“Yes,” Tatum said, doodling with a pen on the paper pad in front of him. “I told the lieutenant, and I got the cold shoulder. They’re very sensitive about the bureau meddling in their business.”

There was a moment of silence. “How do you want to proceed?”

Tatum drew a sad face, then tapped the pen, peppering the paper with random spots. “You know that civilian you brought in? She has an impressive record, right?”

“Zoe Bentley? She worked on the Jovan Stokes case,” Mancuso said. “So that earned her some recent media fame. She also has a PhD in clinical psychology and a JD from Harvard.”

He lowered his voice, even though he was the only one in the room. “I think she should fly here, dazzle the detectives with her credentials, and convince them to kick this quack out. Then she can help me nudge this investigation back on the right course.”

“How would she help?” Mancuso sounded mildly amused.

“Use her profiler buzzwords and charm. I have some really good ideas on how this investigation should progress.”

“So you want her to come over and back you up.”

“They won’t really listen to anything I have to say, because I’m just a fed. But she’s a civilian profiler, so her words might carry more weight.”

“Okay,” Mancuso said. “I’ll send her over.”

“Awesome.”

“Good night, Agent Gray.” She hung up.

Surprised by the abrupt end to their conversation, Tatum put the phone back in his pocket. Then he looked at the sad face he had drawn and, after a moment of thought, added a pair of glasses and three hairs.

CHAPTER 6

Chicago, Illinois, Sunday, July 17, 2016

It wasn’t working out. He’d hoped she would be the one, but he could already feel the magic fading, the boredom taking hold. When he woke up next to her, he no longer felt the thrill of lust and excitement. All he could feel was disappointment.

Part of it, he knew, was the embalming fluid.

He hadn’t gotten it right. Her body was too rigid, the color of her skin imperfect. He should, perhaps, have added more dye to compensate for the saline solution. But he didn’t know how much, and the online material he’d found about it was hazy in the details.

Two nights ago, frustrated, he’d slapped her, and she had fallen off the chair, slumping to the floor, her body still bent in a sitting position. Furious, he’d left the house, slamming the door behind him, driving around the city, knowing that if an opportunity were to present itself, he would kill. But all the women he’d seen were in pairs or groups, and when he had approached a whore on the street, she’d said she was done for the day, her eyes betraying fear. What had she seen in his face that made her so scared? Horrified, he had hurried back to his car and examined his face in the mirror, but it looked the same as always. He had driven home and relieved himself in the bathroom.

The next one would be better. He would figure out a way to make her more lifelike. Perhaps glass eyes would help. He should look into that.

But first he had to break up with this one.

He lifted her from the floor, placing her back in the chair. She stared at the table, no doubt feeling the tension in their relationship.

He put his hand on her arm, caressing it gently.

“We’ve had some good times, haven’t we?” He smiled at her.

He let the silence between them linger. How should she react? He tried to think of all he knew, the movies he had seen, the books he had read.

She would cry.

He took her left arm and bent it at the elbow. He wanted to get it just right, and it was tricky, but finally he managed to place her palm on her face. Taking her right arm, he did the same so that it looked as if she had buried her face in her hands while sobbing.

She was beautiful. He almost changed his mind then and there, almost told her that maybe they should give it another chance, but he knew it would only hurt them both, eventually. It was best to remain silent.

He poured them both a glass of wine, for old times’ sake. She didn’t touch hers, so he drank that as well. Then he helped her stand up and dragged her to the car. He placed her in the passenger’s seat, her face still in her hands, still crying.

It was difficult for them both.

He sat by her side for a moment, trying to think where she would go to mourn their relationship.

He had the perfect place.

CHAPTER 7

Maynard, Massachusetts, Saturday, September 27, 1997

Zoe’s parents were talking with each other, their voices low, almost inaudible. Her mother’s voice could usually be heard for miles, so it was easy to notice when she spoke in a hushed tone. As soon as Zoe realized this wasn’t a conversation she was supposed to hear, she froze, intent on catching every syllable. She stood in the hallway, out of sight. The light from the kitchen spilled onto the hallway floor. A shadow moved across it—her father, perhaps, always pacing when he was agitated.

“Do they have any suspects?” her mother asked.

“Arl told me that the police chief said they did,” her father answered. He was also speaking quietly, but Zoe’s father always had a soft tone, so he didn’t have to try very hard. “But he wouldn’t say who, of course.”

“Her poor mother,” Zoe’s mom said, her voice breaking. “Can you imagine? Hearing that . . .”