Well, maybe not warm.

It had been reassuring, leaving home and knowing that when he returned, she’d be waiting there for him. Always there, right where he left her. Completely predictable. She had been someone he could trust.

But frankly, if the spark was gone, there was no point in postponing the inevitable, right?

The next woman would be the real thing. He would be wary, choose more carefully. Though the last one had been charming and full of life, there had been a certain . . . trashiness in her. Their relationship had saved her from a slippery slope of drug abuse; he had no doubt about it. He’d always know it, and she’d always know it. Perhaps that had been the real problem that had led to their breaking up. That and the mediocre job he had done when embalming her, of course.

No, the next time would be better. He would choose better, and he would do a better job with her. She’d be perfect.

Should he look for one tonight? The relationship had only ended the night before. And he was exhausted after his sleepless night, driving her to the beach and carrying her to where she wanted to be.

For a moment that night, he had thought it might all end.

There was another couple there, snuggling on the beach. He hadn’t noticed them in the darkness, or he would have kept going, taken her to a different location. He was dragging her, her heels occasionally touching the sandy ground. He breathed hard, cursing himself for not parking closer. Once or twice he almost decided that he was far enough. But deep inside, he knew she’d want to be close to the water, watching the lake’s small waves lapping at the shore. He had almost reached his destination when the couple stood up, apparently deciding it was time to go home.

He spotted their double silhouette against the background of the moonlit water, less than twenty feet away and walking in his direction. He had only seconds. His hand slid to the knife in his pocket, heart beating hard.

He quickly devised a plan. He’d slit the man’s throat first. The woman would be easier to deal with. Maybe he could take her home and . . .

But it was too risky, and he didn’t want to drop his girl. Instead, he straightened her, put his arm around her waist, leaned his head against hers. She stood, her face buried in her hands. The couple would see what they truly were: a man consoling a heartbroken woman.

The couple went by, not sparing him a second glance, entranced with each other. He knew how it felt. It was a wonderful thing to be in love.

He dragged her on, helped her down to the sand. He was sorry he hadn’t brought her a small towel to sit on. He carefully adjusted the skirt that had slightly twisted itself on the way.

Finally satisfied, he bid her farewell, not wanting to drag this out too much, and left.

And now he missed her. Or at least he missed her presence in his home.

He needed to fill the void. Next time would be different. He would find the right one.

He would start searching tomorrow.

CHAPTER 16

Maynard, Massachusetts, Thursday, October 23, 1997

Zoe’s parents were whispering to each other again. This happened almost every day now. They had always been a family that was too loud, but now they had turned into a family of hushed conversations, of strained silences, of silent weeping.

Her mother had known the second girl who had been killed five days ago. Jackie Teller had been the daughter of a woman in her book club. Zoe’s mom had gone to Jackie’s sixteenth birthday, two years before. And now she had also gone to her funeral.

Zoe’s dad tried to act like things were normal, but it was nearly impossible. Her mom would lapse into long, trancelike stares, not hearing a word anyone said to her. She insisted the girls be driven back and forth from school. Zoe had to be home before it got dark, which meant five in the afternoon. The day before, Andrea had opened the door and run outside with her ball, and their mother had chased her, screeching at her hysterically to come inside. Andrea had burst into tears, terrified. When her mother had dragged her into the house, Zoe had hugged her, whispering reassurances in her ear.

Halloween was next week, and pretty much everyone knew there would be no trick-or-treating this year.

And now, in the living room, her parents whispered but stopped instantly when Zoe walked into the room.

“Hey, Dad. You didn’t throw away the paper, right?” she said.

“No.” He smiled at her. “It’s on the kitchen table.”

“Great, thanks,” she said and quickly turned away.

“What does she need the paper for?” she heard her mother ask.

“Some sort of school project,” her dad said. “She needs to keep the weather forecast page or something; I don’t know.”

She took the paper, went to her room, and closed the door. Then, heart pounding, she read the headline on the second page: “Police Report Progress in Hartley Murder.”

She glanced momentarily at Beth Hartley’s familiar portrait. They always used the same picture: Beth smiling, looking a bit goofy as she stared sideways at the camera. Would Beth have approved of this picture being plastered in the newspaper over and over again? Zoe doubted it. But Beth was dead. And after what she’d suffered, Zoe didn’t think Beth would have cared much about a bad picture, anyway.

Her eyes scanned the article quickly. Like most of the articles about the two murders, it was frustratingly lacking in detail. What progress had been made? Did they have a suspect or suspects in custody? Did they know why Beth had been killed?