The phone on her desk jolted her awake. She gazed in confusion at her monitor, where the words Weekly Report July 4–8, 2016 remained orphaned, with no report following. She must have fallen asleep trying to think of how to start. The time on the bottom right of the monitor was 9:12 a.m. So much for getting an early start. She answered her phone, rotating her head in an attempt to relieve the pain in her neck. “BAU, this is Bentley.”

“Zoe,” Mancuso’s voice said. “Good morning. Can you drop by my office? There’s something I want you to have a look at.”

“Sure. On my way.”

The unit chief’s office was four doors down the corridor. The bronze plaque on the door read UNIT CHIEF CHRISTINE MANCUSO. Zoe knocked on the door, and Mancuso immediately called her in.

Zoe sat down in the visitor’s chair across from the desk. Mancuso sat on the other side of the desk, her chair turned sideways. She was staring in deep concentration at the aquarium that stood against the rear wall. She was an impressive-looking woman, her tawny skin smooth and hardly touched by age, her black hair pulled back, silvery-white strands intermingled in it. She faced sideways, and the beauty mark by her lips pointed directly at Zoe.

Zoe looked at the object of the chief’s fascination. The aquarium’s interior changed often, matching Mancuso’s whims. It was currently designed to look like a lush forest, clusters of aquatic plants coloring the water green and turquoise. Swarms of yellow, orange, and purple fish swam lazily this way and that.

“Something up with the fish?” Zoe asked.

“Belinda is depressed today,” Mancuso muttered. “I think she’s upset Timothy is swimming with Rebecca and Jasmine.”

“Well . . . maybe Timothy just needed some time off,” Zoe suggested.

“Timothy’s a bastard.”

“Right . . . uh, you wanted to see me?”

Mancuso turned her chair and faced Zoe. “You know Lionel Goodwin, the analyst?”

“He’s the one who always complains everyone is stealing his food.”

“He’s a part of the Highway Serial Killings Initiative.”

Zoe took a moment to remember what that was. A disturbing pattern of women’s bodies discarded along interstate highways had emerged over the past ten years. Analysts in the FBI had found some common ground for the murders. The victims were mostly prostitutes or drug users; the suspects were predominantly long-haul truck drivers. To try to match specific patterns to suspects, the FBI had launched the Highway Serial Killings Initiative. They would search for similar crimes on ViCAP, the FBI’s database of violent crimes, then try to match them to routes and timelines of the suspects.

“Okay,” Zoe said, nodding.

“He thinks he’s found a pattern, and he’s matched it to a group of possible suspects.”

“That’s great,” Zoe said. “What do you need me to—”

“The group consists of two hundred seventeen truckers.”

“Ah.”

Mancuso opened a drawer, took out a thick folder, and slammed it on the table.

“Are these the suspects?” Zoe asked.

“Oh, no,” Mancuso said. “Those are just the crime files from the various police departments involved.” She took out two additional folders and put them on top of the first one. “These are the suspects.”

“You want me to narrow it down?” Zoe asked.

“Yes, please.” Mancuso smiled. “If you can give me a group of ten suspects by the end of next week, that would be great.”

Zoe nodded, excitement rising within her. It was the first real-time profiling she’d been asked to do since she’d joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Narrowing a group of 217 suspects down to 10 in a month would be a difficult job. Could she do it in a week?

She could. This was what she did best.

“Oh, and the weekly report . . . do you have it ready?” Mancuso asked, her voice growing thorns. “You should have submitted it on—”

“Almost done,” Zoe said. “I just need to add a few last notes.”

“Send it to me by lunchtime.”

Zoe nodded and got up. She picked up the three folders and left Mancuso’s office. Walking back toward her own office, she was already flipping the top folder open. The first page was a crime report describing the body of a nineteen-year-old girl found in a ditch in Missouri, along I-70. She was naked and bruised in multiple places, with bite marks on her neck. Zoe was trying to flip to the next page when she ran into a man. Her folder rammed his stomach, and he emitted a surprised ooof.

He was tall, with wide shoulders and a mane of jet-black hair. His eyes were brown and deep, hidden under thick dark eyebrows. He looked like an older version of a smug college boy on a football scholarship. He placed his palm on his stomach, a half smile on his face. Zoe was instantly irritated with him, as if it were his fault she’d crashed into him.

“Sorry,” she said, bending to pick up the folders that had dropped on the floor.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said and crouched to help her.

She snatched the last folder from the floor before he could touch it. “I’ve got it—thanks.”

“I see that,” he said, his grin widening as he stood up. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Tatum Gray.”