm around her, she allowed him to pull her close. His cologne smelled like leather and sandalwood. Smelling it sent very pleasing sensations through her, and she closed her eyes and focused on that while he replied.

“Well, the hard truth, Faith, is that if you want to stop being a target, you have to step off the battlefield.”

Maybe he knew exactly what to say after all. She sighed. “Yeah, I know. I just…”

“You hate it,” he finished. “You hate thinking that after all the bad guys you’ve beaten, the Messenger is the one who beat you.”

“Yes. I do hate it.” She looked toward her bedroom door, beyond which Turk slept like a baby, just like he had since she met him. “And I hate that Turk’s going to die soon.”

“Not that soon,” David said. “He’s in excellent health. He’s got at least five years. With good veterinary care—which I will religiously provide—he’s got seven. I know that seems like a short amount of time, but it’s twice the amount of time you’ve known him already.”

Faith nodded slowly. “Yeah. You’re right. God, it feels like so much longer than three-and-a-half years.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun. And there will be times when it feels like it’s moving too fast with Turk, too. But most of the time, you’re going to be filled by every single moment. You won’t have a job to focus on. You won’t have the specter of a psychopath hanging over your head. You’ll have all the time in the world to just take him out and play. Or walk. Or watch tv. Or travel. Or do anything. Your moments with Turk will belong completely to you and Turk now. He’s your dog. Not the FBI’s, yours. If you choose to work with him as an instructor, then you’ll be doing it because you want to. You’ll be choosing your own hours, you’ll be choosing your own vacation… Actually, is all of that true? I just assumed because of your reputation that you’d have a lot of leeway about how you spend your time.”

She smiled. “I’ll probably get to choose my own hours and get first pick of vacation slots. Smythe likes me, and considering my reputation and Turk’s, the K9 division is going to bend over backwards to make sure I’m happy.”

“Exactly. See? This is a good thing. A hard thing, yes. Change always is. But it’s a good thing. “And…”

He stopped abruptly. Faith turned to him. “And what?”

His cheeks flushed, and he looked away. “What?” Faith pressed.

He shrugged. “Well… And you and I can… you know.”

She smiled again. “Get married?”

He flushed more, but he met her eyes, and his voice was strong when he said, “Yes. We can finally get married. Your time will be yours, but I really hope that you choose to give some of that time to us.” He looked away sheepishly. “God, that came out wrong. I mean, I meant it, but not the way it sounded.”

She giggled and put her hands on her shoulder. “I would love to marry you, David.”

“Yes,” he said, chuckling and meeting her eyes. “I would love to marry you too.”

She caressed his cheek softly. He had a fifteen-hour stubble. It scraped deliciously over her palm, sending tingles down her body.

She loved him. She really did. She never thought she would fall in love with anyone, but she was in love with David. She couldn’t wait to spend the rest of her life with him. Thinking of the future they would share, unfettered by her responsibilities to the Bureau and the constant low-grade dread of being attacked by the Freak of the Week, made it a lot easier for her to accept that this chapter of her life was closing.

She took his hand and moved it in between her legs. When his fingers brushed against her, she gasped and stiffened. “Oh, sweetheart,” she crooned. “Yes. Right there.”

His fingers moved again, and she pulled him close. When their lips met, she sighed and gave her body to him. He knew just what to do with it. God, he always knew just what to do with her body. Oh, yes, Oh, yes, he knew just how to—

Her phone rang. She pulled away with a heavy sigh. “God damn it.”

“I will definitely not miss that,” David said, pulling his hand—his beautiful, wonderful hand—away from her.

“Yeah, me either,” she growled, rolling out of bed and stalking to the opposite nightstand.

Tabitha. Of course.

ASACs, ladies and gentlemen. Making a case for retirement since J. Edgar freaking Hoover.

“Hey, Tabitha,” she said curtly. “Is this important? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“No, Faith,” Tabitha replied drily. “I’m in the habit of calling my agents at midnight to chat over something trivial.”

Faith sighed. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.” She rubbed her temples. “Hey, thank you, by the way, for having my back earlier. I know you and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but—”

“Let’s save the sentimental farewell for another time,” Tabitha said. “You have a case.”

Faith sighed again, but a smile came unbidden to her lips. “One last trip around the track, huh?”

“You could say that. We have a woman in Pittsburgh found dead in her dog training studio. She was posed naked with a spiked dog collar around her neck. At the risk of sounding gauche, this looks to be right up your alley.”

Faith’s smile faded. “Yes, ma’am. I guess it does.”

“Your partner’s on his way to pick you up. He said he likes it better when he drives.”

“That’s fine. Thank you, ma’am.”

“Yeah. Don’t mention it.”

She hung up, and Faith sighed and turned to David. “When I finally retire, we’re going to let Turk hang out at Michael’s place for a week and spend that entire week naked.”

“I am wholeheartedly in favor of that,” David agreed.

She walked to the bed and kissed him softly. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He smacked her backside lightly. “Go save the world.”

“One last time.” She raised her voice. “Hey, Turk!”

Claws pattering on hardwood flooring greeted her, and a moment later, the legend himself burst into the room, tail wagging. She grabbed her underwear and started dressing. “One more bad guy, Turk. Sound good?” He barked exuberantly, and Faith laughed. “Good boy.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Lillian Martin smiled at the family in front of the counter and handed them their receipt. “Okay, you guys are order number forty-four! Have a happy day!”

The mother took the receipt with a distracted smile. Her daughter—a little girl who looked just barely big enough to walk—smiled and blew Lillian a kiss. “I luv yoo!”

Lillian smiled at her and was surprised to feel a touch of real affection. “I love you too, kiddo!”

The embarrassed mother picked her up and explained. “She says that to everyone. She’s a little lovebug.”

“That’s all right,” Lillian said. “That’s a good thing.”

It was an especially good thing for the Karen that Lillian had to deal with next. Happy Hank’s Henhouse was one of many hundreds of thousands of grease pits that ensured Middle America remained fat and just happy enough to keep their guns at home or in backyards aimed at empty beer cans instead of even fatter politicians and business moguls. Lillian hated it with an almost affectionate passion.

But it was a job. It paid for the rundown trailer she rented from an owner too old to try to make a pass at her. It put food—slightly less greasy but probably no more healthy—on her table.

Most importantly, it let her live incognito as Darla Hansen, a high-school dropout from Wisconsin now living in the glorious metropolis of Freeport, Iowa, and not Lillian Martin, a serial killer obsessed with another serial killer and also obsessed with a certain FBI agent who was one freaking second from being dead before the door opened, and her other boyfriend stumbled in like a damned cartoon bear to fuck everything up for her.

Sometimes, when the night was dark and cold and lonely and quiet, Lillian thought she might live here forever. It was safe here. One thing that Faith Bold’s boy-thing had taught her was that she really didn’t want to go to prison again.

She thought she did. When she was first released from the mental hospital, she thought that she would kill Faith, get sent to the same prison as Franklin West—the place they put all the real bad bananas—meet him, and tell him what she did. Then they’d fall in love and spend a nice honeymoon period as naked as possible as often as possible. Then they’d break out of prison and spend the rest of their lives killing assholes and spending some more quality time al fresco.

But when that doorknob started turning, and she realized she was a hot second away from another stint at Pennsylvania’s preeminent madhouse, she felt a flash of fear that chilled her to the bone.

She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t spend her life wrapped up and left in a padded vinyl room with nothing but the screams of the crazies to keep her company.

And that’s exactly where she’d go. Not to Ultramax. Right back to Midwest Memorial Mental Menagerie.

She couldn’t do it. So maybe she would let this little thing with West go. Maybe she would limit her… extracurricular activities to the odd bitch who couldn’t keep her mouth shut and didn’t have enough friends to be missed.

Maybe…

CHAPTER FIVE

Faith looked down at Patricia Wells’ body and decided there was another thing about this job that she wouldn’t miss.

“Pretty as a picture, ain’t she?” Detective Rose Wilkins, Pittsburgh Police Department, opined. Rose was a burly woman with curly red hair whose calm voice was belied by her wide, frightened eyes. Most likely, she’d never seen anything like this before.

Unfortunately, Faith had.

Patricia Wells was—as Tabitha had warned her—naked. She was in a modified child's pose with her legs folded underneath her, her body bent at the waist. Instead of her arms outstretched and her forehead to the floor, however, her arms were also folded so that she rested on her forearms. Her head was bent up so her eyes faced forward. A spiked dog collar was tied around her neck, with more spikes piercing her throat. Her body looked to have been drained of blood, all of which was pooled underneath her. The pasty color of her exsanguinated skin combined with her unnatural pose made her look like a macabre clay sculpture of a human.

Turk sniffed gingerly around the body, gathering scents that he would later use to help them identify the killer. Michael was getting preliminary statements from the staff at Wells-Mannered Pets—Patricia’s training business.

“Who called it in?” Faith asked.

“Woman named Yolanda. One of the trainers. She forgot to lock one of the dogs in his cage for the night, and she freaked out because she was in the hot seat with Miss Wells, I guess. Apparently, Miss Wells was very strict with her employees, and Yolanda hadn’t been measuring up.”

“Are we sure it wasn’t her?” Faith asked.

“Yeah. We have security footage of the front door. She came in at nine-forty-nine and came back out screaming and flailing around at nine-fifty-one. Then she sat in the corner of the lobby and cried. Called us at nine-fifty-six. She could probably have killed Miss Wells in two minutes, but I doubt like hell she could have made her look like this.”

Faith nodded. “No security footage of the murder?”

Rose sighed. “Nope. Nothing for the back door and nothing for the training facility. Just the front door, lobby, and office.”

Faith heard a solitary bark and looked up to see a Bernese Mountain Dog, pacing its cell and looking antsy. “Have these dogs been fed or allowed to use the restroom?”

“Not yet,” Rose said. “I didn’t want the staff out of my sight until we questioned all of them. I guess it doesn’t matter, though. We’ve got uniforms around the outside, and I’m not getting killer vibes from anyone here.”

“Have the staff tend to the dogs,” Faith agreed. “Call the owners and have them pick their pets up. Do you have security footage of the parking lot?”

“Yeah, we do.”

“Look at that footage and see if anyone arrived late. If their vehicles match any of the vehicles that show up to pick up their pets, then bring that individual in for questioning.”

“You got it.”

While Rose left to handle that, Faith stooped low and examined the crime scene. Patricia’s position was too unnatural to be a resting pose. Something was holding her up.

Faith put on a pair of gloves and carefully lifted Patricia’s head. It made a soft squelching sound. Another item on the list of things she wouldn’t miss.

The collar’s inner spikes pushed forward, forcing Rose’s head back and chin up. A thin metal rod was attached to the collar, ending in a small ring that stabilized her head on the floor.

So the killer wanted Patricia to be found that way. Faith was just about to lower her head back down when she caught sight of something tucked under the collar. She carefully pulled the object out.

It was a folded piece of four-by-six notepaper, white with navy blue guidelines, and an image of a bouquet of lilacs on the upper left and lower right corners. Only one word was printed on it.

SIT

Faith looked down at the body and realized what the pose was supposed to look like. She looked up at the walls of the kennel. One wall held a number of leashes and collars. A number of those collars were spiked, though none quite so aggressively as this one.

Still, it gave Faith an idea of motive. Someone was trying to teach them a lesson. Killers who posed their victims like this chose victims for personal reasons but posed them to send a message. The message here was pretty clear, or at least the basic motivation. Someone didn’t like the way she trained dogs. Or maybe just didn’t like dog trainers in general.

She would start with the staff. Yolanda might not have killed Patricia, but someone was definitely unhappy with her, and that person knew where to find her and had probably chosen her because of the line of work she was in.

She walked to the other room—a large gym with obstacles, mats, and chew toys and other training tools for the dogs to work with. Everything here was stored for the business closure the night before. Hooks on the wall held different leashes and collars similar to those in the other room along with long-handled rubber batons that looked a little too much like night sticks for Faith’s comfort.

Probably for jumping or for pointing dogs, she told herself. She'd seen dog shows from time to time when she and Turk lived alone. It wasn't her thing. The dogs looked like they were having fun, but the people always looked uncomfortable in their weird dressage outfits, swinging around sticks like conductors leading an orchestra.

She tried to tell herself that’s all it was, but when she approached more closely, she saw suspicious tufts of fur at the ends of some of the batons. Maybe Patricia was involved in some training practices that weren’t quite SPCA-approved. Maybe that explained the absence of security cameras anywhere the dogs were actually trained.

She heard footsteps approaching and turned to see Michael walking toward her with a young man in tow. “This here’s Marcus Bennett,” Michael told her. “I figured you’d want to join us since you’re finished looking at the”—he glanced at Marcus—“at the crime scene.”

Faith smiled and regarded the young man. He was tall—six-five, she guessed—lean, and athletic. “I would love to. Thank you. You’re finished with the other two?”

Marcus answered for Michael. “Yeah, Roxy’s taking Yolanda home. She thinks it’s her fault. Yolanda does, I mean. She thinks that because she forgot to close the kennels, Patricia was here too long, and the killer got to her because of it.”

“What do you think?”

Marcus shrugged. His eyes were puffy, and his shoulders were slumped. He was genuinely sad about Patricia’s death. That didn’t mean he was innocent, of course.

“Let’s have a seat in the office,” Faith said.

“Oh, um… I should wait. So I can give the dogs back to their owners.”

“Detective Wilkins can handle that,” Faith said. “You and I should talk.”

“Oh. Um, okay.”

“Relax, kid,” Michael said. “No one’s accusing you of anything.” Which was true. So far.

“Oh, I know,” Marcus said, shuffling toward the office with the two FBI agents following. “I just… it sucks.”

“Yeah,” Faith agreed. “It really does.”

They entered the office, a small, flawlessly organized space with a dark pine desk polished to a gleaming shine, a stack of file cabinets on one end, and a tower printer on the other. The desk occupied the middle. One mid-backed swiveling chair sat behind it, with two identical ones in front.

Marcus took the seat behind the desk without being told. Faith noted that. “You and Miss Wells were close?”

Marcus nodded. Like many tall, lanky men, he didn’t sit in the chair so much as he folded himself into it. It reminded Faith disturbingly of Patricia Well’s pose. “She was like my aunt.”

“Like your aunt, or she was your aunt?” Michael asked.

“Like my aunt. Yeah, we weren’t related. She was just taking me under her wing, so to speak.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. “Can you elaborate on that?”

Marcus sniffled. “Like, she was teaching me how to be a dog trainer. How to run this kind of business, you know what I’m saying?”

Faith nodded. “Like a protégé.”

“Yeah.”

Faith shared a look with Michael, then looked back at Marcus. “I hate to have to ask this, Marcus, but you know I have to.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I got you. Um, I was at a party.”

“Where was this party?” Michael asked, pulling a notepad and pen from his pocket.

“At the Mixing Bowl. It’s a club in the Strip District.”

Faith’s eyes widened. “That’s a nice neighborhood.”

Marcus nodded again. “Yeah, my cousin’s a DJ, and he’s been touring with a rapper. Klutz. Y’all heard of him?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Michael said, writing the club’s name down. “But I’m an old guy. I don’t think I’ve listened to a single song made in the past twenty years.”

Marcus chuckled. “Yeah, for sure, for sure.”

Michael stood. “I’ll follow up on this. Be back in a sec.”

When he left the room, Faith asked, “Another question I have to ask that I would rather not. Was there anything romantic going on between you and Miss Wells?”

Marcus stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed. “No, no, nothing like that. Patty’s a beautiful…” His smile faded. “She was a beautiful woman, but she’s older than me, you know what I’m saying? Not that that’s a problem, but…” He shrugged.

“Right.” Faith was actually relieved to hear that. She believed Marcus’s grief was genuine, and she was glad it wasn’t complicated by sex. Sex was a powerful motive for murder, and the perpetrators of such crimes of passion often felt genuine grief once the deed was done.

“One more uncomfortable question: can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill her?”

Marcus’s shoulders slumped. He looked down at his hands and nodded.

Faith tried not to let her excitement show in her voice. “What reason might that be?”

“Um…” he swallowed. “Well, her training methods are kind of… unusual.”

“Can you be more specific?”

"She was rough with the dogs," Marcus said, lifting his eyes to Faith. "She didn't abuse them or anything, but if you don't know dogs, you might think that."

Faith thought of those tufts of fur caught in the ends of the leather batons, but she kept her opinion to herself. Maybe someone else hadn’t.

“Thing is, with dogs, you have to remember they’re pack animals, you know what I’m saying? They respect strength. That’s why so many owners have trouble because they want to be nice and sweet all the time, which is good, but… like, dogs take advantage of that.”

“This was Miss Wells’s philosophy?”

“Yeah. She would get dogs to behave by being the alpha. Being strong. She would teach owners to be alphas too. Some people, you know, they don’t like that.”

Faith maintained a neutral demeanor. “Was anyone in particular very vocal about their dislike of Miss Wells’s methods?”

Marcus shrugged again. “I mean, I never saw anyone, but I’ve only been working here a few months. Yolanda’s been here the longest, about a year, but she said she never had anyone act crazy. I just figure, you know, if someone did want her dead, that’s probably why.”

Michael walked back into the room. Faith glanced at him, and he gave her a thumbs up. Marcus’s alibi had checked out.

Faith stood. “Well, thank you for talking to us, Marcus. We’ll let you get back home. If we need anything else, we’ll reach out to you. In the meantime, if you think of anything or hear anything, please call us. We’re going to do everything we can to bring Miss Wells’s killer to justice.”

“Yeah. Good deal.” Marcus tried for a smile that died on his lips.

Faith’s heart went out to him. She wanted to tell him that there were better ways to train a dog than to be rough and dominant. She wanted to give him a chance to pick a different path, one that wouldn’t end with a person like Faith examining his dead body and wondering where it all went wrong.

But he wouldn’t be receptive to that right now. His idol had just died, and whether she deserved his worship or not, he wouldn’t want to listen to anyone suggesting that maybe there was a valid reason for that.

And there wasn’t. Whatever vengeance this killer thought they had taken, they had crossed a line. It was up to Faith to make sure they paid the price for that.

CHAPTER SIX

Patricia’s body was stiff with rigor, meaning it had to be transported looking exactly as it had when she’d been placed. Faith was embarrassed on the poor woman’s behalf. How awful that her friends’ and employees’ final memories of Patricia would be of her looking like this.

“When will you notify the family?” Faith asked.

“We’ll call them today,” Rose replied. “As for when they get to see her, it’ll be after the M.E.’s done. She’ll be cleaned up and covered up.”

“That’s good,” Michael said. “Unless, of course, it was one of her family who did this to her.”

“They say most murders are committed by people you know,” Rose agreed.

“Not in this case,” Faith replied. “At least, I seriously doubt that family relationship is the motive. Patricia was staged to send a message. ‘Look at what you’re doing. This is how you treat these animals.’”

See how you feel being made to ‘sit.’” Michael added.

“Exactly. The killer’s scolding people using Patricia as an example.”

“Why, though?” Rose asked. “I mean, aren’t there people doing worse?”

"Ritualistic killers like this tend to view their behavior one of two ways," Faith replied. "Either they buy into their bullshit, in which case they believe through and through that what they're doing is right and just, or they don't, and deep down, they know they're just doing this for emotional gratification."

“So which one is our killer?” Rose asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” Faith replied. “I’d like to know the exact cause of death.”

“I’ll call the M.E.’s office,” Rose said. “The official report won’t come out for at least a couple of days, but if this goes to Dr. Jordan, I might be able to sweet talk him into letting you take a peek early. No promises, though. The assistant coroners get real touchy about this thing. We’re gonna have to hope they and their kiss-asses don’t get in the way.”

“Thank you for trying,” Faith said. “Turk, come.”

Turk trotted over to Faith. She ran her hands through his fur and asked, “Got anything, boy?” Turk snorted, and Faith patted his cheek. “That’s all right. We’ll get ‘em.”

“You think he understands you?” Rose asked. “For real, I mean?”

“He understands,” Faith said. “Dogs might not write Shakespeare or debate the finer points of quantum physics, but they’re very adept at reading their owners and understanding what’s expected of them.”

“Huh. Got it.” Rose hooked a thumb at the kennel behind them where Marcus—aided by some uniformed officers—was returning dogs to the first group of owners to arrive. “What do you think about all this stuff, then? Helpful or hogwash?”

Faith thought of Marcus’s tears and his obvious affection for Patricia. Then she thought of the hairs stuck in the knotted ends of the leather batons in Patricia’s dog gym. “Things are rarely that black and white,” she replied.

 ***

Faith didn’t consider herself particularly loyal to her hometown. She liked Philadelphia, but she didn’t love any place in particular. She loved her people, and it didn’t matter much whether they lived in Philadelphia, Los Angeles, or Istanbul.

Still, she was surprised to find that she appreciated Pittsburgh’s beauty and compared it favorably to Philly. There was a bit of a benign rivalry between Pennsylvania’s two largest cities, with Philadelphia generally considered the larger, more modern, and also more historic city while Pittsburgh carried the gritty pride of its working-class history.

The beautifully landscaped neighborhoods and lush parks that lined the serene Allegheny River belied that working-class history. Pittsburgh looked to Faith much more like the quiet, middle-class bedroom communities that filled Hollywood family movies while Philadelphia’s crowded streets, and extensive urbanization reminded Faith much more of the working-class heroes of rags-to-riches movies.

Of course, life wasn’t a movie, and Faith had been to many picturesque places that hid a dark underbelly. The dead woman in the van ahead, twisted and frozen into a grotesque caricature of the animals she trained, was a perfect example of the horror that lay under the serene surface of the beautiful places in America.

The three FBI agents followed Rose to the medical examiner’s office. Pittsburgh’s downtown was modest in size compared to Philadelphia’s, but for a city of only three hundred thousand, it boasted an impressive array of skyscrapers and crowded streets. The medical examiner’s office was located on the outskirts of the crush in a sleek five-story building that reminded Faith a lot of the Philadelphia Field Office.

Once inside, the macabre nature of the business conducted here became more apparent. The interior was decorated floor to ceiling with dark wood paneling, and everyone in the building who wasn’t a law enforcement officer or a receptionist wore pale robin’s-egg-blue scrubs. Many of the scrubs had stains on them, and their wearers either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Faith wondered if any of them were looking fondly towards retirement. In a sense, this sort of work was more sanitized than law enforcement. After the first few hellish years of internship and residency, medical examiners didn’t need to see people at crime scenes. They could analyze their portion of the case-solving pie in their own controlled environment, and when they were finished, they could file some paperwork, file the body, and move on to the next one.

On the other hand, when one’s work was treating people like puzzle pieces and matching toe tag numbers to freezer doors, did the complete depersonalization of the job become too much? Did medical examiners eventually reach a point when they needed to leave before they lost everything that made them human?

Focus on the job, Faith, she told herself. You can get philosophical when you’re retired.

The medical examiner, Dr. Bernard, met them in autopsy room five, located on the second floor of the three-floor basement. She was Rose’s copy in every way except that she was about a foot taller and fifty pounds bigger.

She didn’t look particularly happy to see the agents. “Detective Wilkins says you guys are in a hurry. Guess you think this asshole will strike again.”

Faith hadn’t mentioned that to Rose, but it wasn’t incorrect. “These killers tend not to stop once they get a taste for it.”

Dr. Bernard grimaced. “Well, I can’t tell you much before I take a good look, but I can tell you a few things right off the bat.”

She lifted the sheet on the gurney next to her, allowing Faith another good look at the body.

“First thing’s first, she was posed like this after death. I guess that’s probably obvious, but in case you were wondering, you now know for sure.”

“How can you tell?” Faith asked.

She rolled the body over and gently coaxed the legs to straighten by massaging the muscles at the joints. The motion looked weirdly intimate, and Faith’s stomach turned. “See these?” She pointed at deep purple bruises at the bend of Patricia’s hips. “This is where blood pooled. If her heart had been beating, blood wouldn’t have pooled there.”

“What if she was killed quickly?” Michael asked.

“Even then, the lividity wouldn’t be so pronounced.” She looked over the body. “Yep. Similar bruising under the knees and at the front of the ankles. She was killed first.”

Her eyes moved to a deep gash in Patricia’s abdomen that ran from her sternum to her belly button. “And this is your cause of death.”

She reached into the wound, rummaging around like a woman searching her purse for her ID. Faith sighed and looked away, unable to see Patricia treated like an inanimate object like this.

“Don’t tell me you get squeamish, Agent,” Dr. Bernard teased.

“Not often,” Faith replied. “May I ask what you’re looking for?”

“The abdominal aorta,” Dr. Bernard said. “And… here it is. Yep. Sliced open. She would have been unconscious in fifteen seconds and dead in under two minutes.”

“Well, at least she went quickly,” Michael said.

That had probably been more about compliance than mercy, but Faith had to agree with him. “The spike collar. Was that post mortem as well?”

“My first guess is yes. There’s just not enough blood. People forget that blood behaves differently when it’s being pumped by a heart and when it’s just sliding around due to the forces of gravity. The heart pushes blood around, and when you’re alive and bleeding, it shoots it out of your blood vessels under pressure. High-pressure equals artery, low pressure equals vein, but always some pressure. If you’re dead, though, blood just goes to the ground or whatever part of the body is closest to it. In Patricia Wells’s case, that was her belly.”

She lifted the head and looked at the wounds. “I won’t know for sure about the neck wounds until I take a closer look, though. And that will be my answer to every other question.” She gave the agents a tolerant smile. “Okay kids. You got your first look. Count yourself lucky. Despite what I’m sure Rose told you, I don’t hand these out for a song and a dance. If my boss finds out about this somehow, I’ll throw you right under the nearest bus and whistle a tune all the way to a perfect night’s sleep. Capisce?”

“I think so,” Michael said drily.

“Good.” She waggled her fingers. “Toodle-oo.”

The three agents left the office and headed back to their car. Michael was the first to offer an opinion on what they’d seen. “Brusque M.E. aside, I’m willing to bet that the killer sliced her open and let her bleed out before he did anything else. There was no blood spatter anywhere in that building but underneath the victim.”

“I agree with you,” Faith said. “Except that there is blood spatter somewhere.”

“Where?”

“On our killer. He stabbed Patricia in the aorta. When that happened, some blood definitely made its way onto the killer’s hands, knife, and clothing.”

“Well, he did a good job of making sure that none of that blood made it anywhere we could see.”

“Yes,” Faith mused. “He did. That takes time. And it takes a very cool head.”

“What are you thinking?” Michael asked.

“I’m thinking that our guy enjoyed himself,” Faith replied. “I’m thinking he felt in control and in command. I’m thinking he’ll seek that feeling out again.”

“Well, let’s seek him out before his curiosity overcomes his better judgment.”

“Right with you on that one, Special Agent Prince.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The agents got breakfast at a diner near the medical examiner’s office. While they ate, Faith looked up Patricia Wells and found a delicious helping of gossip to go with her steak and eggs.

“Looks like Miss Wells did indeed have her fair share of enemies,” Faith told Michael.

“Oh yeah?” Michael said. “Do tell.”

“Well, like Marcus Bennett said, Patricia Wells was known for her aggressive training methods. A lot of trainers didn’t take kindly to that. The phrase ‘animal abuse’ seems to have been bandied about rather regularly.”

“Any particularly irate customers?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, one. But not a customer. Gregory Palmer.”

“Nice name. Classy. Sounds like a lotion manufacturer.”

Faith chuckled. “Whatever you say. Anyway, this Palmer guy is famous for positive reinforcement training.”

“What’s that?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. You give a dog a command, they execute the command, you give them a treat and call them a good boy.”

Turk’s ears perked up at the mention of a treat. He sat up and looked at Faith with big puppy eyes that would remain forever young no matter how old he got. She chuckled and scratched him under his chin. “Eat your breakfast.”

Turk whined as a matter of course, but his breakfast was steak and eggs, just like Faith’s, and it was impossible to go wrong with that. He settled down and attacked the meal with gusto.

“So Wells is the ‘alpha female’ and Palmer is the nice guy,” Michael summarized. “Sounds like it made for interesting water cooler conversations.”

“Definitely,” Faith agreed. “Apparently they engaged in a war of words over social media for a while culminating in a public spat at a dog trainer’s conference in Schenectady last summer. At that conference, Patricia was advocating for her methods, and Gregory interrupted her in the middle of her presentation and called what she was doing, ‘legalized animal abuse.’”

“Ouch.”

“Yes. Patricia, of course, didn’t take well to that. According to this magazine article, she began bragging about how much more successful she was than Gregory. Said that if her training methods were so bad, they wouldn’t be so much more popular and effective than his. He got heated, said he would shut her down for good, then rushed the stage.”

Michael’s eyes widened. “Did he now?”

“He did. He was escorted from the venue by security and asked not to return.”

“How interesting. Where might this Gregory Palmer hang his hat at night?”

“I don’t know about that,” Faith replied, “but Palmer’s Paws Cooperation School is located on the other side of the Pitt from Wells-Mannered Pets. They could be considered crosstown rivals.”

“Good to know. Hey Faith?”

“Yeah?”

“Please for the love of God don’t call Pittsburgh ‘the Pitt’ again.”

She rolled her eyes, then crumpled a napkin and tossed it at him. He let it bounce off and said, “That’s fine with me. Just use normal words like an adult, not nicknames like… I don’t know if anyone even still calls it that.”

“Get over it,” Faith said, getting to her feet. “Come on. Finish your burrito in the car. I’ll drive.”

Michael shoved the rest of the burrito into his mouth instead and jogged ahead of Faith so he could get into the driver’s seat before her. Faith rolled her eyes, and as soon as she and Faith were seated, Michael swallowed the last of his meal and said, “I will literally die before I let you drive my car.”

She laughed. “Since when did you get so protective of your two-year-old land yacht?”

“It has heated and cooled massaging seats, and I have meticulously set every single mirror, program and setting to my precise specifications. It’s my baby, and I love it, and I don’t want to go through the process of making it perfect again.”

Faith laughed again. “Have Ellie show you how to use the memory settings, old man.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Michael said, starting the engine.

Midday traffic in Pittsburgh wasn’t quite as crowded as Philadelphia, but the city looked more urban with red lights, honking horns and squealing tires to complement the high-rises and compact city blocks. Those widened when they left downtown, but the traffic remained. Faith remembered reading somewhere that the United States had something like four times more cars per capita than any other nation on Earth. That sounded like one of those made-up statistics college kids used to add citations to their papers, but it also sounded like a very plausible number.

They reached Palmer’s Paws twenty minutes after leaving the diner. The school was located in a single-story building in a business park that looked an awful lot like the one Wells-Mannered Pets called home. Faith, Michael, and Turk parked in the only open space near the school and walked inside to find the place bustling. Faith hadn’t seen Wells-Mannered during business hours, so she couldn’t compare the two, but Palmer’s Paws was definitely doing all right.

The receptionist greeted them with a warm smile. She looked to be maybe a few years older than Turk. “Good afternoon! Have you signed Mister…”

It took Faith a second to know what she was asking. “Turk.”

“What a lovely name!” the girl replied. “And is Turk signed up for one of our classes, or is he here to observe today?”

“Actually, we’re here to talk to Mr. Palmer,” Faith said. “Is he available?”

The girl’s smile faded a little. “Um… I’m not sure. Do you mind waiting here while I go ask?”

“Go ahead.”

She bounded away. While Faith waited, she looked around the facility's waiting room. Like the other waiting room, it contained the usual collection of upholstered vinyl chairs and ancient magazines. Unlike Wells-Mannered, there were actually pictures of dogs here. Smiling dogs, playing dogs, jumping dogs, cuddling dogs, and of course, obedient dogs gleefully following their masters' commands. Faith didn't like to think ill of the dead, but from first impressions alone, she would have preferred this place to Wells.

The receptionist returned, bringing with her a kindly, heavyset man of about fifty with solid gray hair and bright blue eyes. “Good afternoon. My daughter said you two want to speak to me?”

“Yes, please,” Faith said. “Is there a place we can speak privately?”

Palmer blinked. He opened his mouth, then looked at his daughter. He smiled back at Faith and said, “Certainly. Please follow me to my office.”

The three of them followed Palmer through a gym where two smiling instructors were helping a class of about twenty dogs to learn how to sit. Faith thought about Patricia’s warped pose and shivered.

"That's our basic course," Palmer explained. "We go all the way from your ordinary sit, stay, and roll over to high-level predictive behavior that law enforcement should find very useful. Tell me, how does the FBI handle training their K9s?"

“They place them with good handlers,” Faith replied.

If Palmer had something to say to that, he kept it to himself. The group entered an office that was somewhat more spacious than Patricia Wells’s but also far more cluttered. Paper was stacked on top of the desk and on top of the filing cabinets on one end of the room. A ragged-looking chew toy sat in one corner, and another one—slightly less ragged—sat on top of the desk.

Gregory tossed a third off his chair and gestured for the two agents to sit down. They did, and Faith opened the questioning by getting right to the point.

“I’ll just tell you exactly why we’re here, Mr. Palmer. Patricia Wells was murdered at her obedience school last night.”

Gregory froze. He stared at them blankly for a moment, then said, “Ah. I see. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Really?” Michael said. “You don’t seem very sorry.”

Gregory sighed. “Well… If you’re gonna twist my arm, then yes. I’m happy she’s dead. She was a violent bitch who didn’t deserve to train dogs. Do you know that she beat her students? I’m talking leather batons full force. There are reports from owners of animals leaving with bruises.”

“But no lawsuits,” Faith pointed out.

“She paid ‘em off. Look, agent, you want me to come out and say it? All right, I will. I hated her. She was evil. The world is better off without her.”

Faith shared a look with Michael. Gregory was being quite gregarious. Maybe they could take advantage of that. “Would you have killed her given the opportunity?”

Gregory chuckled. His benign smile was as hard as diamonds now, but there was a bit of irritation and almost shame in his voice. “No. Probably not. I don’t imagine I’d get away with it. It’s really hard to get away with murder.”

“That’s true,” Faith replied. Mostly. “Unless you have an alibi that’s utterly ironclad, it’s very difficult to shake suspicion. Speaking of, what were you doing last night?”

Gregory chuckled. It seemed like a nervous habit of his. He leaned forward and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He lifted his hands, then let them fall to the desk. “I was home alone. I live alone, and I rarely date. Last night was not one of those rare occasions.”

“So no one can corroborate your alibi,” Michael inferred.

“Nope.”

“No security cameras anywhere nearby that would have seen you?” Faith asked. “Nosy neighbors who take note of your comings and goings?”

“Nope and nope,” he replied. “I live in a quiet neighborhood full of people who love to keep to themselves. I like it that way. I find dogs exceptionally easy to get along with and people exceptionally difficult. I mention that in my book.”

“Your book?”

“Yes. I’m writing an exposé on popular dog trainers and their aggressive training methods. Miss Witchy Wells figures quite prominently. Her alpha bullshit has led to the abuse of hundreds of dogs, possibly thousands. I expose the idiocy of her method and her true character as an insecure, abusive, and weak person. I’m not sorry to say that her death doesn’t persuade me to reconsider.”

“Well, you’re giving us a lot to think about,” Faith said. “You mind coming to the station and talking about it in a little more depth?”

“As a matter of fact, I do mind. I understand that you’re only doing your jobs, but I don’t believe you have my best interests in mind. I believe you have Patricia Wells’s best interests in mind, and while I understand that, I think it’s in my best interests to demand that my lawyer be present for any further questioning.”

Faith blinked and looked at Michael. His face was screwed up in a scowl. She turned back to Gregory Palmer and met an easy smile.

He was confident. Too confident. Instead of being shaken up by their arrival, he practically flaunted his hate for Patricia and his happiness that she was dead.

But she didn’t have any hard evidence to connect him to the crime, and just as grief was no sure sign of evidence, so too was joy at someone’s death no sure sign of guilt.

She got to her feet. “Thank you for talking to us, Mr. Palmer. Do I have to give you the speech about not leaving town?”

Palmer chuckled again. “No. I think you’re wasting your time, but if you have your heart set on me, then I can’t stop you.”

“So you won’t leave town.”

He sighed. “I will remain within the county limits for the foreseeable future.”

“Good. If you think of anything that might firm up your alibi, give us a call.”

“I will.”

The three agents left the school. On their way out, they witnessed a timid poodle rollover. The trainer reacted with glee, clapping his hands and beaming at the confused dog.

Faith chuckled to herself. The problem with both schools was that they treated dogs like exotic creatures. It really wasn’t that hard. Show your love, develop rapport, outline expectations, give rewards.

But then, they both had reputations as business owners to uphold. If two polar opposite methods existed, surely one had to be smore successful than the other.

And if your livelihood depended on yours being the method that succeeded, then it might be worth your while to ensure the competition was eliminated.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Faith had Michael drive them back to Wells-Mannered. She had seen a glimpse of what classes looked like at Palmer's school. Now, she wanted to scope out the environment at Wells-Mannered.

On the way, she called Rose and asked her to put a watch on Gregory Palmer.

“You like this guy a lot?” Rose asked.

“Just a little right now, but enough that I think he should be looked at.”

“Got anything on him?”

“Nothing more solid than a deep, abiding hatred for Patricia Wells,” Faith replied. “He was practically jumping for joy when he heard she was dead. Made no bones about it.”

“Hmm… Did he seem surprised?”

Rose showed some pessimism, and Faith could understand it. Gregory was definitely happy to hear about Patricia’s demise, but he had paused when Faith mentioned the death. He didn’t seem utterly shocked, but he did seem like he was hearing the news for the first time.

“A little bit. I don’t know how genuine that was, though. Turk didn’t freak out when he saw him, but—”

“Pardon?”

"Oh. Turk usually reacts when he sees suspects, especially when he recognizes their scent from a crime scene. However, in the past, he's been fooled by killers experienced with dogs. They often know how to mask their scents so K9s can't pick up markers at crime scenes."

“Got it. So Turk didn’t scream, ‘Hey, this is the guy,’ and Gregory didn’t scream, ‘Hey, I’m the guy,’ but he’s just interesting enough that we should watch him.”

Faith frowned. The more she talked this through, the less likely Gregory seemed. “I hate to say it, but yes. He’s about all we have right now. His hate for Patricia is real, though. When I asked if he would kill her if he could, he said he wouldn’t because he didn’t think he was smart enough to get away with it.”

“Hmm. Yeah, that sounds suspicious. No alibi?”

“Home alone last night.”

Rose sighed. “I swear, we need to make a law that requires police surveillance cameras in front of every home.”

Faith smiled slightly. “Who needs privacy when you can have protection?”

"Exactly. All right, I'll put a couple of officers on him. We can't do more than watch from a distance until you get something solid on him. Technically, it's an invasion of privacy and harassment."

“I understand. Thank you for your help, Detective.”

“Hey, this is my town. If some freak’s going to start making dead people look like dogs, I want him in a nice, padded room as soon as possible, you know what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I do. Thank you again.”

“Don’t mention it. What are you guys up to now?”

“We’re going to go back to Patricia’s school. I want to spend some time there and get a sense of the vibe. I don’t know if they’re going to have classes today, but I want to pick up on the building’s energy a little more. It might give us some insight into what triggered the killer.”

Rose chuckled. “You FBI types say the most off-the-wall shit sometimes. Pick up the building’s energy. If I didn’t know about the miracles you guys pull off, I’d think you were all completely insane.”

“Sometimes it helps to be insane,” Faith replied. “I’ll talk to you later, Detective.”

 ***

Faith wasn’t surprised to find that the facility was indeed closed when they arrived. She called Marcus and got the entry code to disable the alarm. “You want me to come down?” Marcus asked.

“No, that’s all right. I just want to get the lay of the land a little better than I did earlier.”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“You hanging in there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. It sucks, but we’ll move on, you know what I’m saying?”

“You will. It doesn’t always feel that way at first, but you’ll be okay. You’re tougher than you think.”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

Faith hung up, and Michael gave her a sideways glance. “You looking to adopt him or something?”

“What? The kid’s sad, and I’m cheering him up. Is that a crime now?”

Michael laughed and lifted his hands placatingly. “Hey, adopt away. I think I might have caught a glimpse at the next phase of Faith Bold. The wise old aunt with a soft spot for baby-faced boys with big eyes.”

Faith rolled her eyes. “Stop before you make it weird.”

The three of them fell silent as they looked around the school. In the afternoon light, the school didn’t quite look so forbidding as it did early that morning, but the sanitized gray hue that filtered through the curtained windows somehow made the place look even more abandoned. That and the lack of dogs. All eighteen of the animals boarded at the school’s kennel had been returned to their owners.

They started at the kennel first. Turk trotted to the cages and whined softly.

"Yeah, I know, boy," Faith said. "It's all right."

“What kind of asshole do you gotta be to hit dogs?” Michael said.

The venom in his voice coupled with the suddenness of that statement caught Faith off guard. She looked at him and blinked. “Michael? You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m all right. Just… Bad memories.”

Faith recalled that Michael had once infiltrated a dog fighting ring in Atlanta. He had witnessed a bait dog get torn apart in the ring by one of the competitors. Thanks to his and Turk’s undercover work, they were able to break up the dogfighting ring and catch a serial killer in the process, but Michael carried scars from what he’d witnessed. Faith could only imagine how hard that must have been.

Still, they weren’t looking at the same level of abuse here. “My first impression when I saw Palmer’s school was that he clearly cared about the dogs while Patricia clearly didn’t. However, looking around a second time, I don’t know if I was right about that.”

She pointed at a water system with three five-gallon bottles connected to a system of valves that filled nine different water bowls on one side of the room. "I saw an advertisement for this system before," she told him. "It costs over fifteen hundred dollars. And these cages are all built out of polypropylene plastic instead of aluminum or steel. The corners are covered with softened edge guards."

“A fancy water machine and soft cages don’t mean she loved dogs,” Michael scoffed.

“No, but it’s not just that.” She stepped out of the kennel into the gym. “This equipment is all spotless and state of the art. I recognize a lot of it from the FBI gym where Turk certifies. It’s not cheap stuff. I know money isn’t everything, but we’re talking a few grand for good quality low-cost stuff compared to… Hell, if I had to guess, the equipment here ran Patricia seventy thousand dollars.”

“Okay, so Patty liked her job,” Michael said. “So what? Let’s say she even liked dogs. That doesn’t mean that her methods were acceptable. Even if they were acceptable, they definitely weren’t acceptable to the killer.”

Faith crossed her arms and bit her lip. “No. They weren’t. But like always, the question isn’t why any victim. It’s why this victim. I want to know why the killer wanted Patricia Wells dead specifically.”

“I think we need to find out who knew her,” Michael replied. “Basic detective work. If the killer wanted a specific victim, then he knew her specifically.”

Faith opened her mouth to agree, but Turk started barking eagerly before she could. He was standing on the training mat and barking at the school’s logo—rendered in large sheet-rock letters on the back wall of the gym.

Faith and Michael jogged over to him. He looked at them, tail wagging, then stared at the large letter P in Pets. Faith drew close and shined her penlight at the letter.

She found what he was looking for quickly. In the hole of the P, her light flashed off of a camera lens. Her heart leaped. It turned out that Wells-Mannered had security cameras in the back room after all.

It took them about twenty minutes to pry the letter off of the wall and remove the camera from its housing. Faith would have to pay to have a professional remount everything. She had torn up the paint and plaster pretty badly, getting the thing out of there.

But she now had the camera’s SD card. She sent Michael to the car to get an adapter that would allow her to read the files, and while she waited, she looked toward the back door. This camera would only have picked up the killer for a few seconds when he or she entered the back door and walked to the interior door that led from the gym to the kennel.

But that glimpse might be enough. The camera was a professional-grade model that advertised 4K video recording and playback. A good shot of the killer’s face could solve the case right now.

Michael returned with the adapter, and they plugged the card in and waited for the files to boot on her smartphone.

“I wonder why Patricia Wells hid this camera?” Michael said.

“Maybe she wanted to know if her employees were stealing from her,” Faith opined. “If they had access to the ordinary security footage, then they would know how to avoid the cameras or how to compromise them. I’m willing to bet that only she knew about this one.”

“Exactly my point,” Michael said. “Why wouldn’t she trust them?”

The files booted up. “I guess we’ll find out,” Faith said.

She looked through them, quickly finding the footage for the appropriate time slot the night before. The video started at seven o’clock. From seven to seven-thirty, it showed Patricia Wells in a private session with a huge St. Bernard. Faith sped through the video, so she couldn’t see if Patricia did anything to the Bernie that could be considered abusive.

At seven-thirty, the owner arrived. She and Patricia chatted for five minutes, then she left with her dog. Patricia headed to her office.

At seven-fifty-four, the back door opened. Michael whistled softly, and Faith pumped her fist when a figure walked into the gym wearing a rubber dog mask. “That’s it,” Faith said. “That’s our killer.”

“Look familiar?”

Faith paused the camera and zoomed in. The killer was only visible in the extreme upper left corner of the footage, and the angle made it impossible to determine his height. In addition, he wore a baggy plaid shirt and equally baggy jeans that made it hard to tell what his build was other than that it wasn’t fat. Under the jeans, the killer wore heavy-looking boots. And gloves, which explained why they hadn’t found fingerprints.

“No,” Faith said finally. “It could be anyone we’ve already met or someone else entirely.”

“Well, whoever it is, we know they like cosplay,” Michael said.

Faith nodded. “And we know they’re out for vengeance.”

CHAPTER NINE

They took the footage to the police station, where Rose greeted them with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment.

“How the hell did CSI miss this? How did you find it?”

“Turk found it, actually,” Faith said.

Turk wagged his tail and preened. Rose looked at him appreciatively. “Good dog.” She looked up at Faith. “He can smell cameras?”

“He can smell just about anything,” Faith said. “As for how he found the camera at Wells-Mannered, my guess is that he detected a scent he recognized from the crime scene.”

“The crime scene is at the same location, though,” Rose said. “How can he tell what’s special about that camera.”

“He picked up something unique,” Faith explained. “Something at the crime scene but nowhere else at the school.”

Rose grinned. “The killer.”

“Could be.”

Rose pumped her fist but then frowned. “Okay, but why would the killer put a camera up that could incriminate him?”

“The camera only barely caught the killer,” Faith said. “Even then, the image isn’t perfectly clear. It’s possible that the killer wanted to observe Patricia Wells and thought that he could sneak by just outside of the camera’s vision.”

Rose nodded. “Well, let’s see if we can prove him wrong.”

With the aid of Pittsburgh’s cybercrimes unit, the agents and the detective tried to clarify the image from the camera and get some defining traits of their killer. That proved to be far more difficult than they anticipated.

Like many security cameras, this one had a wide-angle lens, which allowed it to capture nearly the entire gym floor. Without that wide-angle lens, they probably wouldn't have seen their killer at all. Unfortunately, the wide angle distorted the image, especially at the corners. That distortion made it impossible to estimate the killer's height and weight with any accuracy, even with Cybercrimes' software.

“Best I can do is give you a range between five-five and six-five,” Fournier—the middle-aged, mustachioed Cybercrimes detective assigned to help them—finally said after several hours of effort.

Rose sighed. “Well, that narrows it down to a few hundred thousand.”

Fournier shrugged, displaying the placidity of a veteran investigator who had long since accepted that he could only do so much.

“What about gait analysis?” Faith suggested. “Can we use that to determine if the killer is male or female?”

Fournier tapped a few keys and brought up a screen that displayed exactly the results Faith asked for. “As you can see, the distortion also makes gait analysis difficult. The computer’s first impression was that the killer jumped from the back door to about midway to the inside door, shuffled his feet, then sprinted to the inside door. I had my gait analysis officer run some programs to compress the footage so we could get a more accurate reading, but the best we could get is inconclusive gender, age between twenty-five and forty-five, and healthy legs and hips.”

“You guys have a gait analysis officer?” Michael asked.

“Well, that’s not all she does, but when we need gait analysis, we send it to her.”

“Does that come up often?”

“All the time,” Fournier replied. “Security cameras capture just about everything but faces, it seems. Criminals know to hide their face, but it’s a lot harder to remember to change the way you walk.”

“The age range might actually be helpful,” Faith said. “We can rule out Marcus Bennett and the receptionist, Roxanne Teller.”

Fournier cast an embarrassed glance at Rose. “Well… gait analysis isn’t particularly accurate. There’s a large margin of error for almost any finding. Plenty of young people have a more cautious gait, and plenty of old people bounce around like toddlers. We use this technology mostly to confirm something detectives already know.”

Faith sighed. “So what can you tell us that you’d stand by in court?”

“The killer’s between five-five and six-five.”

Faith rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in the air.

“Sorry, Special Agent,” Fournier replied. “They’re working on software that can give us better results, but it’s a difficult puzzle to piece together.”

“That’s all right, detective,” Faith said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “You did your best. Thank you for your help.”

Faith, Michael, Rose, and Turk left Cybercrimes and headed to the break room. Faith glanced out of the window at the afternoon sky and frowned. "What time is it?"

“Just about six o’clock,” Rose said. “We were looking at that footage for four hours.”

Faith sighed. “Damn it. I really thought that would do it.”

They helped themselves to some coffee and donuts—dinner of champions, Faith thought drily—and talked about next steps.

“Well, we know almost nothing,” Rose said, “but we suspect that the killer is the same person who installed that camera. I think we should talk to Yolanda.”

“The other assistant trainer?” Michael asked. “I thought we cleared her.”

“I’m not sure anymore,” Rose said. “Considering the camera situation at the school, it’s possible that Yolanda sneaked in through the back, killed Patricia Wells, then sneaked out and came back later through the front door where she could be seen putting on a show.”

Michael rubbed his chin. “But then why install that other camera? She could do that just as easily without the risk of the other security camera. And why didn’t Turk react to her when we were at the school last night?”

Rose sighed. “Well… shit.”

“I still think it’s a good idea to talk to her,” Faith said. “She might know who had the camera installed. I trust Turk’s nose. He definitely smelled something on that camera that alerted him. With the footage a dead-end right now, that lead is the best one we have.”

Rose checked her phone. “Well, I have a meeting with the captain in fifteen minutes, so I’m out, but keep me posted on what you guys find out.” She rubbed her face. “God, I hate this shit.”

“It’s never fun,” Faith agreed.

Except it was fun, or at least it used to be. Maybe the fact that it wasn’t fun anymore was a sure sign that it was time to move on.

But not yet. She still had a job to do. Patricia Wells might not have been a good dog trainer, but she didn’t deserve the fate she’d received. Faith was still an FBI field agent, and she still wanted to find the asshole responsible for this and bring him to justice.

 ***

Yolanda worked a second job at a local supermarket. She agreed to meet the agents at the station after her shift to discuss the case. Michael had spoken to Yolanda at Wells-Mannered Pets the night before, so this was Faith’s first face-to-face interaction with her.

Yolanda was a plump woman of average height with curly hair tied up in a floating puff that reminded Faith of a lollipop. Her eyes weren’t red or puffy anymore, but she looked drained. Grief could do that to a person. So could murder, but as Michael pointed out earlier, they had already cleared her as a suspect.

“How are you holding up?” Faith asked.

Yolanda sighed. “Okay, I guess. I mean, Patty and I weren’t close, but it still sucks how she died. It’s scary thinking that someone just came into the place where I work and… did that.” She shivered. “Can I have some water?”

“Sure,” Michael said, getting to his feet. “Coffee too or just water?”

“Water’s fine, thank you.”

“Faith? Coffee?”

Faith declined the coffee, and as soon as Michael left to get the water, she turned back to Yolanda. “You said you and Patty didn’t get along. What do you mean by that?”

Yolanda paled a little. “I mean… I don’t mean we fought or anything. She just thought I wasn’t doing well at my job.”

“We’ve already cleared you as a suspect,” Faith advised her. “We just need to get a sense of why someone might have wanted to hurt her.”

“Well… I know a lot of people didn’t like the way she treated dogs. That’s a lot of why we fought. Like, I get that you have to be the alpha and be the boss or dogs won’t listen to you, but she would take it crazy sometimes.”

“Crazy how?”

“Like hitting the dogs. Like, hard.”

Michael returned with a water for Yolanda and a cup of coffee for himself. As he sat down, Faith informed him, “Yolanda was just telling me that Patricia abused her students.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Not like…” Patricia began. Her eyes shifted to the right, a sign that she wasn’t lying but was trying to figure out how to phrase something. “She said it’s because that’s what dogs do in nature. When dogs don’t obey the alphas, the alphas punish them with force. We can’t bite them because we don’t have teeth like dogs, so we have to use tools. I just… I didn’t like doing that.”

“What about Marcus Bennett? How did he feel about doing that?”

Yolanda chuckled. “Honestly, that boy worshipped Patricia. I know he said they didn’t do anything, but I’ll bet they got a little closer than they should have.”

“So he didn’t have a problem with the way the dogs were treated.”

Yolanda shook her head. “No, he believed everything she told him. People who really didn’t agree with Patty didn’t last long at the school. I was there because I didn’t fight her like other people did.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “Who fought her?”

“A bunch of people. Most assistant trainers who had experience somewhere else before coming to Wells-Mannered had a hard time accepting Patty’s way of doing things.”

“Did anyone behave aggressively toward Miss Wells or to anyone else?”

“Not usually. They usually just quit. We did have one trainer get into an argument with her, but that was it.”

“May I have the name of this trainer?” Faith asked.

“Sure. It was Amanda.”

“Do you remember her last name?”

She pressed her lips together. "I don't. Sorry. She left the company about a year and a half ago. I had just started."

“Do you remember the argument?” Faith asked.

Yolanda nodded, her lollipop hair bouncing on top of her head. “Mmhmm. Amanda said Patty was an abusive bitch, and Patty said if Amanda really felt that way, then she should leave. Amanda said, ‘I should leave, and then I should come back and cut you.’ I remember that part because it was crazy. I’d never actually heard anyone talk like that before. I grew up in Squirrel Hill. The most crazy thing I’d ever seen before that was a kid who wrecked his graduation present the first time he drove it.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this last night?” Michael asked.

Yolanda shrugged. “I mean… I didn’t think she’d do anything like this. I didn’t think anyone would do anything like this.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” Faith said. “Next time, though, in cases like this, it’s best to share information on any disagreement or conflict. Even if you don’t think it’s relevant to the case, it could be crucial information for investigating officers.”

“Between you and me, I really hope there is no next time,” Yolanda replied.

Faith chuckled mirthlessly. “Between you and everyone, so do I.” She stood and offered Yolanda her hand. “Thank you for talking to us. If we need any more help, we’ll give you a call.”

“Yeah, for sure. I hope you find the person who did this. I might not have been Patty’s friend, but she didn’t deserve that shit. No one does.”

Faith could think of a few people who deserved a violent fate, but she kept that opinion to herself. “We’ll find them,” she assured Yolanda. “We always do.”

The question, as always, was would they find the killer in time?

CHAPTER TEN

Dr. Nathan Taylor locked his office door, then checked his phone. Eight-forty-two p.m. He sighed. The last client had taken far longer than expected.

Actually, the client hadn’t taken any longer than the hour Nathan always allotted for initial visits. What took a long time was the documentation. This one required a lot of it.

The dog in question was a German Shepherd male, three years old, anxious, aggressive, belligerent, and completely disobedient. Nathan’s initial impression—confirmed by the client’s interview—was that the dog had never been adequately exercised, socialized, or trained. As a result, it was a bundle of nerves. Very dangerous, violent nerves.

He sighed and shook his head. Some people weren’t cut out to own dogs.

As he walked through his clinic to check locks and ensure everything was filed and stored properly, he reflected on the problem that all dog owners faced. It could be boiled down to one word: emotion. Owning a dog could and should be emotionally rewarding, but training a dog, leading a dog; that needed to be a science.

It was like anything in life. Actions created discrete data points. Analysis hypothesized the reason for those data points. Testing validated or invalidated those hypotheses. Repeated testing established scientific norms on which future developments could be built.

Act, analyze, test, repeat. Four simple scientific steps that guaranteed good results.

But no one thought of it that way. Not with dog training or with anything in life.

Take Gregory Palmer, for example. He poured emotion into his training. He achieved good initial results with his dogs, but as soon as the dogs were away from the structured training environment, they reverted back to their old habits. Nathan had lost count of how many of Palmer's former students he'd seen over the years. He sometimes joked that Nathan was responsible for ninety percent of his business.

Then there was Patricia Wells. Nathan didn’t like to speak ill of the dead, but she was even more frustrating than Gregory Palmer. She believed that she was divorcing emotion from her training methods, but she somehow failed to realize that dominance came from pride. Another name for pride was insecurity. She wanted to dominate dogs to address her feelings of inadequacy, and her dogs suffered.

Speaking of Patricia, Nathan’s assistant had warned him not to stay at the office late. The assistant had to catch a flight to visit his parents in Arizona, or he would have stayed, but he warned Nathan to leave before it got dark. So silly. Someone had a problem with Patricia Wells, not him.

People were just too emotional.

As he locked the last interior door, he heard the clatter of paws on the floor behind him. He frowned. Had he forgotten to lock one of the kennels?

He turned around and froze. The sound came from plastic beads attached to the end of a pair of work boots. Those boots were attached to a figure wearing baggy jeans and a plaid button-down.

The figure also wore a rubber dog mask, a Golden Retriever, to be specific.

The figure spoke, its voice made robotic by a vocalizer likely embedded in the mask. “Stay.”

Nathan felt emotion then, a white-hot stab of fear so powerful that for the first time in his life, he opened his mouth to scream.

Mercifully, the fear—and everything else—ended before the scream left his mouth.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Once Yolanda left, Michael looked up Wells-Mannered Pets’ employment records. After a brief delay getting a warrant for the records from the night judge, they determined that Amanda’s last name was Amanda Rivera. The contact number listed for her turned out to be the business phone number for the Pittsburgh Pooches rehabilitation center. A quick visit to the center’s website told the agents that Pittsburgh Pooches specialized in rehabilitating dogs who had suffered from abusive environments.

“Interesting,” Faith said. “Methinks Miss Amanda might have lied to Patricia when she took the job at Wells-Mannered Pets.”

“She was moonlighting by rescuing the dogs Patricia was training?” Michael asked.

“Possibly. Or possibly, she was recording instances of abuse to try to catch Patty with a criminal charge.”

“Ah. That would explain the cameras. It would also be just a little bit incredibly stupid, though. Why list Pittsburgh Pooches’ number instead of her own?”

“I’ll admit that would take a bit of naivete,” Faith agreed. “But plenty of criminals—especially social justice types—have a need to be found out.”

“Like serial killers.”

Faith tilted her head from side to side. “I mean, there are social justice activists who are well-meaning and also need attention.”

“Fair, but we’re not looking for one of them.”

“Good point.”

Faith called Pittsburgh Pooches and got an automated message telling them that the office was closed and would reopen at eight the following morning. If this was an emergency, they were urged to call nine-one-one.

When the call ended, Faith looked at Michael. “It’s nine o’clock. Do we go to Amanda’s home, or do we get her at her job first thing in the morning?”

“She’ll be up,” Michael said. “No one under the age of fifty is asleep by nine at night. We don’t know that she’s working tomorrow. Besides, considering how fond killers are of moving quickly these days, I’d rather not take the risk.”

“Good point,” Faith agreed. “Okay, Turk. You can finish your nap later. Let’s go talk to Miss Rivera.”

Turk got straight to his feet, showing no sign of slowness due to age. Faith smiled sadly. How many more months did he have before the telltale signs of arthritis—the bane of all elderly dogs—reared their ugly heads?

Another ugly head reared itself before the two of them had a chance to follow up on their lead. Faith reached for the door handle, but it opened before she could grab it. The look on Rose’s face told Faith the news before the detective said, “We’ve got another body.”

 ***

“Dr. Nathan Taylor, forty-four,” Rose informed them, “dog psychologist and behaviorist. And our most recent victim.”

Faith sighed as she looked at the body. Her stomach didn’t turn this time, but she felt a wave of sadness as she observed the doctor’s resting pose. Once more, their victim had been treated with absolutely no dignity, even in death.

He was positioned on his hands and knees with his mouth open and his tongue protruding and hanging down his chin. There was no spiked collar on his neck this time, but he had been placed inside one of the cages in his facility's kennel, so Faith guessed that was a nod to the poor treatment of dogs. Well, that, and the "stay" position, indicated by the note taped to his back that contained that single-word message. His eyes were open, rolled back in his head so the irises were barely visible.

“Almost makes you miss the Minister, doesn’t it?” Michael commented.

The Minister was the media handle for their last collar, a former US Navy chaplain who “liberated” traumatized survivors of military actions by severing their brainstems. Michael’s comment was a reference to the care the Minister—real name Thomas Holbrook—took to ensure his victim’s bodies were treated with the utmost respect and dignity.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Faith said. “I kind of miss the naïve belief I had as a kid that things like this didn’t really happen and people were generally good.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “Ignorance is bliss.”

“Animal control is coming for the dogs,” Rose informed them. “They’re too freaked out right now. The owners can pick them up from the county shelter.”

That wasn’t really something the FBI agents needed to know, but it did remind Faith that the dogs were reacting very badly to the presence of Dr. Taylor in the kennel. Turk was doing his best to calm the terrified animals, but after a few minutes, he gave up and just looked mournfully at Dr. Taylor’s body.

The killer would have seen the trauma his actions were causing the animals. The fact that he did it anyway was proof that he wasn’t really doing this for the dogs. That little detail could prove crucial as Faith built her profile.

“The night watchman at the warehouse next door called it in,” Rose said. “He heard the dogs freaking out. Our unit got here at eight-fifty-five. The body was still warm. If we’d been a few minutes faster.”

Faith understood that frustration very well. “Have you sent units to Amanda Rivera’s house yet?”

“We did. She’s not home. We have an APB out on her vehicle right now.”

Faith nodded. Amanda’s absence from her house wasn’t proof that she was the killer, but it the timing and her history with one of the victims definitely suspicious. Except that connection wasn’t enough. They needed to determine if there was also a connection to Dr. Taylor.

Faith put on a pair of rubber gloves and took a closer look at the body. Like Patricia Wells, Nathan Taylor had been sliced from belly button to sternum. His blood had pooled underneath his body, permeating the air with a sickly-sweet smell that no doubt did little to help the mood of the dogs present.

"Needle mark right here at the base of the neck," Faith said. "Probably injected with something to induce rigor very rapidly. Otherwise, the body wouldn't stay." She glanced at the note taped to Dr. Taylor's back, and her stomach turned.

There’s the nausea, she thought with a grimace. “Stun gun burns here,” she continued, pointing out two small red welts on the other side of his neck. “The killer probably subdued him with the stun gun, injected the paralytic, stripped him and positioned him while it took effect, then cut him open.”

“We’ll want to know what chemical was used ASAP,” Michael said, mostly for Rose’s benefit. “It would have to be a unique cocktail to render him paralyzed almost instantly, then stiff a few minutes later. Knowing the drugs used could prove to be a valuable lead.”

“I’ll tell the ME’s office to put a rush on it,” Rose said.

Faith got to her feet. “Turk? Do you smell anything?”

Turk barked and trotted to the kennel doorway. He barked again and pointed his nose at an object on the ground. Faith walked over to the door and bent low. The object was a little plastic bead attached to a thin nylon string. It looked a little bit like the very beginnings of a craft necklace from some kid’s school project.

She gingerly lifted the object and called for a baggie. A crime scene investigator offered her one. “Get that checked for prints ASAP. The killer probably wore gloves, but sometimes we get lucky.”

“You got it, ma’am.”

“The scene is yours,” Faith said. “My dog might want to look around some more. Give him room. He’s good at this stuff.”

“We’ll make sure to let him work, ma’am.”

While CSI began their investigation and Turk continued his, Faith walked with Michael to Dr. Taylor’s office. Like Patty Wells’s, it was meticulously organized. Unlike Patty’s, this one had picture frames on the wall.

No pictures, though. Each frame held a diploma or certificate or academic acknowledgment of some sort. Nathan Taylor was proud of his education.

“His website is a trip,” Michael said. “‘Dr. Taylor’s Canine Psychology Center adopts a holistic, scientific approach to dog behavior. The leading canine psychology resources are integrated seamlessly with Dr. Taylor’s own expertise to ensure that your dog’s mental health is addressed with evidence-based treatment plans. No B.S. here, only science.’” He looked up at Faith. “So what problem could our killer possibly have with that?”

“I don’t think this is about the dogs,” Faith said. “If it was, the killer wouldn’t have traumatized the dogs here by killing their therapist in front of them. Come to think of it, he probably would have released the dogs at Wells-Mannered and here as well.”

“Okay, so what problem could our killer pretend to have with Dr. Taylor’s methods?”

Faith opened one of the file cabinet drawers. There were about thirty hanging folders labeled in alphabetical order by name from W to Z. Opening the other drawers confirmed that the letters A through V could be found in meticulous order in the four file cabinets.

Four cabinets, two drawers each, roughly thirty folders per drawer. Two hundred forty dogs. All of them are labeled by their owner's name.

“Well, I still stand by the fact that the killer is doing this for a reason other than the dogs, but if he or she is as delusional as they appear to be, then my guess is that Dr. Taylor’s method was too impersonal for them.”

“Too impersonal? So he didn’t abuse the dogs; he just didn’t love them enough?”

“Essentially yes,” Faith said. “He has these files organized like they’re clients for his roofing business. If he fancies himself a psychologist, he’s too removed from the dogs emotionally.”

She pulled a file from one of the drawers and skimmed through it. “‘Client: Fredericks, C. Subject: Male Staffordshire Terrier, ‘Troy’. Notes: Subject is unusually timid and appears incredibly averse to creatures smaller than itself. Test with toy R-2 ‘rubber mouse’ reveals exaggerated flight response and extreme stress reactions.’”

“He actually labels his toys, then refers to them by their labels in his reports?” Michael asked. “That’s some next-level psycho shit.”

Faith hooked a thumb back at the kennel. “That’s some next-level psycho shit.”

Michael winced. “Yeah, fair enough. I’m just saying I buy the idea of him being too removed.”

“So what’s the connection?” Faith asked. “Did Amanda Rivera work for him too?”

“I’ll take a closer look, but it didn’t appear so at first glance,” Michael said. “She could have heard about him through the grapevine. Or their paths could have crossed professionally even if she didn’t work for him. She works at a rehabilitation center, he’s a dog behaviorist. He could have shown up for a consult and rubbed her the wrong way.”

"It's a little more than that," Faith said. "What happened to these victims is hate. Their dignity was stripped away. Posing them like dogs could just be sending a message, but posing them naked was done to humiliate them. The killer wanted them to be found looking like caricatures."

“So we need to determine if Amanda Rivera hated these two enough to completely strip them of their humanity.”

“And if not, then who did?”

There was a knock on the door. Faith turned to see Rose smiling. “Guys? We got her. Picked her up pulling into her driveway. She agreed to come to the station to talk to us. Heads up, she is pissed.”

Faith looked at Michael. “Looks like we might get our answer soon.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lillian scarfed down the last bite of her chicken pot pie, washing it down with a sip of vodka. The burn of the alcohol caused her to gasp, which caused her to inhale some of the pot pie rather than swallow it. She hopped to her feet, coughing and choking for over a minute before her lungs finally expelled the baked chicken and peas in butter sauce.

“Fuck,” she gasped hoarsely. “God damn.”

Her eating difficulties were due to the program she was watching on TV. “Courthouse Now” was airing exclusive live footage of the sentencing process for convicted serial killer Franklin West, the Copycat Killer.

At the moment, the husband of one of the victims was recounting in a shaky voice the nightmares he experienced in which he saw his wife’s mutilated body and heard her voice screaming for help and for mercy. Pathetic little bitch. It wasn’t Frank’s fault that his wife was an idiot who made herself an easy target. And why should anyone care that he was sad? People died all the time. What would giving Frank life in prison do to stop that?

Only the grieving husband wasn’t asking for life in prison. He was asking for the death penalty. They all were. They were petitioning the governor of Pennsylvania to walk back the moratorium on capital punishment and make an example out of Frank.

An example of what? Of an actually strong man? Of a god on Earth? Of someone who wasn’t a little sheep bleating along with all the other sheep and hoping the fat sheepdogs would protect them from the true predators that prowled among them looking for their due?

That was the thing people didn’t understand. Wolves had to eat. Killers had to kill. And if the people they killed were useless bags of waste hanging off of society’s teat, then so what? Was the world really worse off because… What was her name? Right. Because Gladys Hofstetter no longer leeched off of society? No.

“So stop trying to take my Frank away from me.”

Lillian's lips trembled as she said that. She wiped a shaky hand over her eyes and shook her head. It wasn't fair. Didn't she deserve to be happy? Why did the losers always get what they wanted? She loved Frank, and she'd never even met him.

Her cheeks flamed as she remembered visiting him during his trial. She’d sat in the courthouse, feet away from him, and she couldn’t find the courage to tell him how she felt.

Now, she might never get her chance.

“You’d better hope I do,” she said. “You’d all better hope I get a chance to be with Frank, because if you take him from me, I swear, I’ll be worse than he ever was. I’ll kill hundreds of you assholes. You’ll beg God to bring West back just to take me away.”

She took another sip of vodka while some plastic bimbo offered her pathetic opinion on whether or not the heinous nature of Frank’s crimes justified a reinstatement of capital punishment. The alcohol only increased her anxiety.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Amanda Rivera was—as Rose eloquently put it—pissed. She stood beside her chair in the interview room and glared at Faith and Michael. Her expression softened slightly when she saw Turk, but only for a moment before she glared at them again.

“You guys got me seriously fucked up,” she said. “This is bullshit.”

She was an athletic woman who looked to be exactly five-five, barely tall enough to meet their height requirement. Her feet and hands were large in proportion to her size, and the hands looked almost manly—vascular with long fingers, thick knuckles, and nails trimmed short.

Faith ignored the outburst. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to us, Miss Rivera.”

“I mean, I’ll talk to you, but you still got me fucked up,” she said. “Seriously, I was just on my way home from the bar, and you guys were waiting in my fucking driveway.”

“Did you drink at the bar?” Michael asked.

Amanda blinked as she realized her mistake. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and finally took her seat. “Okay. You want to talk to me about drinking or about the murders?”

“Ooh, murders!” Michael said eagerly.

Though Michael had a tendency to stoop a little closer than Faith preferred to the sarcasm levels of their suspects, the tactic did sometimes throw them off guard and cause them to slip. Amanda had already slipped about her drinking, so it was possible that if she was kept on edge, she would do so again.

“Well, I didn’t kill them,” Amanda retorted. “So there.”

“What was the name of the bar you were drinking at?” Faith asked.

Amanda reddened slightly. “I don’t know. I didn’t read the fucking sign!”

Faith leaned forward. “Foul language won’t help you, Miss Rivera. You know what might help you? Providing an alibi for your whereabouts this evening. Can you do that?”

The color drained from Amanda’s face. “I don’t know where we were. Just some bar.”

“Where was the bar?”

“I don’t know.”

“Downtown?” Faith prompted. “Shadyside? The Strip? Outside of Pittsburgh?”

“I don’t know.”

Faith held Amanda’s gaze. Amanda tried to remain defiant, but her eyes slid to the side, then down after a few seconds.

“You’re not making this very easy on yourself, Amanda,” Michael said.

Amanda whined, and her lips began to tremble. “I don’t know. Okay? I really don’t know. We were just out.”

“We? Who else was with you?”

The blood drained from Amanda’s face again as she realized her mistake. “No one.”

“So no one can confirm that you weren’t at Dr. Taylor’s Canine Psychology Center two hours ago murdering Dr. Nathan Taylor.”

“I wasn’t there!”

“So you say,” Faith replied. “So, apparently, no one else says. You went to an unknown bar with an unknown companion and came home at ten-thirty without said companion.”

“Yeah, but…” Amanda’s lip trembled again. “Like, you guys need evidence. You have no evidence.”

“You want to talk to us about the dog collars in your car?” Michael said. “What about the beads?”

“The beads?”

"Yeah. The beads and nylon string that match the beads and nylon string found at the crime scene."

“You found…” Amanda sighed heavily. “Shit.”

Faith counted to thirty. When Amanda offered no other observation, Faith said, “I’m waiting for you to tell me what really happened. At this point, lying is only convincing me that you know some things that I need to know.”

“Okay, I was screwing someone, all right? Happy?”

Faith blinked. “You’re saying you were engaged in sexual intercourse with someone during the time of Dr. Nathan Taylor’s murder?”

“Yes, that’s what screwing means.”

 “And last night?”

“Screwing the same guy.”

“Okay,” Faith said. “Will this guy confirm that you were screwing him the last two nights?”

Amanda’s voice was barely a whisper. “No.”

Faith and Michael shared a look. Faith folded her hands and met Amanda’s dejected gaze. “Why not?”

“Because he’s a judge. And he’s married. He told me we have to keep our relationship quiet because it will destroy his reputation, and if his wife finds out, she’ll try to take the kids from him.”

“And if the alternative is that you go to prison for multiple murder, he’ll still be unwilling to fess up?”

Amanda chuckled bitterly. “We’re not in love, okay? I like screwing him, and he likes screwing someone who’s twenty years younger than his wife.” She sniffed and ran her hands through her hair. “I’m not claiming I’m a good person for screwing him, but…” She shrugged. “I like sex, and he’s good at it. I didn’t take it seriously. I mean, I’m not going to ask him for anything, and I’m not going to give his family any trouble. I figured we’d enjoy each other for a little while, and when it was time to move on, I’d move on. Simple as that.”

Faith leaned back. “I’m not here to judge you for your choices, so long as killing Dr. Nathan Taylor and Patricia Wells weren’t among those choices. But I need his name. You might not think he’ll come through, but if we tell him that he faces obstruction of justice charges, he might. And you want him to come through, Amanda. You have history with Patricia Wells, you have evidence in your car, and you were in the area during Nathan Taylor’s murder.”

“I wasn’t in the area.”

“But you can’t prove that.”

“You have to prove that I killed him. I don’t have to prove that I didn’t.”

“Fair enough,” Faith admitted. “But I’m pretty confident we can do that with the evidence we have.” She actually wasn’t at all confident about that, but just like sarcasm could put suspects on edge and make them slip, bluffing could convince a criminal that the jig was up and get them to confess.

Amanda sighed. “Okay, so… you know I work for Pittsburgh Pooches Rehabilitation Center, right?”

“We do,” Michael confirmed. “We also know that you worked concurrently at Wells-Mannered Pets. Were you hoping to catch Patricia Wells in the act of committing animal abuse?”

Amanda sighed again. “Yeah. I knew she was hitting dogs, but I wanted proof so I could get her to lose her accreditation and go to jail. Like, this is the thing. People like her and like Dr. Taylor don’t understand the damage they’re doing to dogs.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. “So you knew Dr. Taylor too.”

Amanda waved her hand dismissively. “Yeah, but… they didn’t know how much they were screwing those dogs up. I tried to tell Patty that what she was doing was creating dogs who were at risk of becoming violent. She laughed at me, patted my cheek, and told me to just be quiet and do my job like a good girl.”

“That must have been infuriating,” Michael sympathized.

"Yeah. I mean, no. I mean…" She sighed again. "Yes, but I didn't kill her."

“Did you happen to install a security camera in the training gym at Wells-Mannered Pets?” Faith asked.

Amanda paled again. “I… how much trouble would I be in if I said yes. I’m not admitting guilt, by the way.”

“You have bigger problems to worry about than installing an unwanted security camera,” Faith said. “You have no alibi for two vicious murders. You have motive for those murders, and you have evidence in your car that matches one of our crime scenes. Are we going to find a rubber dog mask in your house?”

“What?”

“That security camera you installed? It caught footage of the killer.”

Amanda’s eyes flew open. “Then you know it wasn’t me! You can look at that and see, right?”

Her reaction caught Faith off guard. She’d expected Amanda to react anxiously to the news that her security camera could have caught footage of her committing murder. Instead, she’d been excited that the security camera could prove someone else did it.

She looked at Turk. He watched Amanda but didn’t show any sign of anxiety or anticipation. He was just doing his job. She realized he hadn’t reacted at all to Amanda the entire time they were here. He’d reacted noticeably to the camera, bead, and nylon string, but not at all to the woman Faith was more than half sure was going to turn out to be their killer.

Faith sighed. “The camera showed footage of someone around your height wearing a rubber dog mask.”

“Well, I don’t have a rubber dog mask. The dog collars… Okay, the judge likes kinky sex. He likes when I wear the collar and don’t wear anything else, then come to him on all fours, and—”

“You can stop there,” Faith said. “I don’t need to know about your sex life.” She sighed. “What about Dr. Taylor? How did you know him?”

“He visited the rehab center a few times. He wanted to ‘audit our methods’ and determine if there was anything useful he could adopt for his psychology center.”

“And?”

“And he was a prick,” Amanda scoffed. “You know those snooty smart types who walk around with their nose turned up like they’re better than everyone else? Well, that was him. He acted like he was God’s gift to animal behavior.”

“Did you interact with him at all?”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Well, you guys are probably going to call my work and find out, so yeah. I told him he was a prick.”

“Anything else?”

Amanda paled again but didn’t answer. Faith narrowed her eyes. “Anything else?”

Amanda swallowed and looked between the two agents at the wall. In a thready voice, she said, “I told him I hope he gets killed.”

Michael whistled. “Heavy stuff. Ever say anything like that to Patricia Wells?”

Amanda slumped and leaned forward. “I told her that I wanted to come back and cut her.”

“Come back when?” Faith asked.

“No, like… She found out about me and Pittsburgh Pooches and fired me in front of everyone. I don’t really care about that, but we got into another argument about the dogs. I told her she was an abusive bitch, and I should come back and cut her.”

“Did you?”

“No! I was angry, not stupid!”

Faith shrugged. “Jury’s still out on that one.”

“Oh, go to hell. You know what? I’m glad they’re dead. I’m glad someone killed them. They were pieces of shit, and they deserved to die. Yeah, I said it! I don’t care if that makes me a bitch. They were assholes who deserved what they got. If you abuse animals, you deserve to be abused. I won’t lose any sleep over it.”

She jutted her chin defiantly, lower lip pushed out in a pout that would have looked adorable if she’s been a ten-year-old girl and not a thirty-year-old adult woman.

“So are you the one who made them dead?” Michael asked.

“No.” Amanda said.

“But you can’t prove that.”

“You need to prove…” Amanda sighed. “Fuck it. I want my lawyer.”

Faith and Michael shared a look. “All right. We’ll turn you over to the police. They can help you with a phone call.”

They stepped out of the room, and Michael told Faith, “We don’t have enough. The bead and nylon is generic stuff. Unless we get prints from the one at the crime scene, find a dog mask at her house that matches the one on the footage from Wells-Mannered, or get a confession, we don’t have enough.”

“I know,” Faith agreed. She folded her arms and bit her lip. “Have police hold her for the DUI. That’ll only buy us a few hours, but it might be enough for us to find the physical evidence we need.”

“Sure.”

Michael left to talk to Rose, leaving Faith alone with Turk to stew over their latest dead end. Amanda had looked really good at first glance, but the more they dug into her, the less likely she seemed. With a sinking feeling, Faith realized that her case was evaporating in front of her eyes.

And their killer could still be out there, ready to issue another command to an unsuspecting victim, ready to leave another body posed and stripped of its dignity.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Morning found the agents tired, irritable, and back at square one. They had taken turns napping on a cot in Rose’s office, but the few hours of sleep Faith snagged had failed to renew her energy.

They hadn’t found a dog mask at Amanda Rivera’s apartment. The bead Faith had found at Dr. Taylor’s crime scene hadn’t yielded any fingerprints, and his clinic didn’t have any security cameras. It was beyond Faith how anyone who owned a business in the twenty-first century could fail to have security cameras, but Dr. Taylor was evidently among the minority of individuals who didn’t consider security important.

The bottom line was that once Amanda was processed for DUI and reached the maximum eight hours of holding the law allowed, she was allowed to go home. Rose promised to have officers watch her just as they had Gregory Palmer. Which was how Faith learned that Gregory Palmer had never left his house the night before and couldn’t have murdered Nathan Taylor.

So here she sat, frowning sourly, across from Michael who wore a similar frown. Turk, of course, was as happy-go-lucky as ever. If reincarnation was real, Faith wanted to come back as a dog.

“So do we think the case against Amanda will pan out, or should we keep looking?” Michael asked, breaking the silence.

“We should definitely keep looking,” Faith replied. “As for whether Amanda will turn out to be something…” She sighed. “I don’t know. Turk didn’t react to her the way he reacted to the camera and the bead.” She looked over at her dog, who was busily devouring a breakfast burrito. “He’s found our two best pieces of evidence, but neither of them have led us anywhere.”

“Neither of them have led us anywhere yet,” Michael corrected. “Don’t lose hope.”

She glared at him. “You don’t sound very hopeful yourself.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I guess not. Still, the case goes on. As long as we’re sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves, we might as well try some good, old-fashioned police work.”

“I’m all ears.”

Michael chuckled. “Actually, I’m all ears. I want to hear what kind of profile you’ve come up with. Then I’ll do what I do best and make a list of places to check and people to call.”

Faith managed another smile, but she couldn’t drum up any more laughter. She sipped more of her coffee, then leaned back in her chair. “Okay. Well, the killer hates the victims. He or she—I’ll say he for ease of conversation—didn’t just want them killed. He wanted them humiliated. He wanted them to look bad.”

“Is this a message he’s sending to the public or something personal he meant just for the victims?”

“Both. The notes are definitely for the public. He’s preaching about the cruelty of dog training. He’s using the victims as stand-ins for the cruelty humans inflict on dogs. He hates them, but he also wants to warn the general public. I’m not even sure if he cares what kind of training dogs receive. There’s a clear difference between what Dr. Taylor did and what Patty Wells did. Amanda said they were both soulless, but not smiling at someone isn’t the same thing as beating them.”

Michael nodded. “So all dog trainers are in danger?”

“I think so. All of the dog trainers the killer knows, at least.”

“So it’s still personal even though the message is public?”

“Oh yes. Like I said, he hates the victims.”

Michael folded his arms. “Okay, we’ve got that part covered. What about in general? What’s the killer like?”

“Extremely awkward and introverted,” Faith replied.

“Doesn’t connect well with people,” Michael said. “That makes sense.”

“Doesn’t connect well with people,” Faith agreed. “Feels rejected by others. Feels an affinity with abused dogs because he feels unloved too. He’s desperate for acceptance but receives the opposite. He’s projecting his desire to punish people for hurting him by punishing people who hurt dogs too.”

“So the humiliation,” Michael inferred. “That’s kind of like, ‘see what happens to people who aren’t nice to me?’”

“In a roundabout way, yes,” Faith said. “It’s more like what he wishes would happen to people who aren’t nice to him.”

“Hmm. Maybe sexually repressed too?”

“Could be, but the nakedness could also just be a desire to humiliate. The idea that all serial killers are sexual deviants is pretty clearly not the case based on… well, most of our career.”

“Yeah, good point,” Michael said. He sighed. “Okay, so we have a social loser who’s never had a real relationship and hates people who he thinks abuse dogs. He knew our victims and will likely kill another dog trainer he knows.”

“Yes. I believe all the above to be true.”

“Okay. So who interacts regularly with multiple dog trainers?”

Faith crossed her arms. "It's the multiple trainers part that makes it interesting. Obviously, dog owners interact with trainers, but not multiple trainers. It's very unlikely that an owner would interview multiple trainers and not just pick the first one they come across. If they're the sort of person who would interview multiple trainers, they're probably not socially awkward."

Michael clapped his hands, a movement that startled Faith. He grinned, but chose not to tease her about the flinch. “Animal control officers.”

Faith’s eyes widened. “Ah. That could be it.”

“And there’s no way Rose would have suspected because cops don’t suspect people who work with them.”

“Not often,” Faith agreed. “All right. Let’s go talk to someone in charge.”

 ***

Captain Ashari was not happy to hear their suspicions. He frowned darkly at them, bunching bushy eyebrows together that really did remind Faith of caterpillars. At any moment, she expected to see them crawling off of his forehead and dropping onto the table.

When they finished, he said, “I assure you, agents, no one in my division is capable of the crimes of which you’re accusing them.”

So many people were capable of so many things that those close to them wouldn’t believe, but Faith didn’t waste time arguing that point with the captain. “First, we’re not accusing anyone, we’re following a lead. Second—”

“You’re not following a lead, Special Agent, you’re grabbing at straws.”

Faith’s eyes narrowed, “Actually, captain, I’m following through on an educated guess. A very well-educated guess. I’m not sure if my reputation has preceded me here, but I’ve put over forty killers behind bars in my career. I’ve contributed to the arrests of the most prolific serial killers of the past twenty years. When I make guesses, captain, they almost always turn out to be good ones. So if you can let me finish, I think you’ll find my insight helpful in capturing the person who’s murdering your townspeople, draining their blood, stripping them naked, and posing them like dogs with commands attached to their bodies.”

Captain Ashari swallowed, but his glare remained. He acquiesced, at least. “All right. Tell me what you need to tell me.”

“Thank you. First, we’re not accusing anyone. Second, we know that our killer knew both victims. Those weren’t crimes of opportunity, and that M.O. isn’t the M.O. of someone who has no emotional reaction to the people he’s killing. So it’s someone who knew both of them. Animal control officers fit that bill. I imagine that most, if not all, animal control officers also take very unkindly to animal abuse. Would you agree?”

Ashari nodded slowly. “Yes. I would.”

“Wonderful. So I would like a list of every officer who was off duty both nights.”

Ashari sighed, but with relief, not resignation. “Well, that’s easy. No one was off both nights. I can give you a list of people who were off one of those nights, but not both.”

Faith frowned. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. We have body cameras too, just like normal cops. You’re welcome to submit an order for the footage.”

Faith sighed, but Michael wasn’t ready to give this up yet. “What about retired animal control officers?”

Ashari rolled his eyes. “I don’t keep track of inactive and retired officers, Special Agent.”

“But you can get me a list of them,” Michael said.

Ashari stared at him for a moment. “All of them?”

“Everyone who’s alive and under the age of… we’ll say sixty.”

Ashari chuckled and looked at the ceiling. “Sure. I’ll talk to records and have them sent to you. Anything else I can do for you?”

“That’ll work for now, Captain,” Faith said. “If we do find a lead, we’ll call you for more information. I do hope you’ll be more forthcoming in that instance.”

Ashari chuckled again. “Sure. I’ll help in any way I can.”

He made no attempt to hide his sarcasm, and Faith made no attempt to hide her lack of respect when she left the office without acknowledging him. As they walked back to the break room, Michael asked, “Do you think he’d hiding something?”

“He might not be hiding anything specific,” Faith said, “but he’s definitely unhappy that we’re poking around in his division.”

“Why do people get like this?” Michael asked. “Why do they get so protective about possible murderers on their staff?

“Because it’s their fault,” Faith said. “If they hire a murderer, then it’s their fault if that person uses the privileges of his job to murder someone. It’s hard to admit that a killer could have been working right under your nose, and you never saw it.”

“Sure,” Michael allowed. “But it really feels like they make it worse by being so obstinate.”

“You’re not wrong,” Faith agreed.

Captain Ashari did get them the list in reasonable time. The agents only had to wait a few minutes before Faith received an email from the records department listing eleven retired animal control officers under the age of sixty who were still drawing pensions from the police department. The list noted that officers not currently drawing pensions were not included.

“Well, it’s a place to start,” Faith said. “You start with Zimmer, and I’ll start with Atkinson, and we’ll meet in the middle?”

“Sure thing.”

They started investigating the names on the list, ruling out anyone with a solid alibi and trying to find someone with a recorded interaction with both or either of the two victims.

Michael struck gold on his second name. “Well, look at that,” he said.

Faith looked up from her research into Millicent Beauman. “Look at what? You got something?”

“Sure do. Sergeant Richard Whitman. Looks like he was asked to retire after ‘an inappropriate encounter with a subject.’ The address listed matches Wells-Mannered Pets.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say. I think we should go talk to Captain Ashari again.”

“I think so too.”

When Captain Ashari saw them again, he sighed. “What is it now?”

“Richard Whitman,” Faith said. “Talk to me.”

Ashari frowned, confused. “Whitman? I’m not…” His eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

“Oh shit,” Faith agreed. “Want to tell me what happened at Wells-Mannered Pets that led to him losing his job?”

Ashari sighed and sat behind his desk. “Damn it. I fucking forgot about Richard.”

“That’s all right,” Michael said mildly. “This is your chance to make it up.”

“Yeah,” Ashari agreed. “Damn it.”

He took a deep breath and drummed his fingers on his desk. “Richard was a bit of a hothead.”

“Do tell,” Faith prodded.

Ashari shrugged. “Well, like you said, animal control officers don’t like people who abuse animals. We tend to get ornery. Richard tended to get very ornery.”

“How so?”

“Well, he had rather… draconian views on how to treat people who abused animals.”

“Such as?”

Ashari slumped and rubbed his face. “Such as arguing that they should be treated exactly the way they treat animals.”

“Well, how about that?” Michael said. “We think our killer believes the same thing, don’t we, Faith?”

“We do,” Faith agreed.

“I’m sorry,” Ashari said. “I didn’t mean to hide this from you. I just forgot. I didn’t think… I mean, no one thinks that the guy they go out for beers with could be the guy who does shit like this.”

“But one of them always is,” Faith replied. “What happened at Wells-Mannered Pets?”

“He…” Ashari sighed. “He was suspended for assaulting Patricia Wells.”

Faith took a moment to allow her shock to subside. When it left, anger took its place. “What? Seriously?

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, this goes beyond sorry, Captain. You forgot to mention that one of your former officers assaulted one of our victims?”

“Look, I was friends with the guy, okay? He cried on my shoulder when his wife left him.”

“Are you still friends with him?” Michael asked.

“No. We had a falling out. He thought I should have saved his job.”

“Describe the assault,” Faith said curtly.

“It wasn’t anything crazy. He pushed her up against a wall and threatened to beat her with the same stick she used to beat dogs.”

“Why was he there in the first place?”

“The dog was his nephew’s. He got pissed off and went too far.”

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Faith said, getting to her feet. “We’re going to go talk to him. If you happen to remember anything else you’ve ‘forgotten’ please let us know.”

As soon as they left Ashari’s office, Faith’s anger turned to excitement. They had a lead once more, and while Faith didn’t want to get her hopes up too soon, she felt better about this one than she had about the first two.

Maybe she and Turk would finally catch their bad guy.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When Michael pulled into the parking lot of the Allegheny County Animal Shelter, Faith was struck by the difference between this shelter and the schools they’d visited. Wells-Mannered Pets and Palmer’s Paws were clean, modern facilities with state-of-the-art equipment. Dr. Taylor’s Canine Rehabilitation Center was as sleek and organized as a well-run hospital.

In contrast, the county shelter was a run-down wooden building with peeling paint and a parking lot so degraded it was more dirt than asphalt. The fence surrounding the property was rusty chain link that a clumsy chihuahua could probably have torn down by accident. Even the official shelter vehicles parked in front were old and worn trucks at least two generations old. Faith didn’t look through the windshield at the mileage, but she would have been surprised to see a number smaller than two hundred thousand.

The cynic in her said that was because the schools were for-profit businesses while the shelter ran on tax dollars. The pessimist cynic said that this was probably one of those shelters that ran on donations. Some counties had converted niche services like animal shelters to donation-only non-profits to keep taxes attractively low.

The interior of the shelter was similarly run-down. The floors were bare concrete, and the counter behind which a dejected-looking receptionist sat was made of the same rotting wood as the building’s exterior. The cages were also rusty, and though they were cleaner than the chain link fence, Faith doubted their ability to hold the dozens of restless, anxious dogs that barked and paced and whined from the moment the investigators walked inside.

According to Whitman’s employment records, he’d gotten a job at the shelter shortly after leaving Animal Control. According to the shelter’s assistant director, to whom they’d spoken to this morning, Whitman was their expert on dogs who’d suffered abuse. She spoke glowingly of his ability to work with troubled dogs and hoped that the agents would take that into consideration.

Faith didn’t bother saying that there was no excuse for murder. To the more fanatical breed of animal lover, abusing a dog was a very good excuse for murder. It was time to find out if Richard Whitmore was one of those fanatics.

They found him in an open space behind the shelter surrounded by over a dozen dogs ranging in size from teacup Yorkies to Irish Wolfhounds. The dogs all exhibited varying levels of anxiety, with the Yorkies shivering and refusing to leave the vicinity of Whitman's ankles, and the larger dogs alternating between barking and mock charging and whining and cowering.

Whitman wore a gentle smile as he approached all of the dogs. He was an imposing man, an inch taller than Michael’s six-one and well over two hundred pounds, not much of it fat.

Yet, as he drew close to the dogs, it was as though their anxiety melted away. One by one, the dogs relaxed, then melted into him as he gently crooned and stroked their fur.

“There you go, girl. That’s a good girl. You too, what a good boy.”

Faith and Michael watched, mesmerized, for several minutes. Turk seemed equally impressed, wagging his tail and staring in wonder as the dogs gained enough courage to start cautiously interacting with one another.

In the end, it was Whitman who initiated contact when he looked up and said, “Hello there. Are you looking for me?”

Faith blinked. “Yes. Richard Whitman?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Special Agent Faith Bold. This is my partner, Special Agent Michael Prince, and my K9 unit, Turk. We need to talk to you about Patricia Wells and Dr. Nathan Taylor.”

Whitman’s eyes hardened slightly, but his voice remained calm. “Ah. Give me a few seconds to get someone else out here. We can talk in my office.”

He picked up a radio and called, “Filly, can you take over the class, please? I need to deal with something in the office real quick.”

A moment later, a blonde woman in her early twenties with bright blue eyes and a coltish build left the building and trotted to the open space. Her eyes showed almost as much worship for Whitman as the dogs did.

Whitman issued a few instructions, then left the woman to love on the dogs the same way he had. The Yorkies protested his departure at first, but by the time Whitman reached the three agents, they were happily playing with Filly.

“All right,” Whitman said. “Follow me.”

They followed him back into the building and up a set of stairs that looked barely able to support Whitman’s weight. The second floor of the building consisted of a small break room and five equally small offices. Whitman led them into the middle office and gestured to two folding chairs.

Faith and Michael took a seat. Turk growled softly, and when Faith followed his gaze to the bookshelf, she felt a similar level of disturbance.

The bookshelf contained a dozen or so books with such lovely titles as Wiping the Human Stain, Human Obedience School, and Animal Abuse as Evidence of Societal Incompatibility.

“Big fan of people?” Michael quipped.

Whitman shrugged mountainous shoulders as he took his own seat. “They continually disappoint me.”

“I know the feeling,” Faith said.

Whitman sighed and laid platter-sized hands on his desk. He looked between Faith and Michael and said, “So. You guys want to talk about why I got fired.”

“Sure,” Faith said. “We can start there. Tell me in your own words what happened.”

“My nephew, Damien, has a dog. A Doberman. He’s a good kid, and Artemis is a good dog, but she’s prone to anxiety. She lives in an apartment. Damien walks her every day and takes her to the dog park on weekends, but Dobermans don’t just need exercise. They need work. I keep telling him to give her to a farm somewhere and adopt a retriever, but”—he shrugged again—“kid loves her. Drives my sister crazy.”

“Your sister isn’t a dog person?” Faith asked.

“She’s barely a person.” Whitman laughed, but when he saw the stony faces of the two agents, his laughter faded. “Sorry. That was a joke.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, no. She’s not a dog person. She’s a cat person. Nothing wrong with that, but cats are different from dogs. They’re independent. You own a cat, and you still need to give it food and water and take it to the vet, but that’s about it. Hell, if it’s an outdoor cat, the food and water are optional. And they don’t need affection. If they want it, they’ll come get it, but they don’t need it.

“Dogs, they’re more complex. Different breeds need different things, but they really need it, you know? Dobermans need to work. Same with Shepherds.” He gestured at Turk with his chin. “Even older ones like this need to do something. Even if it’s not real work. Sometimes I tell guys who own working dogs, just take them to the park and make them collect sticks. Doesn’t matter if you throw them all back at the end. They just need to complete a task. They need to earn their keep. Other dogs are different, but as an example.”

He took a deep breath and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Anyway, my sister couldn’t take it anymore. Thought obedience school would teach Artemis how to be a good dog. I warned her that was stupid, but she didn’t listen. She never did, even when she was a kid. Anyway, I think you can guess what happened.”

“Tell us anyway,” Faith said.

Whitman lifted his hands from the wrist and let them fall back onto the table. It made a noise like sides of beef slapping onto a counter. “She sent her to Wells-Mannered Pets. Fucking bitch.”

“Your sister?”

“No, Patricia Wells. Real bitchy type. Thought she knew better than everyone how to treat dogs. Bought into that bullshit ‘alpha’ philosophy where you have to show a dog who’s boss.” He took another deep breath. “So Damien calls me crying one night, tells me Artemis came home with welts. I ask what happened, and he says he doesn’t know. I tell him I’m gonna go find out.

“So I drive to the place, and I’m not gonna lie to you, I’m pissed. I just got home from a shift where a guy running an illegal breeding house was caught burning dead dogs in a bonfire. The surviving dogs were all malnourished: skinny, mangy, just in horrible shape. So I’m already not in a good mood.

“I get there, and I see that bitch hitting a dog with a leather baton. Not a tap either. Like she lifted her arm and hit the dog.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how she managed to remain in business. I really don’t.” He shook his head again. “Anyway, I see red. I walk in, I grab the baton and rip it out of her hand. She starts getting all mouthy, saying she’s gonna do this and that and call who and what.”

Whitman smiled ruefully. “Well, I grabbed her by the throat, picked her up off the ground and held the baton under her face. She’s kicking and struggling and all bug-eyed. I don’t think she’d ever been afraid like that before. Well, I told her if I ever heard of her hitting a dog again, I was gonna come back with a baton of my own and take a turn. And that was that.”

Michael whistled. Faith shook her head slowly. “Wow. That’s pretty serious.”

“Yeah,” Whitman agreed. “I guess I took it too far. Got fired. Lost some friends. Kept my pension only because I had some dirt on the brass. Guys don’t know how to keep it in their pants. Anyway, here I am.” He smiled. “I’m not a violent guy, not really. Only when people are assholes to dogs. They’re innocent creatures. They only want to be loved.”

“I can certainly understand your frustration,” Faith said. “I know I can get heated when people threaten my dog. But the nature of these murders is… well, no murder is excusable, but I’m not exaggerating when I say this is beyond the pale.”

“Why?” Whitman asked. “What happened?”

“I’m kind of wondering if you already know,” Faith said. “Maybe you can help alleviate my suspicions. Can you tell me where you were last night?”

“Sure. I was here. I sleep here.”

Faith blinked. “You sleep here?”

“Five nights a week.”

"So you were here the night before, too," Michael said.

“Yep. I can show you the camera footage if you want.”

Faith shared a look with Michael. The light was gone from his eyes. She felt the same way. Once more, they had a promising lead, and once more, it evaporated into nothing right in front of them.

Whitman noticed their disappointment. “I know you guys really thought you had your killer. I’m… well, I’m not sorry to disappoint you, but maybe I can make it up to you.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Sure. If you think an animal control officer is your killer, then I have another name for you.”

Faith sat up straight. “You do?”

“Sure do. I don’t have any evidence or anything like that, but it sounds like these murders were freaky. There’s one animal control officer I’ve met in my life who seems like the type to be freaky about getting revenge on abusive dog owners. Name’s Amanda Morris.”

“How do you know Amanda?” Faith asked.

“I don’t know her. I just saw her at a conference. She said some really crazy stuff, stuff like how dogs should own humans instead of the other way around, how people should learn to live like animals and let their animals live like humans.”

“That’s definitely freaky,” Faith said, “but I don’t quite get the murderous side.”

Whitman shrugged. “Call it a lawman’s intuition.” He pointed at his eyes. “Dead eyes. Completely empty. Like I was looking at a fish. I don’t know much about psychopathy or any of that nonsense, but if there was ever a woman who’d gut a man alive just to see what his insides look like, that’s the woman.”

Faith and Michael shared another look. “I don’t suppose you have contact information for this Amanda Norris?”

“Nope. Sorry. Just the name.”

“That’s all right,” Faith said. “I can work with that. Thank you, Mr. Whitman. We will take a look at that security footage if you don’t mind. Just to clear you officially.”

“Sure. I’ll have the front desk show you.”

The agents confirmed Whitman's alibi, then left the shelter. Faith was still disappointed—of course the damned run-down animal shelter would be the only place with an actual working security system—but he was intrigued by Whitman's description of Vanessa Morris. It might only be grasping at straws, as Captain Ashari said, but this sounded like a straw worth grasping. Faith had been in law enforcement long enough to know that the hunches of police officers—even animal control officers—were not to be taken lightly.

So as Michael drove them from the shelter back into the city, Faith looked up Vanessa Morris. Perhaps they weren’t looking for a hateful person after all. Maybe they were only looking for a cold fish who was fascinated by dogs.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

After the time they’d had looking for leads, Faith had expected finding information on Vanessa Morris would be difficult. So she was pleasantly surprised when she instead found an entire website dedicated to the former animal control officer’s odd perspective on human-animal relationships. She and Michael looked it over while parked in the lot of a burger joint on the outskirts of the city.

The website ostensibly offered a training program that promised to “develop a deeper and more visceral connection between pet and owner, a true understanding of the psyche of the Dog (capitalized) and a retraining of the human (lowercase) to be an appropriate caretaker and companion for the Dog.”

Among the exercises included was a week of living like the Dog. Eschewing clothing, living outside, eating dog food—or better yet, raw meat—defecating outdoors and burying it, and licking to clean oneself "as best as one is able."

Interspersed among these and other equally crazy exercises (lying with the Dog seriously threatened to overturn all of Faith’s notions about human intelligence) were long, disjointed rants about the “sickness” infesting so many humans.

“Don’t you see?” Vanessa pleaded in one of the exercises. “We don’t own them! They are a higher order, at once closer to nature and transcending it. They are the Dog. We must worship them! We must be worthy!”

“Is there contact information for this genius anywhere on that website?” Michael asked.

Faith shook her head. “No. Not even an email address. I looked up the domain, and it looks like it’s paid for through the end of next August, but I have no idea how long it’s been since she’s looked at it or updated it. There’s no timestamp for any of these posts.”

“I gotta say, I think the pictures are my favorite,” Michael said.

The pictures were just as insane as the training methods. Vanessa was naked in most of them, but there was nothing sexual about watching a grown woman doing her dead-level best to behave like a dog.

That’s probably a good thing, Faith thought. Lying with the Dog could have meant something a lot more fucked up than it does.

A touch of pity crept through her shock. “She’s ill. She needs help.”

“She needs to be committed,” Michael said. “How can she be on the streets? How is it that no one’s seen how messed up she is?”

“Well, Richard Whitman saw it,” Faith said. “But be honest. How many times have you encountered people who aren’t all there, and your instinct is just to ignore them? If she’s not running around naked screaming at people to live like the Dog, then most people are just going to look the other way. I don’t see anything in her records about a family, and it’s safe to say she doesn’t have any friends. People like this slip through the cracks.”

Michael shook her head. “Meanwhile I do five over on the highway and traffic cops have a sixth sense about my location. The world’s a screwed-up place.”

“It sure can be,” Faith agreed.

While Michael went inside to get lunch, Faith did more research on Vanessa Morris. She had apparently not always been so insane. She had graduated from New York State fifteen years ago and immediately joined the Buffalo Police Department Animal Control Unit.

She had given ten years of good, or at least quiet, service before the wheels started to come off. It began at a conference for animal control officers hosted by Buffalo PD.

Michael returned just as Faith was reading the department report on the conference. “Hey, check this out,” she said, accepting a bacon cheeseburger that weighed about as much as Turk did.

“Whatcha got?”

“The earliest sign of Vanessa Morris’s deteriorating psyche,” Faith said. “It looks like she was disciplined by her department for causing a disturbance at an animal training conference. Apparently, she told an animal trainer—not named—that the trainer should ‘experience his own draconian methods that he might know how his dogs suffer.’”

“Ouch. Anything come of it?”

“Not that time, but she was written up seven more times before the department let her go three years ago. Interestingly, it looks like she kept her uniform and still identified herself as Officer Morris, because the conference that Whitman attended was a year later. At that conference, she hijacked a speech and started ranting about her training program to subvert the human-dog relationship. She was asked to leave, and she didn’t take it well.”

“What did she do? Bite someone?”

“Yes.”

Michael choked on a bite of hamburger. “Holy freaking crap,” he said. “Really? I was just joking.”

“She wasn’t. According to the criminal complaint, she actually bit a part of the guy’s arm off. She was sentenced to ninety days in jail for aggravated assault followed by one year of supervised probation.”

“And she passed? She was found competent to stand trial, served her time without incident, and convinced a probation officer that she wasn’t loopier than a roller coaster?”

Faith shrugged. “I guess so.”

“God.” Michael shook his head. “What a piece of work. Can we connect her with our victims?”

“Not sure yet. She moved to Pittsburgh eight months ago according to her driver license records, but I haven’t found any interaction between her and the victims yet.”

“I’ll look for that. You eat your food. You’ve been working hard.”

Faith smiled. “Lost your appetite?”

“Yeah, I have a strong stomach in nearly every situation, but I draw the line at people eating other people.”

“That’s fair. Everyone has their limits.”

While Michael did the legwork, Faith let the information she’d gleaned sift through her mind. Vanessa wouldn’t be the first crazy person she’d hunted. In fact, most of the killers who fit the type she specialized in had at least some degree of disconnection from reality.

There were a few, though, who carried that disconnection to another level. There was the Minister, who literally felt called by God to liberate survivors. There was the Demon of Morgan County, who dropped women he was attracted to down wells because his abusive upbringing had led him to believe that all attractive women were whores. A more extreme example was the cave-dwelling Benny, who had never recovered from the loss of his father in a mining accident. He had fled to the same mines that had taken his father’s life and gone feral, luring cave divers and explorers into the mine and killing them as sacrifices to the spirits of the miners who’d died.

Vanessa’s malady might not be any worse than any of theirs, but it disturbed Faith more than anyone she’d come across so far. Maybe it was because Faith was so close to her own dog that it sickened her to learn about someone who had distorted that relationship to something this gross and absurd. Maybe it was because the images of Patricia Wells and Dr. Nathan Taylor were still fresh in her mind.

Or maybe it was just the aggregate stress and exhaustion of thirteen years on a job that brought her face-to-face with the worst of humanity. Early in her career, Faith had been gung-ho about every case. She had pulled multiple all-nighters, poring over every detail, zealously working to catch bad guys and keep the innocent people of America safe.

Then came Trammell. For a while, every case since him had taken more work: more work to keep herself level, and more work to convince herself that this wasn’t a waste of time and people weren’t doomed to suffer.

She’d eventually overcome that hangup, but then Franklin West had shaken her faith in herself by “working” literally right under her nose for months, then torturing her physically and psychologically for months after.

She’d finally beaten him, and now here was the Messenger. Maybe what frightened Faith most about her was that even after she’d nearly killed Turk and Faith herself, Faith wasn’t as broken from her interactions with her as she was from her interactions with Trammell and West. It had only been a month since the Messenger’s attack on her and Turk, but she was already mostly fine. When she did think about the Messenger, it was with exhaustion more than anything else. Here was another crazy for Faith to deal with. Here was another example of how depraved humanity could get.

That’s really what it was. She was exhausted to the point where she was numb. Some people could do this job for decades and maintain their equilibrium, but Faith’s tires had worn to the belts.

She was ready to leave.

“Got it.”

She pulled herself from her malaise and focused on Michael. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Took a lot of clicking, but it looks like Vanessa sent an email blast to a bunch of trainers advertising her training program. Most of them didn’t bother to even respond. Guess who did?”

“Patty Wells and Nathan Taylor.”

“Yep. Patty called her a sick, gross bitch and threatened to have her arrested if Victoria ever contacted her again. Dr. Taylor said pretty much the same thing but did it in a very academic way and suggested that Miss Morris seek immediate long-term psychiatric care. He included a list of facilities he recommended.”

“Ouch. Well, that explains the fixation.”

“Sure does. Think we have enough?”

“I’d say so. Let’s go see what she has to say for herself.”

Michael put the SUV in gear, and Faith was surprised to find herself able to drum up some excitement after all.

One more case. One more killer. One more bad guy.

Then she was done.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Vanessa Morris lived in Hazelwood, a Pittsburgh neighborhood renowned for all the wrong reasons. Recent efforts to revitalize the area had added some greenery to the drab gray and brown of run-down homes and dilapidated streets, but as Faith’s old drill instructor was fond of saying, “You put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig.”

The residents of Hazelwood looked at Michael’s late-model Wagoneer with hard, distrustful eyes. In places like this, law enforcement was not welcomed, and Faith had to admit they had good reason to feel that way. One of the great challenges facing America’s largest and oldest cities was how to deal with the large portion of the population that couldn’t keep up with modernization and found themselves left behind in dead-end jobs—if they were lucky enough to have jobs—and decaying neighborhoods. Unfortunately, what often ended up happening was a low-grade campaign against vice that led to a vicious cycle of poverty, crime, crackdowns, and recidivism.

Faith wasn’t surprised that Vanessa Morris had drifted here, nor was she surprised that she had managed to fly under the radar. This was where people down on their luck ended up, and when you were down on your luck, the last thing you worried about was other people. Had Vanessa managed to avoid the more violent impulses of her insanity, she might have drifted along for years without any problems.

But Vanessa had come here a different way than the other residents. She wasn’t down on her luck or disadvantaged. She was insane and quite probably a murderer. Faith could do little to address the systemic inequalities that allowed neighborhoods like this to exist in the first place, but she could catch bad guys. She could address the outliers who found ways to end people’s lives in a manner that made front-page news.

Vanessa’s apartment complex carried the oddly depressing name of New Day Estates. Excellent title for a place where change is a pipe dream, Faith thought as the three of them walked up the steps to the front gate.

Faith pressed the buzzer. No response. She sighed. Another characteristic of neighborhoods like this was landlords who viewed law enforcement with the same suspicion as their residents. Faith had a feeling that if she were so inclined, she could find dozens of code violations that the owner of New Day hoped to get away with considering the “low value” of its residents.

But she wasn’t here for that, and it would be really nice if the leasing office just opened the damned gate. She pressed the buzzer again. No response.

She sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Then she pressed the buzzer once more and held it. “This is Special Agent Faith Bold, FBI. You need to let us in. If you do that, then I won’t call the City Planning Commission and report you for enough violations to fill a library.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the buzzer sounded, and the gate swung open.

“Thank you,” Faith said.

The two of them entered the complex, which was really just a single three-story building with sixteen units. Faith glanced at the leasing office as they passed. A middle-aged woman the color and shape of potato bread glared at them through a window that could have been tinted or could have been covered in grime.

Faith ignored her and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Vanessa’s apartment was unit nine. She positioned herself on the side of the door that would swing inward. Michael positioned himself on the other side. Turk stood slightly behind her, tail switching back and forth.

She nodded, and Michael knocked firmly on the door. “Vanessa Morris! FBI! Come out!”

No answer. Faith wasn’t surprised.

Michael tried again. “Vanessa Morris! This is the FBI! You need to come out with your hands up!”

Still no answer.

Michael tried a final time. “Vanessa Morris! Come out, or we’re coming in, and if we come in, we’re going to be rough. I’d much rather not have to do that.”

Still no answer.

Michael sighed. “Yeah, I figured.”

He positioned himself in front of the door, squared his hips, and took a deep breath. Faith steadied herself and prepared to breach the apartment. “Okay.”

At her okay, Michael lifted his right leg and put it through the door just above the knob. The entire door ripped out of the wall, propelling into the room and splitting in half against the island that separated the foyer from the kitchen.

Michael winced slightly. “Oops.”

Faith didn’t care about the door. She rushed through the opening Michael had created and quickly looked around the living area. Turk rushed past her, streaking like a bullet through the apartment.

“Living room’s clear,” she called.

“Ditto kitchen,” Michael said,

They moved through the small one-bedroom, checking rooms one by one. When Turk didn’t announce the presence of an occupant after thirty seconds, Faith knew the apartment was going to be empty. When Michael finally related that the small balcony attached to the bedroom was clear, Faith sighed and dropped her hands. “Well, shit.”

“We’ll have PD watch this place,” Michael said. “She has to come home sometime.”

Speaking of home, with the knowledge that no threat and no suspect could be found here, Faith got her first good look at the home of Vanessa Morris.

It was straight out of a nightmare. The bedroom walls were covered floor to ceiling with construction paper. Every inch of that paper was covered with writing, scribbled sentences that sometimes made sense—sort of—and sometimes consisted of phrases repeated over and over in rambling, disjointed fashion. One that popped up a lot was “humans are no better than dogs we are no better than dogs we are dogs we must be dogs.”

The living area was… maybe not worse, but definitely not better. There were several life-size photos of Vanessa herself in the nude, living like the dogs she worshipped so much. The pictures appeared professionally done. Faith hoped very much that Vanessa had a secret photography hobby and that there was no one out there who got a kick out of taking pictures of mentally ill women. Considering what she'd seen in her career, however, she wouldn't be surprised.

The linen closet revealed a collection of dozens of rubber dog masks of all different breeds. A rank, musty smell emanated from the masks, and several of them were riddled with mildew. Faith coughed and had to back away from the closet to keep from throwing up.

“God above,” Michael said. “She’s completely gone.”

“Yeah,” Faith said, gasping. “She’s been gone for a long time. And she’s also gone. We need to figure out where she is.”

“I’ll call Rose and get an APB out,” Michael said. “How do you feel about opening some windows?”

Faith initially wanted to refuse. She didn’t want the neighbors overhearing their conversations about Vanessa or the murders. When she saw the litterbox in the kitchen, though, she couldn’t help herself anymore. She rushed to the living room window and shoved it open, then gulped in fresh air.

Yeah, this was the worst. Maybe not objectively, but for Faith, this was absolutely the worst place she’d ever seen.

Turk, thankfully, handled himself a little better. His nose wrinkled in disgust as he dutifully examined the masks, and he snorted in disgust when he checked out the litterbox, but he kept his cool and even trotted to Faith to offer some comfort when he finished.

Michael finished his phone call, then opened the kitchen window. That pulled fresh air in through the living room and sucked the foul air out through the kitchen. Faith’s stomach calmed, and her breathing steadied.

Michael was a little green when he joined his partners, but he was still steady on his feet. “Rose is on her way with some uniforms. They put an APB out on Vanessa’s vehicle, but it hasn’t been registered in a year, so they don’t know if it’s still out there or if she’s been using public transit.”

Faith mopped cold sweat from her brow. “I don’t know if she can pass as sane enough to use public transit.”

Michael chuckled. “Too crazy to ride the bus. Never thought I’d see the day.” He took a deep breath and said in a stronger voice. “She has to be at least a little normal. She’s got food here. She might excrete like a dog, but she intakes like a human still.”

“Yeah, I didn’t need to hear that,” Faith said, turning grimly toward the open living room window.

"Sorry. Still, I think she can pass for normal enough, especially since, like you said, people tend to ignore anyone who doesn't seem threatening."

Faith nodded and looked back around the living room. With sunlight streaming through the open windows, she could finally see how filthy the place was. A layer of grime covered everything, and a layer of dust coated that. Piles of trash sat in each of the room’s corners, and even from the opposite side of the apartment, Faith could see fuzzy growth on the dishes in the sink.

“The neighbors didn’t complain?” Michael asked, staring incredulously at the mess.

“Does this look like a place where people give a shit about bad smells?” Faith asked.

“I mean, I get this is the end of the line, but there’s got to be a limit.”

“The more I do this job, the more I realize that there is no limit. Fuck, I need some fresh air.”

She pushed through the front door and walked away from the apartment, lifting her hands to the top of her head and breathing slowly. Try as she might, she couldn’t get the smell out of her nostrils.

Incredibly, she felt another touch of sympathy for Vanessa Morris. How horrible it must be to be so far gone that you lived in a literal film of your own waste, but you couldn’t find the wherewithal to clean up.

Faith thought of all of the killers she’d brought to justice over the years: the Donkey Killer, the Family Man, the Vampire of Twin Cities Terminal, the Minister, the Caveman… How did people like that come about? Certainly some of them were just evil, like Trammell.

But so many others were just born bad, twisted in the head to the point where they lacked the sense of right and wrong that allowed billions of other people to live in relative harmony with one another. Faith didn’t have a problem locking people like that away, but would they ever understand why they were locked away? Or did they all, like Morris, look with scorn upon the rest of the world, feeling that everyone else was insane and they were the only normal people?

It was a question for which thirteen years of investigative work had never provided an answer. It was a question Faith would likely take with her to her grave.

But one thing she knew for sure. The sickness that afflicted Vanessa Morris had to be contained. Competent or not, that woman needed to be locked away. For a few more hours, Faith would have to hold it together. Just long enough to make sure Vanessa couldn’t hurt anyone else.

Faith took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and returned to the house.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Pollyanna’s pigtails,” Rose said. “This woman is one sick puppy.” She grimaced. “Yeah, I wish I’d used any other word but that.”

Uniformed officers cordoned off the apartment and made sure the neighbors stayed out of the way. That was easy enough. The neighbors wanted nothing to do with law enforcement. They were perfectly happy to stay in their apartments and ignore the police. CSI was poring over every square inch of Vanessa Morris's apartment, looking for evidence to connect her to the crime scenes and anything that might tell them where she was now.

They found plenty of the former. One of Vanessa’s kitchen drawers was full of plastic beads and nylon string like the material Faith had found at the crime scene. What little clothing Vanessa had consisted of baggy jeans and plaid long-sleeves. All of it was filthy and rancid with mildew.

“I don’t know how she managed to survive this long,” Michael said. “The mold alone should have killed her.”

 “I think it’s a race between the mold and the literal pile of shit two feet away from where she sliced her vegetables.”

“Bold of you to assume she ate vegetables,” Michael quipped.

Rose shook her head. She looked Faith up and down. “Are you all right? You’re looking a little green.”

Faith's stomach still hadn't adjusted to the staggering bouquet of Vanessa Morris's apartment, but she wasn't as nauseous as she was earlier. "I'm fine. Just impatient. It's already getting dark, and that makes me nervous."

They had spent most of the afternoon at Vanessa’s apartment digging through every nook and cranny, testing and organizing evidence and talking—well, trying to talk—to neighbors and apartment staff. That had been a waste of time. The manager and the few people who had actually answered their doors had answered their questions with stony gazes and monosyllabic grunts. Even when confronted with the horror of the murders and the nature of the evil that lived next door, they mustered no emotional reaction: no horror, no shock, not even humor. Just a wooden-faced, “Hmm,” if anything.

Faith was frustrated to no end by their apathy. “Do they not care? Is it really just okay with them that their next-door neighbor is gutting people and posing them to teach the world a lesson?”

Michael took a more compassionate view. “When you work eighty hours a week and still can’t claw your way out of debt and destitution, it’s hard to find energy to care about others.”

That wasn’t an excuse, but Faith couldn’t think of an argument that didn’t sound petulant, so she let it drop.

And now here they were: neighbors interviewed, apartment scoured, nothing useful found. Nothing to do but wait and hope that the citywide manhunt would turn something up.

“These manhunts work,” Michael said in response to Faith’s comment about the dark. “We’ve used them before, and we’ve found our bad guys. I know you don’t like sitting still, but we know who we’re looking for now. That’s more than half the battle.”

Faith sighed. “I just don’t want to catch her standing over another body like we did with the Minister.”

“Well, in the case of the Minister, we didn’t know who we were looking for,” Michael reminded her. “We had everything but the identity.”

She nodded. “Have we called the other dog training schools in the city to warn people?”

Rose answered that. “I have officers assigned to call them. We put out a PSA to tell them not to be alone, especially not at their schools. It’s the best we can do. We just have to hope they listen.”

“How could you not listen after hearing about this?” Michael asked.

Rose shrugged. “Stubbornness. Pride. A refusal to change your habits or be inconvenienced.”

Those things were all true, but the most likely answer was more basic than that. Adults believed that nightmares—like all dreams—never came true. Accepting the existence of someone like Vanessa Morris was accepting that some nightmares were real. The world wasn’t safe. People weren’t all basically good. Bad things happened to innocent people.

And the big one: it could happen to me too. That was the truth that few people could accept.

“I don’t suppose you have enough officers to watch the obedience schools in the city, do you?” Faith asked.

Rose smiled. “Tell me you love me.”

“You’re already watching them?”

“Yep. There are forty different schools in Allegheny County. I’ve got a pair of officers at each one.”

Faith grinned. “Rose, I love you.”

"Yeah, you do." She clapped Faith on the shoulder. "Chin up, buttercup. We've got this."

Faith was far more relieved after hearing that. If Vanessa Morris had been smart enough to evade detection and leave very little evidence behind so far, then she was probably smart enough not to walk right into a trap, but at the very least, police presence would greatly reduce the chance that she would kill someone tonight. As her old friend Jack Preston would have said, “That’s not nothing.”

She got to her feet. “I’m gonna go grab some dinner. My stomach’s not as strong as it used to be, and I’d love to smell something that isn’t mold and poop for a little while. You guys want anything?”

“I’ll call Paulie’s Pizza,” Rose said. “We’ll pick up some pies for us and the officers. Cheap, easy way to feed twenty-five people. You two fine with cheese and pepperoni?”

“Are there other pizza toppings?” Michael asked.

“None that matter,” Rose replied. “Paulie’s is on the north edge of Hazelwood. Take Sylvan east to where it ends, then turn left and take Hazelwood all the way to Bigelow. Paulie’s will be to your right on the near corner.”

“Got it,” Faith said.

Michael tossed her his keys, and she walked alone to the car. Turk was still sniffing over the apartment looking for clues and Michael knew her well enough to know that part of the reason she wanted to get dinner was to be alone with her thoughts for a moment. Sometimes it helped her figure out an answer to the case and sometimes it didn’t, but at the very least it would give her emotions a chance to settle.

She started the Wagoneer and pulled it smoothly away from the curb. The big SUV had good power and handled decently for a vehicle of its size, but it was too quiet for Faith. She liked the burble of the old V-8 in her Crown Victoria and the slight rattle of the chassis at low RPMs. Modern vehicles were sleek and safe and feature-laden, but they had lost the soul of the older designs. Faith liked to feel her vehicle. She liked to hear it. She even liked to smell the gasoline and motor oil.

She smiled slightly. When she first began thinking about life after the FBI, she considered moving to the Midwest and opening an auto repair shop for classic vehicles. That thought had faded with the arrival of the Messenger and the death of the Boss shortly after, but since the end of her field agent career was imminent, she entertained the idea of that move.

It probably wouldn’t happen. Maybe twenty years down the road when she and David were both ready to Retire-Capital R, but not now. She had David to think about. At the time she was seriously considering a career tinkering with old cars, she didn’t think the two of them would ever get married or even move in together. Now they were engaged, and one of the first things Faith wanted to do when she wasn’t a field agent anymore was marry him. She’d put it off because of the Messenger, but once she was out of the field and the Messenger was someone else’s problem, there would no longer be a reason to put it off.

So what would she do? There was that instructor job Smythe had offered her. The FBI Academy was a four-hour drive from where she lived now. She’d have to get an apartment near the Academy, and she’d only be able to see David on weekends until they worked out another living arrangement. If they worked out another living arrangement. David had only just closed on his house in Philadelphia a year ago. It wouldn’t be fair to ask him to move for her.

But if she didn’t take the job, then what other options were there? Her pensions from both the Marine Corps and the FBI would be enough to pay their bills, especially because she didn’t pay rent anymore, but could she really just sit around and do nothing for the next fifty years?

No, she knew damned well she couldn’t. She was ready to leave the field, but she would never be ready to have no purpose. David would say something philosophical like, “You make your own purpose,” but that wasn’t the way Faith worked. She needed something bigger than herself, at least for now.

She sighed. “Man, not even retirement is simple.”

She chuckled and pulled into the parking lot of Paulie’s. It reminded her of any greasy spoon, although she doubted there were any spoons in the place. The lobby was just clean enough to earn the passing grade the health department posted in the window, and the kitchen was probably just clean enough to look like it earned that grade. The two hairy-armed middle-aged men behind the counter were just as greasy as the food.

That, of course, meant the pizza was gonna be delicious. Faith smiled as she took the pies back to the car. People often mournfully said that places like this were disappearing, but that wasn’t true. People just stopped looking for them. They were surrounded by bright, colorful advertisements that insisted that what they really wanted was the newest fad, and could they please just click this ad and see what amazing things modernity had to offer?

What most people wanted, in Faith's experience, was stability. They wanted their lives to remain uncomplicated. The same food, the same houses, the same TV shows, the same life. Hell, that's all she wanted anymore.

So there would always be places like this. There would always be enough people willing to put the extra effort into finding timeless places and giving them just enough life to keep going even as the world around them sprinted in blind panic to the LATEST AND GREATEST!

She chuckled to herself as she started the Wagoneer and pulled out of the parking lot. I think I’m finally getting old.

She glanced at herself in the mirror. Same faded blue eyes that she remembered. Same dirty blonde hair that hung straight down when she didn’t tie it back in a ponytail. Same sarcastic turn to her lips.

But just like the white on Turk’s muzzle, age was beginning to make itself known on her features. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes stayed there even when she wasn’t squinting or smiling. The ghosts of new wrinkles were forming at the corners of her mouth. Other than that, her skin was still smooth but not quite as soft as it used to be.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She didn’t care one way or another about her looks. She’d never wanted to be the belle of the ball.

But time marched on, uncaring for what it left behind. One day, Turk would die. Faith would get another dog, and that dog would die too. She'd move away one day, either to Quantico or to the Midwest. Michael would probably stay in Philly until Ellie got old and decided they were going to move to California or Florida. They'd go from being friends to being old friends to eventually being acquaintances who saw each other once every year or three and reminisced about the good old days.

Faith was ready to move on, but there was sadness mixed in with the sweetness. Change always brought that sadness, and that was why most people fought desperately to avoid it.

By the time Faith returned to the apartment complex, she was ready to get on with the case. The future held more questions than she wanted to deal with right now. At this moment, she was still Special Agent Faith Bold, and she still had a case to solve.

It was a good thing that she was ready to put the wheel to the grindstone, because as soon as she walked into the apartment with an armful of pizza, she saw in their eyes that the others had stumbled across something big.

Michael confirmed that a moment later when he looked at her and said, “You’re gonna want to see this.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The more Faith read through the notes, the more she realized just how disturbed Vanessa Morris really was. At the same time, seeing her thoughts written down actually made confronting her madness easier. Vanessa Morris wasn’t the macabre pinnacle of homicidal insanity. She was just another serial killer of a sort Faith had dealt with many times: disturbed, highly organized, ritualistic, and driven.

Not that being less unusual made her any less dangerous.

“Where did you find this?” Faith asked.

“Turk found it, actually,” Michael replied. “He kept barking at the floor of the balcony. We thought he had noticed something in the downstairs neighbor’s yard, but when we left to go talk to them, he refused to budge. I finally noticed a little bump in the paint. Turns out it was a little hook that lifted a hidden door in the floor.”

Rose stood over Faith’s shoulder, crossing her arms. “Well, if nothing else, this will cement our case in court.”

The notes Turk had found detailed Vanessa’s plans to murder Patricia Wells and Dr. Nathan Taylor. The first few pages were a concise and more readable version of the manifesto she had written on her walls.

The basics were surprisingly well thought out, though clearly coming from a place of insanity. Vanessa believed that dogs and humans had entered into a sacred contract thousands of years ago when the first wolves were domesticated by humans, in her words, when they “agreed to cohabit with us.”

Humanity had held to the tenets of that contract for thousands of years, treating dogs as partners rather than pets. As civilization advanced, however, humans had abandoned that contract and started to view dogs as accessories. They bred deformed versions of the Dog (there was that capital letter again) and acted as though the Dog was somehow obligated to subvert its natural perfection into whatever twisted whim humans wanted.

The most heinous example of humanity’s betrayal, according to Vanessa, was obedience school. Those schools purported to understand dogs and used knowledge once intended to forge a partnership to instead strengthen the bonds of slavery. The Dog, once grand and noble, was now worth no more to people than a watch or a handbag.

That, she claimed, was why obedience schools rarely worked. People kept trying to train the Dog to be a handbag, but they weren’t handbags. They were noble creatures who deserved all of the same rights humans deserved.

The task of retraining humanity was too great for Vanessa, but she could start the process. She could do her part. That part, apparently, was showing humanity the cruelty it had inflicted on dogs by inflicting that same cruelty upon humanity.

“Fun stuff,” Michael said. “I have to wonder how people like that don’t notice that they’re off in the head. I mean, how do you write that stuff and not think, ‘You know, maybe it’s a little bit sick that I get off on gutting people and posing them like animals.’?”

“If you’re truly insane, you think the rest of the world is insane,” Faith said. “Just look at what she wrote about the victims.”

Vanessa had a “correction report” for both victims. Patty Wells’s report outlined her violence toward dogs, comparing her to a slave master with a whip. Ironically—or maybe not; in Vanessa’s mental state, who knew—she wrote the report like an obedience school report on a dog.

“Subject is insecure and anxious and manifests this insecurity in the form of aggression and overly dominance-focused behaviors. Doesn’t play well with others and shows obstinate resistance to all benign forms of instruction.”

The solution, of course, was to force Patricia to submit using a correction collar similar to the ones Patricia used. Interestingly, no mention was made of the fact that Patricia was to be drained of blood prior to the fitment of the collar. Maybe that was something Vanessa hadn’t considered important.

Dr. Taylor’s report was equally interesting.

“Subject lacks empathy. He views dogs as tools and toys and perverts the scientific method to force them into compliance. Considers the Dog as beneath him and believes their purpose is to please humans.”

The solution to that was to place Dr. Taylor in a "ready" position, awaiting the command of an owner. He was to have no agency of his own but to be nothing more than a toy.

“Gotta hand it to her,” Michael said. “She thought this through. Granted, she started from so far off the wall she was floating in space, but it makes sense in its own way. I guess it’s like you said. When you’re crazy, you think the rest of the world is crazy.”

“This doesn’t help us find her, though,” Rose said. “It’s nice light reading, but it doesn’t tell us what she’s planning to do next.”

“Well, we can assume she’s planning to deal with the next name on her list,” Faith said.

“And that name is?” Rose asked.

Faith frowned. “Right.”

Included with the papers Turk had found was a list of targets that Vanessa intended to “correct.” Patricia Wells and Dr. Nathan Taylor were one and two on that list. Number four was Jesse Caraway, the owner of Allegheny Animal College.

Number three was a blotchy smudge. Vanessa had poured ink over the name and rubbed it into the paper with what Faith guessed was her palm. She couldn’t tell what had been written there before.

“Do you think she knew we were coming?” Michael asked.

Faith sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Which means she’s definitely not coming back here,” Rose added.

Faith shook her head. “No, probably not.”

Rose released a huff of frustration. “Wonderful. So now we’re hoping we catch her in the act.”

“I’m fine with that as long as we catch her,” Michael said.

“But what if she fled?” Rose asked. “What if she’s gone? She’s not a very distinctive-looking person. She won’t smell too good unless she showered and washed an outfit before she left the apartment, but plenty of homeless people carry a ripe odor. Plenty of them act crazy too. She’ll blend in.”

People look the other way.

Faith frowned. “Then we need to start making some guesses. We have sixteen names here. Two of them are dead already, and one of them is smudged. Let’s map out the other thirteen and see if we can guess who three is. Vanessa might be gone, but if she’s still around, she’s going to be lurking around her next target. Rose, expand the APB to include the entire state and neighboring states. I know it’s like searching for straw in a haystack, but casting a wide net is the best Hail Mary we can throw. Michael, you and I need to try to find a better play than a Hail Mary.”

“I’m all for that if it’s possible,” Michael said.

He opened his laptop, and they mapped the locations of names four through sixteen, adding Patricia Wells and Dr. Nathan Taylor as reference points.

That did little to help them. The names were scattered all over the city. There didn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason to the targets past Patricia and Nathan. They were the first two because of their insulting behavior toward Vanessa.

“What about the conferences?” Michael asked. “Let’s see who else in the area attended that conference where she was kicked out.”

“Good thinking,” Faith said. “She might remember who snickered at her and put them high on her list.”

It was good thinking, but it was also a dead end. Animal training conferences weren’t the most popular events on Earth, and while plenty of trainers had attended the one where Vanessa Morris revealed her insanity to the world, none of them lived or worked in the Pittsburgh area, and none of them matched any of the names on Vanessa’s list.

Faith got to her feet and began to pace the room. “Okay, well, we know it has to be someone in Pittsburgh, right? Let’s have officers do some sweeps of each obedience school here. As a bonus, we’ll throw in home addresses for the owners and trainers.”

“That’ll take time,” Rose warned.

“If you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”

Rose didn’t have a better idea, and she quickly coordinated the sweeps. That killed another two hours and brought them no sign of Vanessa Morris.

It was well past dark now. The pizza had long since gone cold, but Faith didn’t care about that. She ate only for fuel and drank coffee only to stay awake.

But another hour of wracking her brain brought her nothing. There was just no way to tell who could be Vanessa Morris’s next victim.

As the clock rounded midnight, Faith sighed and slumped into a folding chair. No one wanted to come within a yard of any of Vanessa’s furniture, so Rose had sent officers to the station for folding tables and chairs. The uncushioned metal chairs weren’t even close to comfortable, but exhaustion fought to close Faith’s eyes anyway.

Frustration kept them open. “What are we missing?” she asked. “There has to be something there. It can’t just be random.”

Michael gave her a wan smile. “The problem is that it could be. Other than her personal beef with Patricia and Nathan, there’s nothing in Vanessa’s notes that gives a clue what might influence her next choice.”

Faith tilted her head as she read through the notes in her head. “Actually… there might be.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Think so?”

Faith got up from her chair and grabbed the notes again. She skimmed through the nine-page manifesto that formed the top portion of the papers Turk had found.

On the fourth page, she found what she was looking for.

“The world needs to see. They need to see it. There are people who need to get what they deserve first, but when the reckoning is given, the message will take preeminence. It must reach everyone. People must know where to look. Then the rest can reinforce the message.”

“She wants the world to see,” Faith said.

“Yeah, most of these guys do.

“Yes, but she really wants the world to see.”

Michael blinked. “You mean, like television?”

“Maybe.”

Faith looked up “dog training events near Pittsburgh.” She was immediately rewarded.

She pumped her fist. “Yes. Here, check this out.”

Michael leaned over her shoulder and read, “Forty-seventh Annual United States Dog Training Conference and Expo. Right near our hometown of Philadelphia. Little wordy for a title.” He grinned, “But I think we know where Vanessa will be. The question is, which of the fourteen demonstrators will she target?”

Faith scanned the list of names. One of them was printed a little bigger and bolder than the rest. “She wants the world to see. I think she’ll pick the most visible target.”

Michael stood and clapped Faith on the shoulder. “Faith Bold. I think you might just be a genius.”

Faith returned Michael’s grin. “The old girl’s still got some gas left in the tank.”

Michael chuckled. “I’m afraid to respond to that.”

Faith laughed and got to her feet. “Respond by sweeping me off my feet and carrying me off to my castle in Philadelphia.”

Michael bowed deeply. “Your chariot awaits, milady.”

The two agents passed the news along to Rose. Rose, of course, insisted on coming along. She joined Turk in the second row of Michael’s Wagoneer and called her contacts in Philadelphia PD to let them know they were on their way.

Faith had been running on three hours of sleep for each of the past three nights, but as Michael sped back toward the city of Brotherly Love, she felt not even a hint of exhaustion. For the past thirteen years, this was what she had lived for. If she was going to go out, she was going to go out with a bang. One more killer brought to justice. Then, she and Turk could ride off into the sunset with smiles on their faces.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Vanessa Morris had drifted for a while when she was let go from the Buffalo Police Department Animal Control Unit. When she took the job, she realized she had found her calling. She rescued sick, abused, hurting animals, nursed them to health, and placed them somewhere they would be properly cared for whether that was another home, a zoo, or the wild.

Then she had gone a little too far. She had pushed a little too hard at an animal training conference when she came across trainers who treated dogs as if were just toys. She’d tried to stop, to keep her mouth shut and just do her job, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t just sit quietly while people advocated these horribly abusive strategies to mold dogs like clay.

But she never thought they’d fire her. She never thought they’d actually let her go. After all, that was her dream, her calling. It was what she was meant to do, damn it. How could they take that away from her? How could they take her away from animals that needed her help?

So she drifted. She looked for other work for a time, but no one wanted to touch an animal control officer fired for repeated physical altercations.

In the end, the drifting was a blessing. It forced Vanessa to think. As she thought, she began to realize what her true calling was. Not just hers, but all of humanity.

She checked the collar and nodded in satisfaction. It would do. It was lightweight enough to stay in position but rigid enough that Donovan couldn’t break out. Its barbs were sharp. It would send the message.

She packed the collar into the bag with the mask and boots. She inhaled deeply but got no scent from the implements. She frowned. She had showered, cleaned her tools, and bought new clothing and a new duffel after she realized the FBI was on her trail. She needed to do that to make sure no one noticed her.

She hated it. Her skin felt so… slick. Her hair fell over her like silk—another item stolen from another animal. God, humans would enslave anything given the chance.

Worst was the lack of scent. Her odor was gone. Dogs relied on scent to understand their world. Each of them had a unique scent—as much theirs as a human’s name was hers—and Vanessa’s own scent was familiar and comforting to her.

Well, not for long. Once Alex Donovan was corrected, she could retreat to the shadows again. She would have to live like a stray. Certainly the FBI had discovered her address by now.

That was all right. Dogs could do okay as strays if they hadn’t been beaten too badly as puppies. She hadn’t been beaten until she was an adult, so she knew the basics of survival.

It was a risk to go after Donovan, but this message was important. All of humanity suffered from a sickness that prevented them from realizing how beautiful and perfect the Dog was. She needed to shout to the world how wrong they were and hopefully get some of them to look at the Dog and realize how flawless a creature it really was.

So she needed to make this one big. She needed to make this one visible. A slight risk, but then she could go back to the shadows.

She looked at herself in the mirror and wished to hell she could grow fur on her body just like the Dog. She scoffed at the smooth skin and bulbous teats that identified her as a human. The weak forelegs, the grossly distended rear legs, the useless flat face that made scent almost impossible to access.

Humans thought they were the senior partner in the contract between man and Dog. They thought they were the ones with the right to demand and command.

What fools. Humans would have died out millennia ago if not for the compassion of the Dog. The Dog had taken pity on humanity and led them through the dark and the cold. The Dog had brought humans food, given humans warmth and companionship, helped humans when their burdens became too heavy to carry.

And how soon humanity had forgotten. The Dog needed to be in charge. They needed to be worshipped. They, not humans, had figured out how to live in a cruel and harsh world that looked endlessly for the next victim to kill.

One day they’d understand. One day they’d know. In the meantime, Vanessa would kill the false prophets who believed they were better than the Dog. She would ensure that only the Dog’s glorious message survived.

She pulled her Dog face over the useless human one and began to wag her backside. If only she had a tail to fully express the joy she felt right now!

She wanted to bark, but if anyone heard her, they would tell the FBI. She had to wait. There would be moments to bark and howl and cavort. Right now, she has a job to do.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

They arrived at the expo just as the first gray of dawn peaked over the horizon. Sunrise would arrive in a half hour or so. The expo would begin an hour after that, at seven a.m.

Faith wanted to find their killer before that happened.

Philadelphia P.D. was providing security for the event. They greeted Faith, Michael, Rose, and Turk in the parking lot. Faith recognized the officer leading security and extended her hand. “Congratulations on the promotion, Sergeant Wells. You’re in charge here?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Wells replied. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but considering why you’re here, I’d just as soon you weren’t.”

Faith chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t blame you. Have you talked to the event organizers?”

Wells laughed derisively. “I left a message that they almost certainly didn’t listen to. But… Come on, Faith, let’s be real. They’re not going to cancel the event.”

“Do they have anything that resembles a good reason for being so phenomenally stupid?” Michael asked with his typical tact.

Wells shrugged. “Depends on your perspective, I guess. Some people would argue that giving into fear is giving the killer what she wants.”

“What she wants is to murder the keynote speaker,” Rose reminded him. “And to strip him naked and pose him like a dog so the whole world can see.”

Wells lifted his hands. “I didn’t say I agree. I just said that from their perspective, canceling the event would be like negotiating with terrorists.”

“Yeah, that’s bullshit,” Faith snapped. “They just don’t want to lose their money.”

Wells shrugged. “I mean… again, not saying I agree, but if the show goes on, then we have some good bait, right?”

“I don’t like using people as bait,” Faith said. “That’s never worked out well for me.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Wells said, “but if life hands you lemons.”

Faith sighed. Wells was a good officer, but he was a policeman through and through. He had wonderfully thick skin when it came to civilians, excellent for dealing with the public, not so great when you wanted to catch bad guys at all costs.

“Maybe we can convince Donovan not to speak. Any idea where I can find him?”

Alex Donovan was the keynote speaker for the expo. Faith recognized the man from her early days with Turk when she’d tried for his sake to get into dog-training reality shows. He presented a show called “Donovan’s Dogs” in which he took on challenging pets and attempted to mold them into model canine citizens. The show had at one point been the number two dog show in the United States behind the Dog Whisperer. Faith had no idea how well Donovan was doing now, but it was clearly well enough to be top billing here, and that would surely be enough for Vanessa Morris.

Wells hooked a thumb toward a trailer parked a few dozen yards behind the pop-up gate erected around the venue to force people to pay for tickets and enter through the security chokepoint. “That’s his. He specifically requested a trailer at least one foot longer than anyone else’s.”

Faith assumed that was a joke, and she didn’t have time for it right now. “Rose, work with Sergeant Wells to scour the area for Vanessa Morris. If we can find her before she has a chance to do anything, that would make us all very happy.”

"For sure," Rose agreed. "Okay, hot stuff. Let's go find ourselves a bitch."

Wells reddened, whether it was because he had been called hot stuff or been coopted to “find a bitch,” Faith couldn’t tell.

“Michael, you’re with me.”

“Gee, really?”

She rolled her eyes. “Save the sarcasm for later. We’re on the clock.”

“Sure thing, hot stuff.”

She sighed and decided to just ignore that. “We’re going to talk to Donovan and impress upon him how much he wants to not speak today.”

“Works for me.”

They walked toward Donovan’s trailer. As they drew closer, Faith could hear moans coming from inside. Of course.

She sighed and shared a dry look with Michael before knocking firmly on the door. The moans stopped, then were replaced with giggles. “One second!” a male voice called from inside.

“Take your time,” Faith said drily.

A minute later, a blushing Philadelphia PD officer who looked just about old enough to drink without losing her badge, slunk out of the trailer. She giggled and shrugged at Faith, then sauntered off, presumably to return to her post.

Faith had some thoughts about that, but she wasn’t here to judge other people’s romantic choices, so she focused on the forty-something man who opened the door and flashed a dazzling smile at them.

Alex Donovan was shirtless and admittedly in excellent shape. When Faith was the age of that recently departed young officer, she would have been very susceptible to the toned chest and rippling abs that greeted her. Now that she was old enough to have permanent crows’ feet, she found the guy’s vanity a little annoying.

But not enough to dwell on. They had more important things to discuss.

“Alex Donovan, I’m Special Agent Faith Bold with the FBI. This is my partner, Special Agent Michael Prince, and my K9 unit, Turk.”

“I can see that,” Alex said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Not exactly pleasure,” Michael said. “We’re here because someone’s trying to kill you.”

Donovan blinked. “What?”

“May we come in?” Faith asked. She flashed Donovan a smile. “I don’t want the other girls to be jealous.”

Alex chuckled and had the decency to show some embarrassment. “Yeah… sorry about that. You know how it is. I never ask, but I can’t say no.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Faith said, stepping into the trailer behind him. When the door closed, she said, “Honestly, Mr. Donovan, we do believe someone’s here to kill you.”

“Yeah?” Alex said, popping the top off of a beer. “Crazy fan or what?”

"Crazy, yes," Michael replied. "Fan very much no."

Alex looked between them. “Okay? So who?”

Faith briefly explained Vanessa Morris and the murders in Pittsburgh. Alex stared at her like a deer in the headlights, seemingly unsure how to wrap his head around what he was hearing. Faith couldn’t blame him. She still had trouble wrapping her head around it sometimes.

When she finished. Alex sipped her beer. “Damn. Wow.”

“Both valid words,” Michael agreed. “As well as excellent reasons to call off the speech and let Philly PD put you into protective custody.”

“Hmm.” Alex took another sip of his beer. “You’re sure she’s after me?”

“We’re sure,” Faith said. “She wants this one to be public. She wants people to notice.”

"So she's what? Gonna kill me on live TV?"

Faith shared a look with Michael. “TV?”

“Yeah, they’re broadcasting my demonstration on Animal Planet. It’s kind of the highlight of the expo.”

Faith nodded. “Well, it’s possible. I think she’s probably planning to just kill you and let people post pictures of your body on social media. If you’re naked with your paws in the air or one ‘paw’ lifted to shake, it’ll be pretty big news no matter when it happens.”

Alex shivered. “Okay, got it. I get that you’re trying to scare me by being blunt. Congratulations. You scared me.”

“So you’ll cancel the show?”

“No.”

Faith sighed. “Seriously? Come on.”

“Look, I know it sounds stupid,” Alex said, “but a lot of people are counting on me. I don’t know if you follow my show or not, but ratings are slipping. I used to be number two. Now I’m number… I don’t know, like eight? Me, I’ll be fine. I have royalties from my books, and I have properties and investments that will keep me afloat for a long time after I reach the end of the yellow brick road, but my producers, my camera people, my writers… this is all they have. They need this. This expo needs to happen to show people that we’re still relevant.” He finished his beer. “I’m sorry, but I can’t cancel. We have PD providing security, and now the FBI is here. I trust that you guys can find the killer before she gets to me.”

“That’s an enormous risk, Mr. Donovan,” Michael warned.

“Okay, but how sure are you that it’s me?” Alex challenged. “I mean, just because I’m in Pennsylvania, and I’m a celebrity and doing an animal expo? The first two people were dog trainers in Pittsburgh, right? You said you had a list of a bunch of other people in Pittsburgh that she wants to kill. So why me? Hell, I’ve never even been to Pittsburgh.”

“In her manifesto, Vanessa talks about wanting the third victim to send the message to the world. The first two were personal, but now she wants a third to get her beliefs out to everyone. You’re the perfect opportunity to do that.”

Alex shook his head. “Maybe. But it seems like a lot.” He nodded, then said more firmly. “The show goes on, gents.”

Faith and Michael shared a grim look. They had tried their best, but with no solid evidence linking Morris to the event, they couldn’t force Alex to comply.

Faith met his eyes again. “All right. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Alex gave her his trademark dazzling smile. “Do any of us?”

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Faith and Michael nearly collided with a woman outside of Alex’s trailer. The woman—another blonde, although a little older than the officer who had slunk out of the trailer when they arrived—shrank back with a wince. “Sorry. I, uh, I’m here to see Mr. Donovan.”

She wore a vest that said EVENT STAFF in big white letters. Turk barked at the duffel she carried, and she explained, “Oh, dog treats. Alex likes to have treats. I just want to make sure our brand selection is up to his standards.” She smiled at Turk, who scratched at the duffel and whined. “You mind if I give him one?”

“Go ahead,” Faith said, returning her smile. “He’s earned a treat.”

The woman opened the bag and pulled out a bacon strip. “Here you go, buddy. What do you think?”

Turk sniffed the bacon, then gave the woman a wary look.

“It won’t hurt,” she told him. “I promise. I would never hurt a dog.”

Turk sniffed the bacon again, then took the treat. He stared at the woman like a shy kid staring at a stranger. Faith ruffled his fur. “He’s not used to taking treats from strangers.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” the woman said, flipping her hand. “He’s a good boy. He’s learned to be cautious.”

She stooped low and kissed Turk’s forehead. He tolerated the act but continued to stare at her like she was a long-lost relative he couldn’t quite recognize.

She straightened and cleared her throat. “Um… I’m gonna…”

“Right,” Faith said, stepping off of the porch. “Sorry.”

“Be careful with him,” Michael warned. “He likes blondes.”

The woman wrinkled her nose. “Not my type.”

She looked Michael up and down and unwrinkled her nose. Michael cleared his throat and said, “Well, we’ll see you around.”

“For sure. Thank you, officers. Or… agents, right?”

Technically, it was Special Agents, but Faith didn't care enough to be pedantic. She extended her hand. "Faith."

The woman shook awkwardly, two firm pumps. “Velma. It’s from Scooby-Doo.” She blushed a little. “My parents really liked that show.”

“Well, I was named after a religious tenet,” Faith replied. “We take the good with the bad, right?”

The door to the trailer opened, and Alex regarded the stranger. Judging by his expression, Velma was very much his type. “Hey. You’re my treat girl, right?”

“I’m the girl with the treats, yes,” Velma said drily.

Important distinction, Faith thought with a smirk. She clapped Velma on the shoulder. “I’ll let you get to it.”

Turk lingered a second after Velma climbed the steps into the trailer, but when the door closed, he dipped his head and began chewing.

“So we like the bacon strip,” Faith said. “Good to know.”

Turk swallowed and gave Faith a toothy grin. She chuckled and ruffled Turk’s fur.

“So what’s the plan?” Michael said. “We wander around looking for Vanessa and wait to see if we find her first or if PD beats us?”

Faith shrugged. “I really don’t know what else to do at this point. Alex wants to be macho, Vanessa’s in the wind, and…” she sighed. “I don’t know. Alex’s words kind of got to me. We don’t really know that she’s here. We just think that she is.”

“Your hunches rarely lead us astray,” Michael said. “I wouldn’t bet against you.”

“I’m not betting against myself,” Faith said. “I just… okay, I’m second-guessing myself.”

“We still have police watching the schools in Pittsburgh,” Michael said. “We’ve got PD crawling all over this Expo. Alex is heads up, and we’re here with the greatest K9 detective on Earth. We have all the tools we need to handle this.”

Faith sighed. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. I just don’t like this part.”

"No one does. But you'll feel better after I sweet-talk the churro girl into making us a couple of fresh sticks while the barista whips us up some espresso."

Faith gave him a fishy look. “You’re not trying to take a page out of Alex’s book, are you?”

Michael laughed. “No. I’m too old to play around with girls in their twenties. He is too, but he’s also insecure.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah. Guys that age with six-packs are always insecure.” He patted his own growing belly. “Me, I’m giving into the dad bod.”

"What dad bod? You don't have any kids. It's just a body."

"Hey, Ellie likes my body."

“Good. More reason not to play with girls in their twenties.”

Michael chuckled. “I mean, at least Velma was in her thirties.”

"That's definitely an improvement," Faith agreed. She tilted her head. "I wonder why Turk was so weird around her. Normally, when people have treats, they're immediately best friends."

Michael frowned. “You don’t think she was suspicious, do you?”

Faith scoffed. “No, definitely not. Turk would have gone crazy if that was Vanessa. Besides, she smelled like she had freshly showered. I’m pretty sure Vanessa’s gonna smell like she’s been rolling in it for a while.”

Turk barked at her, and she scratched him behind his ear. “No offense, buddy. You know I love you.”

Turk growled softly and looked back toward Alex’s trailer.

And Faith stopped dead in her tracks.

Vanessa Morris was a dirty blonde in her thirties with hazel eyes. Velma was a dirty blonde in her thirties with hazel eyes. Granted, a lot of women were dirty blondes in their thirties with hazel eyes, but she was there specifically to see Donovan.

And that story about having treats for him to test to make sure they were up to his standards… The more Faith thought about it, the thinner it sounded. Why wouldn’t Alex bring his own dog treats? If he absolutely insisted that the venue provide it, then why wouldn’t he send them a list ahead of time?

As for the clean clothes, it was possible that Vanessa had used that as part of her disguise. The notes they had found on the targets showed that she could still think clearly enough to accomplish her mission.

But why hadn’t Turk identified her? His curiosity didn’t rise to the level of alarm. There was no amount of soap that could completely remove someone’s odor, was there?

Except there was. There were brands of shampoo designed specifically to eliminate a dog’s natural odor. They contained powerful detergents and odor-fighting chemicals that neutralized oils, germs, and other secretions to leave dogs smelling like nothing at all. As for the clothing, if it was new, then it also wouldn’t carry a scent.

But Turk had reacted. Not to Velma but to the bag. Faith thought it was the treats, but Turk had been very wary about eating that treat. Had he smelled something else? It would be more difficult to remove lingering smells from rubber than from skin and hair.

“Faith?” Michael asked. “Everything okay?”

She shook her head. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

She turned around and sprinted back toward Alex’s trailer. Michael and Turk followed.

She slowed to a walk before she reached the trailer and listened intently. As before, she could hear noises coming from the trailer. These weren’t moans of pleasure, though. They were whimpers of fear.

“No,” Alex said. “Please. I don’t want to.”

Then Velma’s voice. “Open.”

Except it wasn’t Velma’s voice. It was Vanessa Morris’s voice.

Faith cursed. “Michael, get that door open.”

Michael might have a bit of a gut now that he was on the wrong side of forty, but he was still a powerful man. His kick broke the entire door frame and sent it flying into the trailer. Turk growled and launched up the stairs. Faith drew her weapon and aimed it at the woman standing inside.

Vanessa Morris cursed and pulled the leash attached to Alex’s neck. Alex—naked and covered in nervous sweat—gagged and clawed at the chain, which Faith now recognized as a choker.

“Call the Dog off, or I’ll kill him!” Vanessa shrieked. “How dare you use the Dog to fight against his own best interests!”

Looking at the snarl on the woman’s face and the wildness in her eyes, Faith had no trouble recognizing her killer now. She kicked herself for not seeing the signs earlier. It had been so obvious. Faith glanced into the open duffel and wasn’t surprised to see the rubber Golden Retriever mask inside of it.

“Vanessa,” Michael said calmly. “This doesn’t need to end badly. Let him go, and we can talk. You can tell people your message. You can tell them about the Dog.”

“You…” Vanessa hissed, drawing the word out. “You… bastard!”

She turned to Faith. Her face softened. Maybe because Faith was a woman or because she was a dog owner, she thought she could reach her more easily. “People need to know. They need to see.”

Faith held her gun steady. “Let him go. Please. We can talk. We can make people listen. But not this way.”

Alex coughed. His face was turning purple. “Please.”

“Quiet, boy,” Vanessa said, squeezing the collar. Alex retched and clawed at his throat some more.

“If you don’t release that collar, you’ll kill him,” Michael said. “Do you want him to die now where no one will see him?”

“You…” Vanessa hissed again. “Bastard. Bastard! They would have seen. I was going to make him roll over. They would… they would have seen and known. You can’t treat the Dog like that. You can’t. The Dog is beautiful. The Dog doesn’t deserve to be abused.”

“You’re right,” Faith said, slowly closing the distance between herself and Vanessa. “You’re right. The Dog doesn’t deserve to be abused. The dog should be treated kindly and reverently.”

Vanessa nodded. “That’s right. The Dog should be worshipped. We should live like dogs.” She looked down at herself and grimaced. “God, these clothes. Why did we invent clothes? What’s wrong with our fur? Why did we evolve to be so… so… smooth?”

“Beats me,” Michael said. “Let’s talk about it. Let Alex go, and we’ll go somewhere safe and talk. I want to hear what you have to say.”

Turk padded quietly closer, but Vanessa caught him. She drew the collar tight and begged, “No, please! Turk, listen to me! He’s a bad man! He hurts dogs! I’m trying to teach him, please don’t stop me!”

Alex’s face was purple again. Veins stood out on his face, and his eyes were beginning to roll back in his head. Faith steadied her aim. “Vanessa, let him go. We can talk, but you have to let him go.”

“No!” Tears streamed down the killer’s face. “No! I was so close! Damn it! Why did you guys have to come here? I was so close! You… you don’t get it. People need to see. They need to know what the Dog has to suffer.”

Alex’s hands fell limply to his side. His chest began heaving as his body struggled to gain oxygen. Faith looked hard at Vanessa. “Vanessa, I’ll shoot you if you don’t let him go. Please don’t make me do that.”

“No!” Vanessa cried. “No! I’m not finished!”

She pulled the collar as tightly as she could. Her muscles strained as she cinched the leather around Alex’s throat. Alex’s tongue protruded from his mouth, and he began to convulse.

Faith sighed. This was what she would miss least of all.

She fired.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Faith watched as Rose and Sergeant Wells spoke briefly to the EMTs before they loaded Alex Donovan onto the ambulance. Alex had regained consciousness shortly after Faith had released the choke collar, but he could barely speak, and he was showing signs of confusion. He seemed better by the time the ambulance arrived, but they had to take him in for observation just in case. Having the oxygen to one’s brain cut off wasn’t something to play around with.

Rose clapped Sergeant Wells on the shoulder, then headed over to Faith and Michael. The EMTs boarded the ambulance, then headed off to the hospital. Rose scratched her head and muttered something to herself as she walked to the agents.

When she reached them, she smiled. “Well, EMTs say his vitals look good. They don’t think he suffered any serious damage. It’ll be a week or so before his voice is back to normal, but he’ll be okay.”

“That’s good,” Faith said.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Rose mistook the reason for that and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it wasn’t your fault. She fooled all of us.”

“Yeah, I know,” Faith said. “It’s not that. It’s just…”

She looked for the words, but she couldn’t find them. What she wanted to say wasn’t something most people could understand. “Yeah, you’re right,” she finally said. “I’m just glad we caught on before she could finish the job.”

“Yeah,” Rose said. “Me too.” She slapped the front of her thighs. “So. I guess I should get back to Pittsburgh. I figure you guys are staying here?”

“Yeah,” Michael answered. “Not that I don’t love Pittsburgh, but I’ve been on the road a lot lately. Not that I don’t love my car, but I think I’d rather sleep in my own bed tonight.”

“For sure,” Rose said. “We should grab lunch sometime, though, the three of us. We’ve been through hell together. The most absurd, fucked-up hell I’ve ever heard of.”

Michael laughed. “Count on it.” He frowned. “Oh shit, we’re your ride.”

“No, it’s okay,” Rose said. “Wells is going to give me a ride. I think the poor boy likes me.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Do you like him back?”

“He’s cute,” Rose replied, “but I don’t think my wife would be happy if I went too far with him.”

“Ah. Got it.”

Rose laughed. “Eh, don’t worry. I’ll buy him lunch when we get back to God’s country. His belly will be too full for him to feel a certain way about giving me a ride. Besides, there are a couple of pretty girls on the force who might want to make it up to him.”

Faith chuckled. “Well, I’ll leave that up to you. Safe travels, Detective.”

“You too.”

Rose headed off to join Sergeant Wells. Faith’s smile disappeared. She looked down at Turk, who appeared similarly glum.

Michael sat across from her and offered her his churro. Faith gave him a wry look. “No thanks. It’s cute that you’re trying to cheer me up, though.”

He shrugged and bit into the fried cinnamon stick himself. “Mind if I ask why you’re not cheery?”

“Are you cheery?”

“I mean, I’m not bouncing up and down for joy, but considering how close we came to letting our murderer kill a dude ten minutes after we talked to him, I’m pretty happy that things turned out differently.”

"I'm happy about that, too," Faith replied. "I'm just…" She sighed. "You're going to take this the wrong way."

Michael nodded. “Yeah, I’m prone to doing that. That’s why you and I have had such a shitty relationship for the past thirteen years.”

She surprised herself by laughing at that. Her laughter was short-lived, though. “I’m just upset that Vanessa ended up the way she did. She was only trying to help dogs. She dove straight off the deep end, but she started out with good motivations. I just hate that her last few years of life were spent… like this.”

Michael was quiet for a moment. When he finished his churro, he leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Well… I don’t feel the same as you. I don’t have sympathy for killers, even if they’re only killing because their brains don’t work right. But I understand why this one is hard for you. Dogs are truly wonderful. They might not be the gods Vanessa Morris thought they were, but they’re pretty damned awesome. I can understand why it’s hard to see people hurt them.

“So here’s what I’m gonna say that you’re gonna take the wrong way. I’m not saying that I advocate this as a tactic or thought process now or at any time going forward. But, in a way, you put Vanessa Morris out of her misery.”

Faith frowned. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m going to take that the wrong way.”

“Like I said,” Michael replied, “I’m not saying that should be your thought process, but think about what awaited Vanessa. She was almost certainly going to spend the rest of her life in a mental hospital. If she ever recovered enough to stand trial, she’d be spending the rest of her life in prison. Her mental state would have continued to deteriorate, and she would eventually have been too far gone to comprehend where she was or why. From a certain point of view, Vanessa Morris was already gone.”

Faith looked away. “That’s what makes this so shitty. I don’t feel like I did the wrong thing. I did what I had to do to protect Alex, but it sucks to know that the person I protected him from was an essentially innocent person whose neurons stopped firing the way they were supposed to. And… yeah, it sucks that she was an advocate for dogs. A bad one, but it still sucks.”

Michael nodded. “It definitely sucks. I’m not going to argue with you on that. And it’s a good thing that you’re compassionate enough not to dismiss her as a nutcase. That’s what made you such a great agent.”

He stopped for a moment. “Oh shit. This is it, huh? You’re done. This was your last case.”

Faith smiled softly. “Yeah. I guess it was.”

“Well, hey,” Michael said, turning toward her and shaking her hand. “Let me be the first to congratulate you.”

Faith returned his handshake. “Thank you.”

He got to his feet and jerked his head toward the car. “Come on. I’ll buy you a congratulatory donut. We should get out of here before the media gets here anyway. Let Philly PD handle the nuts and bolts. They’re good at that stuff.”

“A donut?” Faith quipped as she followed him. “You just had a churro.”

“You say that like it means something,” Michael replied.

She laughed. “Well, you’re still on active duty, buckaroo.”

“Me? Oh no. I’m off the field too.”

Her eyes widened. “What? You didn’t tell me that!”

“Was it not obvious? Look, you’ve been here for thirteen years. I’ve been here for twenty. I’ve seen and done it all. I’ve been your partner for a long time. I’ve gotten used to the way you work. I don’t want to have to relearn someone else’s way of doing things, and I don’t have the patience to try and get anyone to do things my way.”

“So what are you gonna do?” she asked.

Michael replied once they were in the car and strapped in. “I don’t know. I’m supposed to meet with Smythe once this case is over, which it now is. I guess he has an idea of where to put me.”

“Where?”

Michael shrugged. “If I had to guess, it’s going to be a data job.” He put the Wagoneer in gear and accelerated away from the park where the expo was being held. “Let’s face it, Faith. I’m an okay detective, but I’m not up to this type of work. I function best as the support guy. Like I was with Preston. Like I am with you.”

“You’re not just my support guy,” Faith protested. “You’re a valuable member of the team.”

Michael chuckled. “That just illustrates our differences in perspective. I think the support guy is a valuable member of the team. People like you are mercurial. You guys don’t like following rules. Any kind of rules. Even the ones you make for yourself. You’re brilliant as hell. You have insights that I could never hope to have. You find answers where I can’t even find questions. You catch bad guys. But my God do you guys need a leash. No pun intended.”

Faith smiled sheepishly and looked down at her hands. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. If I hadn’t had you to keep me tethered to Earth, I would have lost my way a long time ago.”

“You’d have been dismissed from the Bureau and ended up in jail for pursuing the Copycat case against everyone’s advice,” Michael said.

She frowned. “Well, all right. Ouch. We don’t need to be that blunt.”

He laughed again. "I'm not being insulting, I'm just illustrating why guys like you always need guys like me. So I don't feel like a third wheel on your and Turk's bicycle. But thinking of the future." He sighed. "Honestly, I don't know if I want to do this anymore. No, I do know. I don't want to do this anymore. I love you like a sister, Faith, but you are a lot of work to manage.”

She glared at him. “Again. Ouch.”

“It’s worth it,” Michael said. “When it’s you. But it won’t be you anymore. I’m tired. I’m old and cranky—”

“You’re not that old,” she interrupted.

“Yeah, but I am,” he replied. “I’m not decrepit, but I’m old enough that I don’t want to deal with things anymore. Besides, Ellie’s been asking me to retire for a long time. She worries about me, you know.”

Faith smiled wryly. “Does she worry about you or about me?”

Michael shrugged. “She doesn’t worry about you taking me away from her anymore. Not romantically. But… you know, Ellie’s a gentle soul. She can’t understand people who aren’t gentle souls.”

“Are you saying I’m not a gentle soul?”

“Not even close. You’re a good soul, but you’re not gentle. You can’t be. If you were, then you wouldn’t have been able to handle this job.”

Faith nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am. But talking about me, I’m just saying that Ellie will see your retirement as an opportunity to finally convince me to stay home. And I’m ready to do that. I’ll work whatever nine-to-five the Bureau wants me to work, then I’ll come home, get fat off of good cooking, and I’ll get excitement by meeting you at a bar every now and then to trade war stories.”

Faith smiled. “I was just thinking about that.” Her smile faded. “Do you think we’ll stay friends?”

“No. Now that I’m not your partner, I’m going to move to Alaska, grow out my beard, change my name and number and never see you again.”

Faith shoved him playfully. The wheel jerked, and he cried out, “Jesus! Not while I’m driving!”

Faith laughed and said, “I’m serious, though. Are we going to drift apart?”

“I don’t plan on it,” he said, “but our friendship is gonna change. Not seriously, but we’re not going to be spending two-thirds of our lives together anymore.”

Faith lowered her eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

“That’s a good thing, Faith. You can focus on being David’s wife. Not that your only value as a woman is being a wife, but you know what I mean.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m so glad you said that. I almost thought you were saying I’m nothing more than a Missus.”

“Oh, whatever. Let me try to work on myself, okay?”

She laughed again. “Okay.”

"Look, change is tough. You know that. You were the guy for a long time. Now, you're not the guy anymore. That's a tough thing to get through. But you'll get through it. It's no harder than trying to figure out who and where the latest crazy of the week is. Hell of a lot less stressful, though."

Faith nodded. “Yes. You’re right about that.”

“Of course I am. I’m always right.”

Michael pulled the SUV into the parking lot of his favorite donut shop, a five-minute drive from his house. The two of them enjoyed a deliciously unhealthy breakfast, traded stories, and laughed about the thirteen years of hell they’d spent together.

It was bittersweet, but as they returned to the Field Office to finish their last end-of-assignment debriefing together, Faith decided that the sweet outweighed the bitter. They’d had a great run. She looked forward to whatever the future held for both of them.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Faith snuggled next to David on the couch and savored the feel of his skin against hers. Turk sat in front of the couch, staring intently at the TV.

“Do you think he recognizes him?” David asked.

Faith smiled. She was glad David wasn't looking at her eyes, or the venom in them might have disturbed him. "Oh, he recognizes him."

Franklin West stood at the defendant’s table of the James A. Byrne U.S. Court and waited for the Justice of the Peace to pronounce his sentence. His chin was lifted, and he wore a haughty smile, but Faith could see the fear in his eyes. She loved seeing that fear. Maybe it was petty of her to feel this sense of triumph after so long, but she didn’t feel that guilty. Considering the pain that man had put her and so many others through for so long, she was happy to see him sweat.

Today was the long-awaited conclusion to the Franklin West trial. The most sensational true crime story of the century was drawing to a close. Today, Franklin West would be sentenced. The truth was that West had stopped being relevant from the day Faith had thwarted his last-ditch plan to have David killed, but Faith still wanted to see the hammer fall on him.

Her smile faded. He had stopped being relevant except for the sycophants who carried on killing in his name. Jill Reynolds—currently awaiting psychological clearance to stand trial—and the elusive Messenger.

Faith looked at Turk. The one worry Faith carried into retirement was whether leaving the FBI would cause the Messenger to leave her alone or if she would continue to hunt her and Turk.

But that was for other people to deal with. Faith was done. She didn’t need to think about that anymore.

The justice was a grave, elderly man who had replaced the first justice after the mistrial from early on in the case was deemed to be due, in part, to her mismanagement of the courtroom. He placed reading glasses on his head and cleared his throat.

David leaned down and kissed her forehead. “This is it, baby. This is the end.”

Faith smiled absently, but all of her attention was now focused on the television screen.

“Mr. West,” the judge began. “You have come to my courtroom day in and day out and heard the accusations levied against you. You have heard recounted time and again the effect that your heinous actions have had on so many innocent people. You have heard fathers mourn the loss of their daughters, wives mourn the loss of their husbands, children weep for the parents you’ve taken from them.”

Faith watched West’s eyes. The man’s sneer sickened her, as did his obvious concern for himself and no one else. Vanessa Morris was a twisted individual, but she at least had some excuse for her behavior. This snake had none.

The judge appeared to feel the same way. “Hearing the effects your actions have had on others, I would expect some sign of humanity, some indication that it matters to you that the name you’ve made for yourself is one of terror and tragedy. However, I have seen none of that. I’ve seen, if anything, pride in the destruction you’ve caused, joy in the pain you’ve inflicted.”

He removed his glasses and stared West in the eye. “Young man, you have deluded yourself into believing that you’re strong because you can hurt people. Like a little boy who puffs his chest because he kicked down a sand castle that other children have built, you think your actions make you powerful. They don’t. They make you pathetic.”

West’s smile faltered. He stared hatefully at the judge, and Faith nearly grinned when she saw the impotence behind that hate. You can’t do anything anymore, you asshole. You’re done.

“It’s very easy to destroy. It’s very easy to kill. I would find it effortless to do so myself were I so inclined. It’s difficult to build. It’s difficult to earn. You could have made a name for yourself for good. By all accounts, you are a brilliant and sharp-minded individual. Had you chosen a different path, you could have done something to benefit humanity. Instead, you hurt them. I’ll never understand why people like you with all of the advantages in the world choose to squander those advantages in favor of becoming the waste we see before us today.”

At the word waste, West began to tremble with rage. He opened his mouth to speak, and the judge said, “No, I’m not interested in what you have to say, Mr. West. You’ve had your chance to speak. You don’t get another.”

The judge folded his hands on his desk and tapped his fingers together for several seconds. When he spoke again, he sounded almost as though he were talking to himself. “I’ve spent some time debating your fate, Mr. West. The governor called my office this morning and informed me that should I feel it appropriate, I could sentence you to death for your crimes. I considered this very seriously. Heaven knows that if anyone deserves to suffer that greatest punishment, it’s you.”

He tapped his fingers for another several seconds. “But I’m not going to sentence you to death.”

A gasp rippled through the crowd. Faith herself stiffened slightly. She hadn’t realized until now that she expected and wanted West to receive the death penalty.

West looked at the judge with narrowed eyes. He looked more confused than threatening. Clearly he had expected to be sentenced to death too.

The judge lifted his hands and waited for the murmuring to die down. “Mr. West, death is too good for you. You’re too fascinated by it. You worship it too much. You fancy yourself in command of death. No, you fancy yourself in command of life. You’re not. You showed poor command of your own life, and I’ve already explained that the power to destroy is nothing at all like the power to create.”

He straightened in his chair. “I’m going to give you the worst punishment I can possibly give a man like you. Irrelevancy.”

Another murmur rippled through the crowd. Faith straightened and shared a look with David before turning back to the screen.

“I’m going to sentence you to living in a cell for the rest of your life, Mr. West. From time to time, you will be allowed glimpses of the outside world. With each glimpse, you will see how much less relevant you are. With each exposure to the world outside of the concrete walls where you will live out your days, you will see how much less the world cares about you than you care about it. It’s true that for those affected by your crimes, the pain will never completely fade. But even those people will move on. They will treasure the memory of those they loved more than they will abhor the memory of the monster who took them away.

“As for you, you will waste away. You will be one of many such forgotten monsters sentenced to shrivel up and die while the world forgets. By the time you release your last foul breath, even your wardens will think of you only as another prisoner, another number, another nobody who squandered his potential to become nothing more than the ghost of a nightmare.

“Franklin West, I hereby sentence you to thirty-two consecutive terms of life in prison without the possibility of parole. I wish you a great many years of stillness as you watch the legacy you thought you had created reveal itself to be nothing more than a puff of wind.”

He banged his gavel, and the courtroom erupted in cheers. West stared at him in blank shock. Then he began to tremble. He opened and closed his mouth several times without saying anything. Then he sank back into his chair, his eyes wide with disbelief. Faith had to laugh. Somehow, he had still expected to win. He had still expected to pull out some final miracle where he stood triumphant and the rest of the world lay defeated.

What a fool.

Faith and David cheered along with the attendees in the court. Turk barked and jumped and spun around, elated to see their worst foe finally getting what he deserved.

David pulled Faith into his arms, and she kissed him deeply. When he tried to pull away, she slid her hands under his shirt and kissed him harder. He gasped, and she whispered into his ear, “Let’s give Turk some food then head to the bedroom.”

He shivered deliciously. “That sounds like a plan.”

Faith quickly poured Turk a bowl of food, then skipped to the bedroom where David waited. Maybe it was a little macabre of her to do this, but she felt like celebrating, and there was no better way to celebrate freedom than naked in bed with the love of her life.

 ***

“Franklin West, I hereby sentence you to thirty-two consecutive terms of life in prison without the possibility of parole. I would wish you luck, but you don’t deserve it. So instead, I wish you only continuance. I wish you a great many years of stillness as you watch the legacy you thought you had created reveal itself to be nothing more than a puff of wind.”

Lillian Martin stared at the television silently. She replayed those words over and over in her head.

Thirty-two consecutive life terms. How could that be possible? What would they do? Keep his bones chained for thirty-one more lifetimes?

Hell, maybe they would. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. He was gone. He was gone forever. She would never see him. She would never be with him. They would never run away together, and they would never be together, and it was over, and her life was ruined.

Clarity hit her with the force of a tsunami. She had been a fool to ever think the two of them would be together. Of course, they wouldn't. Frank wasn't a god. Not really. No one was. He was a man, and it didn't matter if he was a great man. Hundreds of people armed with guns and chains and tasers were dedicated to making sure he spent the rest of his life in prison.

And Lillian would never see him again

She sat in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Well. That’s that.”

She burst into tears, ugly, wracking sobs that shook through her whole body. She collapsed onto her couch and shrieked into her pillow. From time to time, Frank’s name escaped her lips, but mostly it was just unintelligible guttural sounds.

What a waste. What a stupid waste. She had wasted her life. Her whole point of surviving after she got out was to be with him. God, she wanted to be with him! So bad! She could feel it deep inside her at night when she was alone and heated and unable to sleep. She writhed and twisted and moaned for him, and she would never have him.

She was alone. For now and ever, she was alone.

And it was all thanks to that bitch. Faith Bold. She of the glorious golden smile that had seduced Frank and caused him to throw away his life. The life he could have had with her.

Her tears dried. She sat up. “I’m going to kill her. I’m going to cut her and beat her and torture her until she begs me to let her die. But I won’t let her die. Not for a long time. Not until she watches me eat her dog and screw her boyfriend. I’ll tie him up and give him drugs and screw him and make her watch. I’ll kill her dog and gut him and skin him and cook him and make her watch. Then I’ll put a mirror in front of her and kill her and make her watch.”

She said all of this matter-of-factly, like a DMV worker calling out ticket numbers. The emotion didn’t arrive until a few minutes later when she was packing her bag and preparing to leave Freeport for Philadelphia.

Then she laughed. Oh, it was going to be so much fun! She was going to fucking kill Faith Bold, and it was going to make everything better.

Not all the way better. Nothing would make things all the way better. But it would be enough. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A bitch for a bitch.

She giggled. “Count your minutes, Faith Whore. I’m going to make sure you hurt before you die.”

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Faith couldn't stop smiling. The past twenty-four hours had been easily the best of her life. That probably wasn't strictly true, but they sure felt like the best hours of her life. She and David had stayed undressed until they were both too sore and exhausted to continue. They had gone out for coffee and breakfast, then taken a walk through two different parks and watched Turk chase squirrels and act like a puppy.

And now they were about to have dinner. One of David’s best qualities was being an excellent cook. He had made filet mignon with creamy mashed potatoes and roasted white asparagus. There was ice cream for dessert and a generous amount of wine for dinner, dessert, and after.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” David asked, pouring her first glass of wine, a rich cabernet that he swore paired excellently with the filet.

She shrugged. "I don't know. I got screwed good and proper last night; I spent a wonderful day with my soon-to-be husband and my dog, I'm about to have amazing food, and the most notorious killer I ever faced is going to spend the rest of his life in prison, and I'm retired."

“You’re not officially retired for another three weeks,” David reminded her.

She shrugged again. “Yeah, but the rest is just killing time. I don’t even have to go into the office if I don’t want to.”

“You should go in,” David said. “Let people have a chance to say goodbye.”

She laughed and kissed his cheek as he set her plate in front of her. “Of course I’m going to say goodbye. I’m just saying that I’m not a crime fighter anymore.”

David sat with his own plate and looked seriously at her. “How do you feel about that?”

She took a bite of the filet. Her eyes rolled. “God, how do you get this so tender?” she asked. “It’s freaking delicious!”

“The key is to sear it briefly on all edges, then cook it at a high temperature for a short period of time. That’s how you keep it juicy without overcooking it. But really, how do you feel?”

She took another bite and lifted a finger for patience. David chuckled and waited for her to answer. She washed the bite down with a generous sip of wine, then sighed.

“Well, at the moment, I feel great. I mean, I wasn’t sure how I felt at first. I was ready to leave, but I had no idea what I was gonna do. I mean, I’ve been an FBI agent for a long time. Twice as long as I was a Marine.”

“Thirteen years is a long time,” Michael agreed.

“But now that it’s over… honestly, I feel really good. I think watching West get sentenced helped. I guess… I mean, I never really thought about him after he was caught. I mean, I did, but not a lot. Especially not after I caught his little attempt to sic Michael against you.”

While in jail, West had contacted people on the outside to poison Ellie and convince Michael that David had poisoned her. Faith had caught onto the plan and retaliated with one of her own, one that had broken West the way he’d tried to break her.

David grimaced. “Don’t remind me about that.”

“But it’s over,” Faith said. “And knowing that he’s going to prison… I don’t know. In a weird way, it reminded me that there are other people fighting for justice. The judge in his own way is sending a message to other criminals. This is where you end up. This is where your path leads.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” David said. “You’re not an island. You don’t have to be the person who catches every bad guy.”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “That was what held me back for so long. I thought it had to be me. I thought I had to be the one to stop people like the Messenger or no one would. But there are other people who can stop her.”

She ate some more of her filet, then added. “You know, I never gave credit to everyone else. I always acted like I had to be the guy because I thought I was the only one who could be the guy. But really, it was always a team effort. Preston was the one who found Trammell. Michael was the one who shot him. The Philadelphia Police Department arrested West. Michael figured out that the Messenger is a freak obsessed with West.”

“You’ve caught a lot of bad guys too,” David reminded her. “Don’t take the credit away from yourself.” Turk barked, and David added, “Or from Turk.”

Faith grinned and stroked Turk's fur. He was enjoying his own filet next to her. "Of course, I wouldn't take credit from him. Or from me. I'm only saying that other people can do this job. Other people can find the Messenger. I'm done."

David took a bite of food and looked pensively over Faith’s shoulder. Faith knew what he was going to ask next, and she knew that he needed to work up the courage to ask it. She waited patiently for him to find his voice.

"Are you done?" he asked. "Really? For good? You're not going to get bored and go back?"

She smiled and reached across the table for his hand. “No. I will almost certainly get bored and try other things, but investigative field work is off the table. I’ve been there, done that, don’t need to do it again.”

He tried to hide the relief he felt when she said that, but he wasn’t successful. She laughed and leaned over the table to kiss him. “I think I’m going to focus on being your wife for a little while.”

“Well, I’m not saying that,” David demurred. “You’re valuable as more than a housewife.”

Faith rolled her eyes. “Oh my God. What’s going on? Are all of the men in my life trying to win some  ‘woke’ contest? I’m not saying I’m going to wear an apron and prance around the kitchen forever. I just mean we can enjoy each other for a while without worrying about phone calls interrupting us.”

“Right,” David nodded. “Hey, speaking of that, I wouldn’t mind seeing you in an apron. Just saying.”

She rolled her eyes again. “There’s the man I love.”

He grinned. “Not so woke now, am I?”

“I guess not,” Faith said drily.” She smiled and kissed him again. “That’s okay. I like that you’re so obsessed with me.”

“I really am,” he said, his eyes making it clear that he wasn’t joking. “I literally can’t stop thinking about you naked.”

“Okay, ten percent more woke, cowboy,” Faith said, pointing at him with her fork. “I’m still sore from last night. We’re going to have to take a break on the hanky-panky.”

“I can take a break from acting on my thoughts, but I can’t shut my mind off,” David said.

“Fine with me,” Faith replied.

She finished the last of her filet and started on the vegetables.

“How do you like the white asparagus?” David asked.

“It’s delicious,” she said. “Yeah, it’s lighter and more tender than green asparagus.”

David brightened. “I know. That’s why I picked it. I figured the filet would be heavy, and the garlic in the mashed potatoes would be intense, but the white asparagus would be a nice palate cleanser.”

Faith couldn’t have told the difference between the flavor of white and green asparagus if her life depended on it, but she was glad she had guessed well. She smiled at the man she loved and said, “You know, if you refill my wine glass enough, I might be willing to reconsider my moratorium on sex.”

David moved so quickly to grab the wine bottle that he nearly knocked over his own glass. His face was redder than the wine as he refilled her glass, and when Faith managed to stop laughing, she ran her hand up and down his arm and said, “You’re an idiot, David. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, baby,” David said, some of the red leaving his face. “I’m glad you and I are finally going to have a chance to take our relationship to the next level.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of—”

“Let’s get married,” Faith said.

David blinked. “That’s exactly what I was gonna say.”

“Let’s do it. Tomorrow. Let’s go to the courthouse and sign some certificates.”

He blinked again. “Oh. I mean, I still wanted to do a little ceremony and invite friends and family.”

“Sure,” Faith said. “We can do that whenever. But let’s get married tomorrow.” Her smile faded, and she gave him an earnest look. “I’ve been making you wait for a long time.” He began to speak, and she lifted her hand. “I know you’re gonna tell me that it’s worth it, and I love you for that, but I’ve been making myself wait too. Even when I didn’t acknowledge it, one of the things I sacrificed by being so obsessed with my job was a chance for happiness with a man I love. I tried to convince myself I didn’t need it, but I do. And I want it. Now.”

She reached across the table and took both of his hands in hers. “So, David Friedman.”

“Dr. David Friedman,” he corrected with a sly smirk.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, you ruined it.”

She took her hands away, and he laughed and grabbed them back. “No, I was only joking. Come on, ask me.”

“No,” she teased. “You ruined it.”

“Aw, come on. I made you dinner.”

She nodded. “You did make me dinner.” She sighed. “Okay, fine. Dr. David Friedman. Will you—”

Faith was interrupted when a gunshot rang out, and all of the lights in the house went dark.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Faith cursed and reached for her gun. She cursed again when her hand slapped her breast under her cocktail dress instead of gripping the handle of her service weapon.

That weapon was upstairs in her bedroom.

Turk was barking like a mad dog, snarling and spitting as he looked for the threat that dared to interrupt their dinner.

“Turk, quiet!” Faith commanded. “David, get under the table.”

“We’re both getting under the table,” David said. “I’m calling nine-one-one.”

“Don’t argue with me,” Faith said. “Under the table now.”

The sound of shattering glass told her that someone had broken into the house.

No. Not someone. Faith knew who it was. Only one person could be here right now interrupting her dinner.

It didn’t matter that Faith didn’t want to chase the Messenger anymore. The Messenger had come for her.

Turk growled low in his throat, and Faith shushed him. She grabbed her steak knife off of the table and listened carefully.

She heard nothing. Only her heart was pounding in her chest.

Shit.

“Turk, where is she? Don’t go to her, just point.”

Turk snapped his eyes to Faith, shocked to hear her tell him not to secure the threat. Ordinarily, Faith would be all for siccing him on a home invader, but she knew the Messenger had a gun, and she didn’t want Turk getting shot.

“No need for that,” a familiar voice said. “I’m right here.”

A second later, a lantern beam flooded the living room with dim light. The Messenger set the lantern on the coffee table and smiled at Faith. In her right hand, she held a Sig P320. It was a good gun. Lightweight but with manageable recoil, accurate, and very reliable. Some people complained about the stopping power of the 9mm Luger round, but Faith was very sure that it would do the job in close quarters against targets without body armor.

“Hi, Faith,” the Messenger said.

Her smile didn’t look crazy. It looked almost shy, like they were old friends seeing each other after a long time apart.

“It’s good to see you,” the Messenger said. “I wasn’t sure if we’d ever see each other again. I figured after the last time you probably didn’t want to talk to me.”

She laughed, and that too sounded far more well-adjusted than it should coming from a woman as insane as the Messenger.

“This is between you and me,” Faith told her. “Let’s step outside and leave Turk and David out of this.”

“Faith, no!” David cried.

“David, shut up!” Faith hissed. To the Messenger, she said, “It’s okay. I won’t fight. Let’s just go outside and talk.”

The Messenger laughed. “Oh, that’s okay, pretty boy. David, right? Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you yet. I’m going to tie you up and give you some drugs. Then I’m going to make you feel really good. I want Faith to watch me screw you. That’s one of the things I’m going to do to hurt her. But I’m going to make you feel really good, David. I’m going to do you right. I’m going to make her watch me do better for you than she ever could.”

A laugh bubbled up in Faith’s throat, and she bit her lip to stifle it. The Messenger’s tone was still mellow, but she was still clearly insane. The threats she was levying were ridiculous, like something out of a middle school fight.

Except there was that handgun pointed right at Faith’s midsection.

“You’re crazy!” David cried. “I’m not gonna touch you! Get out of my house!”

The Messenger seemed to find that hilarious. She giggled and said, "That's fine. I'll touch you. And then I'll touch Turk, and then I'll touch Faith. Different touches, but same goal." She smiled at Faith. "I'm going to break you." She smiled, and in her distended grin, Faith saw the echoes of Franklin West and Jethro Trammell.

“Remember, I will break you.”

“Let’s see how you bleed, little girl.”

She was going to kill Faith today. Turk and David, too.

Faith felt a white-hot jolt of fear. When it passed, her mind slipped into a coldly logical analysis of the situation.

She needed to get close. The Messenger had manic strength, and from this distance, anyone could use a handgun effectively, but she wasn’t trained, and Faith wasn’t caught off guard like she was last time. If she could get close enough, she could knock the handgun out of the Messenger’s hand and subdue her.

And if she couldn’t subdue her, she could use the knife.

“What’s your name?” she asked. “You know mine. I don’t know yours.”

The Messenger tilted her head. “That’s true. We haven’t been properly introduced, have we?”

Turk growled and took a step forward. The Messenger’s sweet smile was replaced by an ugly snarl. She snapped her gun to Faith and shouted, “He takes one more step, I kill him now!”

“Turk!” Faith called. “Stand down.” Turk gave her another incredulous look. “Stand down,” she repeated. “It’s okay, boy.”

Turk looked back at the Messenger and growled. Then he reluctantly backed away.

The Messenger released a nervous laugh. “Good boy! Wow! You have both your boys so well trained!” She smiled at Faith again. “My name is Lillian Martin. I’m twenty-eight years old, I think. I’m not exactly sure. My parents never celebrated my birthdays, and they hit me a lot when I was a kid. I cut pieces of them off and made them choke to death on each other’s pieces.” She giggled. “That’s why I got sent to the mental hospital.

“I was there for ten years, and then they let me out because I smiled real pretty and told the doctor I understood killing was wrong, and I was ready to be a productive member of society. But they didn’t know that I said all that because I wanted to be with Frank. I learned about his case, and I just fell in love.”

Her smile softened, and God help her, she really did look like a girl in love. “He was so… alive! He was so present. So in control of everything. So much better than the assholes with whom he was forced to share space. He was the most perfect man I’d ever seen in my life.”

Faith tried to swallow the anger that built in her chest, but hearing West talked about like some sort of hero overwhelmed her. “He was a weak bully who got his rocks off by murdering innocent people.”

Lillian shook her head. "Innocent? What makes them innocent? Do you know how many of those innocent people are really assholes? My parents were innocent, even though they beat me within an inch of my life sometimes. Customers are innocent even though they're complete bitches whenever they can't shout their way into discounts or get me to drop my panties because they tell crude jokes."

She was beginning to ramble. That could be good, but Faith had to be careful. If Lillian was distracted, Faith could get close, but if she fell over the edge and lost control too soon, then it would go very badly for Faith and her loved ones.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” Faith said. “That sounds horrible.”

Lillian scoffed. “You’re not sorry for shit. If I didn’t have a handgun pointed at you, you’d be calling me all sorts of names and patting Turk on the head. ‘Good boy. We caught a bad guy.’ Fuck you.”

“I just don’t want innocent people to get hurt,” Faith said. “I know you have a problem with me, but can we handle that ourselves? Let David take Turk out of here. You can do whatever you want to me.”

“Innocent people get hurt every day,” Lillian said. “They get beaten, spit on, raped, and murdered every single damn day. Everything you do, everything you’ve ever done your entire life, it’s nothing more than a drop in the bucket. Quit acting like you’re special.”

Faith took a step closer. Lillian didn’t react. Excitement filled Faith. She could do this. She just needed to stay focused and patient.

Tears welled in Lillian’s eyes. “Frank was my world. He was my everything. He was… the one chance… I had to be… happy.” She shook her head. “And you took that away. You took him away from me.”

“He was sentenced for his crimes,” Faith said, taking another step forward. “He killed thirty-two people.”

“Oh, so fucking what?” Lillian hissed. “People die every day. Are they back? Did they come back when you put him in jail for the rest of his goddamned life?”

“I didn’t sentence him,” Faith insisted. “That was the judge.”

“Oh.” Lillian nodded. “You’re right. I should go kill him instead.”

“No!” Faith said. “Damn it. You don’t need to—”

“Shut up.” Her lower lip trembled. “Here’s the deal I’m going to make you. I want to hurt you more than I want to kill you. If I kill you, you’ll stop hurting. So here’s what I want to do. I want to drug your boyfriend, screw him, then kill your dog and eat him. Once that’s done, I want to break both your arms and leg and cut out your tongue. I think I’ll cut off your ears and nose too. That way, you can spend the rest of your life knowing that David screwed me, and I ate your dog. You let me do that, and I’ll let you live. I’ll even let David live. Sound good? Yeah, that sounds good.”

She lowered the handgun, probably intending to shoot Faith’s knee to disable her. Faith was out of time. She needed to act now.

She lunged forward, slicing with the knife. Lillian cursed and fired, but Faith’s knife bit into her forearm first, and the shot went wide.

Lillian shrieked and stumbled away. As she moved, she knocked the lantern to the floor. The impact dislodged the batteries, and the light in the home went out.

Turk leaped over Faith with a roar. Faith heard another gunshot, and more fear lanced through her. When she heard Turk growling and Lillian screaming, the fear was replaced by excitement. “Get her, Turk! Hold her!”

She scrambled for the lantern, but as her fingers closed over the handle, she heard a thump, then a yelp. Turk’s growling stopped, and fear resurfaced. “Lillian! If you hurt my dog, I swear to God, I’ll kill you!”

Lillian laughed at that. The sound echoed oddly around the living room, and it was impossible for Faith to tell where it was coming from. God damn it, how do I fix this lantern?

Finally, the electric light flickered, then came on. She stood and looked around the room, but she didn’t see Lillian. Turk lay still in front of the couch. She saw his chest rise and fall with his breath, but blood matted his fur in between his eyes where the butt of Lillian’s gun had struck him.

Anger surged in Faith. “Coward!” she shouted. “Come out here and fight me!”

“Faith!”

The voice was David’s. Faith turned to him to see him sprinting towards her, his eyes wide with terror. He shoved her hard, sending her flying backwards.

As Faith flew through the air, she looked up and saw Lillian crouched on top of a bookshelf like a goblin. She fired her weapon. Faith watched in horror as the bullet meant for her struck David in the neck instead.

“No!” she cried. “David!”

Lillian snarled and aimed her weapon at Faith. Faith’s arm moved of its own accord. Her knife buried itself in Lillian’s neck.

The Messenger coughed, and blood sprayed from her mouth. The gun slipped from her hand, and she fell to the floor. Faith got up and kicked the gun out of the way. She wrapped her hands around the handle of her knife and snarled at the Messenger, ready to withdraw the blade and watch her bleed to death.

A wet choking sound pulled her attention away. She jumped off of Lillian and ran to David, who lay on the floor, hand pressed to his neck.

“David!” she cried. “No, David. No.”

He met her eyes. His were already going glassy. He mouthed the words I love you, but the only sound he managed was a blood-soaked cough.

“No!” Faith cried. “Come on, David, come on.”

She pressed her hands to the wound and shrieked, “Help! Someone help! Call nine-one-one please!”

More choking sounded behind her. She turned around and saw Lillian’s chest hitching. The killer turned her head to Faith. Her mouth was stretched in a hideous grin, and her eyes danced even as blood spurted from around the knife embedded in her throat.

Faith’s stomach turned as she realized Lillian was laughing. She bared her teeth, but David began to shake under her hands, and she had to look away.

David’s eyes were rolled back in his head. He was still breathing, but his pulse felt so weak. She took a deep breath and shouted, “Help! Someone help, please!”

She sobbed, pressing her hands to David’s wound and begging God to spare him. She didn’t believe in God and hadn’t been to church in almost twenty years, but she begged now.

Turk groaned and staggered to his feet. He shook his head, then blinked and looked at Faith. When he saw David, he yelped and ran to his side. He whined and licked David’s face, but David didn’t react.

Faith shouted over and over for help, but it was so long before she heard the sirens of the approaching ambulances. And David was fading underneath her hands, fading.

She pressed her forehead to his and begged, “Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

David lifted a trembling hand to caress her cheek. Then he sighed and fell still.

Faith lifted her head to the sky and screamed in anguish. Behind her, she heard the hoarse rattle of Lillian Martin’s last breath. It did nothing to ease Faith’s pain.

“Please,” she pleaded. “Don’t go.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

One Month Later

Faith held David's hand and let her eyes travel over his face. There were lines that hadn't been there before. His skin was a little drier and looser than it was four weeks previously. The nurse said that they could keep him hydrated, but that lack of movement would lead to weakening connective tissue and baggier skin. She mentioned—hesitantly—that the effect was reversible if David woke up in time, but she couldn't meet Faith's eyes when she said that.

Turk whined softly next to Faith. She managed a half-smile and let the hand not holding David’s drop to his shoulders. Turk gave her a mournful look, and she gave him the same reassurance she had every time they visited David. “It’s okay, Turk. He’s just sleeping. He’ll wake up when he’s done resting.”

Turk didn’t look like he believed her any more than she believed herself. He looked back at David and placed his chin on the bed, then whined softly.

The door opened. Faith could tell who it was by the weight of the footsteps, so she didn’t look away from her fiancé. “Hey, Michael.”

“Hey, Faith,” Michael replied. “I figured you would be here.”

Faith sighed. “Where else?”

Michael looked down at David and muttered something under his breath. Faith didn’t quite catch it, but she assumed it was invective against Lillian. That was how Michael coped with his grief. He got angry.

Faith wished she could get angry. It would be easier than the emptiness she felt now.

But there was no point. Lillian Martin was dead. Faith couldn’t hurt her. She couldn’t change the fact that Lillian’s last memory was the sight of her enemy weeping in anguish at the loss of the man she loved.

She had done it. She had finally done what Jethro Trammell and Franklin West couldn’t do. She had broken Faith Bold. The fact that Faith couldn’t muster up enough energy to feel upset about that was just proof of Lillian’s success.

“They sent me to pick you up,” Michael said. “They have to do the thing.”

Faith nodded. Today was her official last day of employment with the FBI. Smythe would likely try one final time to convince her to take the instructorship at Quantico, but Faith couldn’t do that. She couldn’t leave David. She would live off of her pensions and watch the love of her life slowly waste away and never wake up. She would do this because as long as David’s heart beat, there was a tiny part of her that could convince herself that there was hope. It was all she had to hold onto.

She took a deep breath, squeezed David's hand and stood. "Okay, boy," she told Turk. "Let's go get this done. Then we can come back and see David."

Turk sighed and licked David’s hand once. Then he followed Faith and Michael out of the room.

When Faith reached the doorway, she heard a weak voice call her name. “Faith?”

Hot and cold switched places in her a dozen times over the span of a few seconds. She stood stock still, too afraid to even turn around lest she break the spell.

“Faith?” David repeated. “What’s going on? Where am I?”

She turned around then. When she saw David’s eyes open and looking quizzically at her, she cried out and rushed to his arms. David tried asking a couple of times what happened, but Faith didn’t answer right away. She had all the time in the world to fill him in on what he’d forgotten. Right now, she just wanted to hold him close and breathe him in and convince herself that this was real, that despite all that had happened, everything would be okay.

Turk barked and yipped and jumped for joy. He ran to David and licked his face until Faith pulled him off.

Faith giggled and held David even tighter. In the doorway, Michael chuckled and said, “I’ll tell Smythe we’re doing the thing tomorrow. Good to see you well, David.”

Faith smiled gratefully at Michael, then closed her eyes and focused on her happiness. David was okay. Her new life could begin the way it was supposed to begin.

 ***

Deputy Director Smythe smiled at Faith. “Michael told me the good news. I’m happy to hear that your fiancé is doing well.”

Faith returned his smile. “Thank you, sir. He’s got a ways to go, but all signs are pointing to a full recovery.”

“That’s wonderful,” Smythe replied. “Although I must apologize for my selfishness. Much of what makes this wonderful for me is that it seems to have inspired a change of heart regarding the K9 instructor position I offered you.”

Faith nodded. “Yes, sir. Now that David is on the mend and should return home soon, I’ve elected to accept the position at Quantico. I’d like to defer my start date for one more month to ensure that David is well enough to take care of himself, but I do want the job.”

“Of course, of course,” Smythe replied. “For you and Turk, I will wait as long as I need to.” He smiled at Turk. “And thank you, agent.”

Turk barked proudly, holding his head high and basking in the glow of Smythe’s gratitude. Smythe chuckled and said, “There are other congratulations in order. Michael, you’re less of a celebrity than Turk and his handler, so I can’t promise quite the same fanfare around the Bureau, but your accomplishments are no less extraordinary than Faith’s. I look forward to seeing what you do as leader of the Philadelphia Field Office.”

Faith turned to Michael, wide-eyed. Her partner was beet red and smiling sheepishly. “Thank you, sir. I look forward to it.”

A grin spread across Faith’s face. “So that’s why Tabitha isn’t here.”

"ASAC Gardner has been reassigned to the Los Angeles field office," Smythe replied. "Between you and me, she's a fine agent, but she lacks the flexibility I need from a leader. I hope some time in the FBI's second most active field office will teach her to adapt. In the meantime, I'm quite satisfied with my choice for Special-Agent-in-Charge. Frankly, I've been hoping Michael would express interest in leadership for some time."

Faith shoved Michael playfully. “You asshole. When were you gonna tell me?”

Michael shrugged. “Well, you had David to worry about. I didn’t want to intrude on your grief.”

Faith laughed and pulled him into a bear hug. “Congratulations.”

Michael returned the hug. “Thank you.”

Faith pulled away and said, “So, full SAC, huh?”

"Yes," Smythe answered. "Considering the prominence the Philadelphia Field Office has achieved, I've decided to elevate its position in the Bureau's operational hierarchy. This office will continue to specialize in the investigation of active, prolific spree and serial killers. As SAC, Special Agent Prince will be responsible for overall management and leadership of the office but doing that job and overseeing the office’s caseload is more than one person can handle. ASAC Desrouleaux will act as investigative lead and manage the deployment of our field agents under SAC Prince’s guidance.”

Faith nodded. “I think you’ve made excellent choices, sir. They’re both great leaders and fine detectives.”

Smythe smiled. “Well, there’s no replacing you, Special Agent Bold, but we have high hopes for Special Agent Chavez. She’s shown remarkable aptitude under Desrouleaux’s tutelage. Her partner is a little green, but he’s driven, hardworking, and passionate. And he’s great with his dog.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. “Ah. We have a new K9 in Philly?”

“Yes. K9 unit Knight. He’s a bit green too, but after a few weeks working with the greatest dog in the Bureau’s history, I’m confident he’ll find his way.”

Faith smiled at Turk. “We’ll get him up to speed, sir.”

“Outstanding.”

Smythe stood, and Faith and Michael followed suit. Smythe shook Faith’s hand and said, “You have my number if you need anything. When you’re ready to make the move to Quantico, call me. We’ll have an apartment ready for you. We’ll also reimburse your travel expenses. I assume you’ll be spending your weekends in Philly.”

“Yes, sir,” Faith said. “Gotta keep the husband happy.”

Smythe laughed. “I’m sure he’ll be very happy to be married to the best damned field agent this Bureau has ever seen.” He squeezed Faith’s arm. “Congratulations, Special Agent. And thank you.”

He left the office, then poked his head back in. “Oh, agent? One more thing.”

He motioned them outside. As soon as Faith stepped through the door, several party streamers went off. The other employees of the field office jumped up from behind desks and tables and shouted, “Surprise!”

A banner fell from the ceiling with a picture of Turk and Faith at the center. On either side were the words CONGRATULATIONS AGENTS!

“I tried to get it to read badasses,” Michael said. “But the Director wanted me to be more professional now that I’m SAC.”

“At least to start, Special Agent Prince,” Smythe said with a wink.

Faith had just enough time to say thank you before she was surrounded by well-wishers. She was glad that she had ridden with Michael because most of the well-wishers wanted to express their gratitude by shoving drinks in her hand and toasting her future.

Turk, of course, found Knight within five seconds. The two dogs greeted each other like old friends and spent most of the party chasing each other through the office, running in between legs and leaping over desks. Chavez’s new partner—a fresh-faced young man named Gabriel Pierce—smiled at Faith. “Sorry about Knight. He tends to be a bad influence wherever he goes.”

Faith laid a hand on Pierce’s shoulder. “First piece of advice, kid: never apologize for your dog.”

Pierce grinned. “Understood, ma’am.”

Chavez put a hand on Pierce’s other shoulder and gave Faith an arch look. “Trying to steal my new man, Bold?”

Pierce blushed like a tomato, and both Chavez and Faith laughed. Faith clapped Chavez’s shoulder. “Go easy on the boy, Chavez. He’s new.”

“Not a chance,” Chavez replied.

Other agents pulled Faith away, and Faith noticed that Chavez kept her hand on Pierce’s shoulder as they moved off. Workplace romances rarely worked out, especially in the FBI, but Faith allowed herself to hope something good would happen between the two of them.

As she watched Michael and Desrouleaux talking near Michael’s new office, the first bout of nostalgia moved through her. She was an outsider now. She would always be welcome here, but she was a visitor. This was no longer her home.

And that was all right. She’d put some damned good years here. It was time to move on and put some damned good years somewhere else.

A furry body nudged her legs. She looked down and smiled at Turk as she stroked his fur. “Good boy, Turk. Good boy.”

Turk smiled up at her, then looked out at the crowded office. The two agents watched their comrades enjoy themselves and looked forward eagerly to their next adventure.

EPILOGUE

Faith raised her glass. “To Michael Prince. The best SAC in the Bureau.”

Michael laughed. “Wow. That sounds really weird when you just say it like that.”

Faith grinned mischievously. “Well, I would know, wouldn’t I?”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Michael scolded, touching his glass to hers. “Keep it PG, agent.”

They drank, and Faith reminded him, “That’s instructor to you, sir.”

“I still outrank you,” Michael said. “Besides, we’re about to go months without seeing each other. I’d rather part as friends than former lovers, if that’s all right with you.”

The two of them were having dinner at a high-end steakhouse near the city center. They had left the party earlier than the others. Thirteen years of partnership required a more personal goodbye than an office party.

Faith laughed. “Well, friends tease each other, and I think it’s funny that you’re still awkward about that. Besides, you have Ellie, and I have David. That means it’s okay to laugh about the past.”

“Just so long as you don’t cling to it,” Michael said.

Faith leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “You’re not talking about our ancient history, are you?”

Michael grinned. “Damn. Still sharp as a whip, even in retirement.”

Faith rolled her eyes. “Ha ha.”

Michael chuckled. “No, I’m not talking about ancient history. I’m talking about the future. Leaving the field is a good thing for you. You’re ready for it. You did great work, and it’s time for you to move on.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. But years from now, you might not feel the same way. Your life is going to stabilize for a while, and you’re going to ride that high for a while. But years from now… Sorry to be blunt, but Turk will be dead, and you’ll be in your early forties. That’s going to be very hard. You’re going to be young and fit and capable, and you’re going to be looking back at five to ten years of relative mundanity. You’re going to miss Turk, and you’re going to feel an itch to get back into the game. I strongly urge you not to fall into that trap.

“It might not necessarily come when Turk passes, but that’s the first thought that came to my head. Whenever it comes… just stay away.”

Faith shifted awkwardly in her chair. “Jeez. I’ll miss you too.”

“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” Michael scolded. “You know I don’t mean it like that. I just mean…” He sighed. “Look, it’s been hard to watch you the past few years. I know I’ve been the voice to urge you to stay the past few times you wanted to leave the field, but that was only because I knew you’d come back if you left the wrong way. I watched this job take a toll on you. A big one. You’ve come through it, but… I want to watch you grow old safe and happy and comfortable. Call me selfish, but I think you’ve done your part, and it’s time for you to relax. So promise me that you won’t come back. Promise me you’ll let yourself relax.”

Faith took a deep breath and released it in a long exhale. She tapped her glass, then met Michael’s eyes. “I can’t promise that. I can tell you that right now, I have no plans to ever come back. I can tell you that I can’t wait to be an instructor and work a nine-to-five. I can’t wait to marry David and live a nice, quiet, domestic life where I get my excitement from training young whippersnappers to be the next generation of badasses, then go home to watch tv and cuddle on the couch. And when Turk dies… That will be hard. But I’ll get through it. And I don’t see myself rushing back into the field just to ‘feel something.’”

She looked past him at the crowd of people enjoying their dinners in the restaurant; innocent people who, like her, wanted nothing more than to just live their lives in safety. “But I can’t tell how I’m going to feel in the future. I don’t know if one day, I’m going to want to protect more innocent people or catch more bad guys. I don’t know if those urges are going to come from boredom or from true concern. And when they come…” she shrugged. “I don’t know. If you twisted my arm right now, I’d say I’ll never be back, but who knows? Life is long. People change. And there might come a day when staying away is worse for me than coming back.”

She reached forward and squeezed his hand. “But whatever the future holds, it ends with you and I old and fat and happy. It ends with your hand in Ellie’s and my arm around David. I don’t know how I can know that for sure, but I know it. Wherever our journeys take us, they end with us smiling and ready for the sunset.”

Michael was silent for a while after that. Eventually, he nodded slowly and smiled at Faith. “I can accept that.”

She grinned. “Good.”

She got up and came around the table, then wrapped her partner in a bear hug. “I love you, man. Stay in touch, okay?”

“I will,” Michael said, squeezing her tightly. “Same to you. Don’t be a stranger.”

She held him for a long time, not releasing him until it became uncomfortable. She kissed him on the cheek, then returned to her seat.

They spent the rest of dinner talking about everything but the end. They’d gotten that part out of their system. The rest of the night, they were good friends. One more thing that would never change.

 ***

Six Months Later…

Joker twisted in the air and snapped his jaws shut around the man’s forearm. The man grimaced as the big Rottweiler dragged him to the ground and pinned him, pressing his considerable weight to the man’s chest. The man fought to escape, but Joker shifted his paws and bore down, forcing the man to still.

“And release,” Faith commanded.

Joker released his handler’s arm and backed away, wagging his tail. His handler, Special Agent Sato, got to his feet and grinned at the dog. “Good boy, Joker. Good boy.”

Joker, of course, was over the moon to hear Sato’s praise. He puffed his chest out and grinned, happily accepting his pats.

Faith looked at Turk and raised her eyebrow. “What do you think, Turk? Are they ready?”

Turk tilted his head for a second, considering. Then he barked. Faith smiled and ruffled her fur. “I agree.”

She straightened and turned to Sato. “Special Agent Sato, K9 unit Joker, congratulations. You two have passed your final exam.”

Sato’s grin widened. He puffed his chest up just like his dog and grabbed Faith’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I really… Uh, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

Faith laughed and clapped the young agent on the shoulder. “Sir’s fine, agent.” She hooked her thumb at the sideline of the K9 training course at Quantico. “As my old friend SAC Prince likes to say, I’m scarier than any man he’s ever met.”

Sato reddened slightly. He was a very new agent and not comfortable enough to joke around like that yet. “Well, thank you, uh, Instructor Bold.”

Faith laughed again. “Let’s go with Faith.”

“Right,” Sato said. “Thank you, Faith.”

Faith clapped him on the shoulder again. "Go get cleaned up, then meet us back here. We'll get the ceremony out of the way, then take the dogs out to run while we drink and shoot the breeze."

Sato grinned again. “Yes, ma’am.”

He jogged off, Joker at his heels, and Faith and Turk walked over to the waiting Michael. Michael smiled and gave Faith a brief embrace. “Well, look at that. Your first graduate.”

Faith laughed. “Well, the last agent-K9 pair in my first graduating class, but yes.”

Michael shrugged. “Whatever. I’m a boss now. I can’t be bothered to remember details.”

Faith giggled. Then she kissed his cheek. “Thanks for coming down. It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too.”

Michael looked over the field, where the other graduates were gathering with their K9s. “You did good, kid. You and Turk.”

Faith laughed. “Yeah. I guess we did.”

She watched the young agents and felt a wave of nostalgia. She had been that agent once. Of course, it had taken a while for her to get her K9, but she remembered the eagerness, the bright eyes, the zeal to protect the innocent and bring the guilty to justice. She missed that sometimes, but she was glad to be where she was: inspiring the next crop of young agents.

She looked at Turk and ruffled his fur. “How do you feel, boy? Ready to train some more good guys?”

Turk barked proudly. Faith laughed and ruffled his fur again, then left Michael to rejoin her class. Her phone buzzed, and she smiled when she saw David’s text. An hour out. See you soon, my love.

She looked at the setting sun, bathing her training course in golden light. As stories go, this was a wonderful beginning to hers.

One book closes, another opens, she thought. Or something like that.

She stood in front of the class and called. “All right, agents. You are now ready to catch bad guys.”

NOW AVAILABLE!

CLOSE BY

(A Kari Blackhorse Suspense Thriller—Book One)

“A masterpiece of thriller and mystery.”

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Across the sun-scorched Arizona desert, Navajo tribal Detective Kari Blackhorse must confront a series of murders shrouded in ceremonial precision. Caught between modern law enforcement and ancestral traditions, Kari's heritage becomes her guide through a labyrinth of mystical clues as she hunts for a truth more complex –and a killer more sinister— than any she has faced before.

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CLOSE BY

(A Kari Blackhorse Suspense Thriller—Book One)

Did you know that I've written multiple novels in the mystery genre? If you haven't read all my series, click the image below to download a series starter!

Blake Pierce

USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake's most recent latest releases are the Alison Payne, Isla Rivers Kari Blackhorse, and Kate Valentine series.

Please visit blakepierceauthor.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.

SERIES BY BLAKE PIERCE

KATE VALENTINE

KARI BLACKHORSE

ISLA RIVERS

ALISON PAYNE

JENNA GRAVES

THE GOVERNESS

RACHEL BLACKWOOD

SHEILA STONE

FINN WRIGHT

MORGAN CROSS

JULIETTE HART

FAITH BOLD

FIONA RED

DAISY FORTUNE

AMBER YOUNG

CAMI LARK

NICKY LYONS

CORA SHIELDS

MAY MOORE

PAIGE KING

VALERIE LAW

RACHEL GIFT

AVA GOLD

A YEAR IN EUROPE

ELLA DARK

LAURA FROST

EUROPEAN VOYAGE

ADELE SHARP

THE AU PAIR

ZOE PRIME

JESSIE HUNT

CHLOE FINE

KATE WISE

THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE

RILEY PAIGE

MACKENZIE WHITE

AVERY BLACK

KERI LOCKE