He shook his head sadly and turned over onto his stomach, letting the sun tan his back. If he wasn’t going to enjoy this trip to the beach, the very least he could ask for was a nice uniform tan. He only hoped his sunscreen was good enough to filter out the cancer-y bits from the sun, leaving only the wholesome tan-y bits. These days, sunscreen companies cut costs without even thinking about the consequences. It was probably cheaper to get good lawyers and evade medical lawsuits than to make high-quality sunscreen.

The thought of cancer made him nervous. When he had woken up that morning, the sun had seemed inviting, alluring. Now it felt a bit more like a scorching ball of doom, peppering his skin with tumors. Feeling anxious, he sat up and put his shirt on. Was it worth it? Dying of cancer before the age of forty just to have nice tan skin?

It was not. These days, people focused on the now, ignoring the future. His health was the most important thing he had.

The woman to his left still sat there, sobbing. She had been there for the past hour, and he had done his best to give her the privacy she deserved. He had noticed she was crying only after he had sat down, or he would have chosen a different spot on the beach. Sitting next to a crying person was an absolute downer. Of course he wasn’t enjoying himself, with this chick crying her eyes out ten feet from him.

Perhaps she wasn’t crying at all. She was sitting on the sand, her face buried in her hands. It totally looked as if she were crying. But maybe she had just fallen asleep. Come to think of it, she hadn’t moved much since he’d sat down.

Maybe it was just a cry for help. Was she sobbing on the beach, hoping someone would ask her what was wrong? Of course, no one would. These days you could climb a building and threaten to jump, and all the passersby would just film you for their YouTube channels. No empathy. He was outraged.

Slowly, he got up and walked over to the woman. She seemed sickly somehow, her skin pale, almost gray. Maybe she had a skin condition. She shouldn’t be in the sun like that. Had she put sunscreen on? She had no bag with her, not even a towel. She just sat on the beach, dressed in a long-sleeved yellow shirt and a skirt.

“Excuse me, uh . . . miss? Are you okay?” he asked.

She didn’t move. Didn’t answer. He almost turned away. She didn’t want to be bothered. But something seemed . . . off with her. She needed help; he was sure of it.

“Miss? Are you okay? Do you want a drink?” He crouched next to her. “Miss?”

He put a hand on her shoulder.

Her shoulder was rock hard, rigid, and cold. He suddenly realized her neck had a very clear, dark bruise around it, that her skin was gray, that she wasn’t moving at all. Not even breathing.

“Shit!” he screamed, falling back.

This girl was dead.

CHAPTER 11

Tatum tried to rectify his mistake—Zoe had to give him that—but she was furious and far from a conciliatory mood. She had been doing something important at Quantico, and he had yanked her away from it to essentially be his wingman. She was icy for the remainder of their meal and their drive to the police headquarters, where Tatum quickly led her to the special task office and introduced her to Lieutenant Martinez.

“Nice to meet you,” the lieutenant said, shaking her hand. “I didn’t know the FBI would send any more agents. We really don’t have anywhere you can sit. This wasn’t my intention when I asked for the bureau’s assistance—”

“I’m not a federal agent,” she said quickly, sliding into her intended role. “I’m a forensic psychologist. And I’m here just for a short visit; I don’t need anywhere to sit down. I’m just interested in what Dr. Bernstein has to say about this case. I find this murderer intriguing.”

“Do you?” Martinez said, his eyes looking from her to Tatum in suspicion. “Are you familiar with Dr. Bernstein?”

“Most people in my profession are.” She smiled sweetly at Martinez. “He’s very well known. And I’m sure he’s probably heard of me, so it would be an interesting discussion. We might have some new conclusions when we’re done.”

“I’ll ask him,” Martinez said.

Zoe waited as the man made a phone call. He clearly suspected Tatum had brought her to shoot down their profiler. It was a cheap trick, incredibly transparent. But she might as well do her job if she was there.

“Okay, great. See you there,” the lieutenant said and put down his phone. He turned to Zoe and smiled at her. “You’re right. Dr. Bernstein has heard of you and was excited at the prospect of discussing this with you. He just walked in the building. Let’s meet him in the meeting room. I’ll call the other detectives—”

“No need to waste their time yet,” Zoe hurriedly said. “I think just the four of us should do, at least to kick things off. Maybe later we can have a larger, formal meeting.”

“Well, they might be out in the field later.” Martinez frowned. “Okay, let’s head to the meeting room and see what the doctor thinks.”

She followed the two men as they led her to a room down the hall. Dr. Bernstein already sat inside at a long table, reviewing his notes. Zoe was familiar with the man, had seen him several times on TV. He seemed to pop up whenever a serial killer was in the media’s focus. He wasn’t the only one. There was a group of so-called experts who were always overjoyed to be interviewed and to show off their extensive knowledge of the subject. These people weren’t harmless. They spread misconceptions and hysteria in the general population and often changed the course of investigations, just like this case.