“That bad?” Andrea asked, watching Zoe’s face.

“No, no,” Zoe said quickly. “It was actually very good. Very interesting. Just . . . intense.”

She managed to hook three strands of spaghetti, twirling them around the fork. She topped them with a basil leaf, then sliced a piece of salmon and put the well-crafted bite into her mouth. Sublime. “I’m just looking at some murder cases. Eight girls were discarded in ditches in several states, and we think they may be connected. They all have bite marks on them. All eight were raped vaginally; four were raped anally; two had some teeth missing. But the weird thing is—” She paused.

Andrea took a drink of her beer, her fork discarded on the plate. She looked quite pale.

“Are you okay?” Zoe asked.

“So . . . when I ask you, ‘How was work?’ I want more stories about how your boss was bitchy or how the printer stopped working. And fewer stories about, uh . . . anal rape and missing teeth.”

“I’m sorry,” Zoe said. “I just—I was looking through those cases all day, and I didn’t think . . .” She cursed herself. She had always been careful to avoid talking about her work with Andrea. She didn’t want her sister exposed to this, not again.

“I just don’t understand how you can look at these things every day,” Andrea said, staring at the table. “Especially considering what happened in Maynard.”

Zoe said nothing. It would have been easy to tell her sister that it was her coping mechanism. That “this was how she made sure what happened in Maynard wouldn’t happen again” or some other piece of drama. But it would be a lie. She liked what she did. She was good at it. She was very much aware that her past had shaped her, but she wanted to believe that she was over that.

It was better not to discuss her work at all. Protect her sister from that part of her life. As she had always done. As she had done that night long ago.

Don’t worry, Ray-Ray. He can’t hurt us.

“It’s okay.” Andrea shook her head. “I mean, this is your job.”

Zoe nodded. “Yeah, sorry for mentioning that, Ray-Ray.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You haven’t called me that in years,” Andrea said, raising an eyebrow.

Zoe grinned at her sheepishly. “I guess that this dinner you cooked is making me sentimental.”

Andrea snorted and pushed her plate away. “Whatever. I think I’ll eat the rest a bit later. I stuffed myself with salmon before you even got home.”

“Okay,” Zoe said, taking another bite. “Did you season this with lemon?”

“Just a bit,” Andrea said, standing up.

“I can taste it,” Zoe said happily. “It really adds a lot. I think—”

The puzzle pieces suddenly clicked.

All bodies had been found naked, their clothes discarded nearby, but in three of the murders, the underwear and the shoes had been missing. This wasn’t in the crime reports; the reports only listed the evidence found. None mentioned the things that were unaccounted for. The missing underwear and shoes were trophies taken by the killer. But in the other five cases, no trophies were taken. Two different signatures. It was possible there were two killers, not one.

“Everything okay?” she heard her sister say. “You’re just staring at your plate.”

“I just figured something out,” Zoe said.

“Yeah? What is it?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Just work.”

CHAPTER 5

Dale City, Virginia, Friday, July 15, 2016

The loud thumping woke Tatum up with a start. His vision snapped into focus only to see a pair of large, menacing green eyes staring at him, mere inches from his face. His hand shot down to pull his Glock from its holster, but he was in his underwear, no gun in reach. Reflexes took hold, and he pushed himself backward, away from his attacker. He tumbled to the floor, scrambling for any sort of protection. His attacker disappeared from sight as Tatum bounded to his feet, his heart racing. He turned on the light and blinked.

His ugly orange tomcat stared at him with disdain.

“Damn it, Freckle!” Tatum yelled at him. “I told you not to get on the bed.”

Freckle blinked and yawned, clearly bored. Tatum looked for the water pistol, Freckle’s nemesis, but it was nowhere in sight. In all likelihood, the cat had destroyed the thing when Tatum wasn’t around, like he’d done to the three previous ones.

There was another thump. Someone was knocking on the door; that was what had woken him, not his sociopathic cat. He put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, grabbed his Glock from the night table, and walked over to the front door. He’d gotten used to the new apartment in Dale City, but he was groggy from sleep, and in the dark, the hallway felt almost unfamiliar. He missed his previous apartment in LA, even though this one was much more spacious, in a better neighborhood.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Police,” a sharp, formal voice declared.

Tatum flattened his body against the wall and unlocked the door, then opened it slightly and peered out. A cop in uniform stood outside, an old, confused-looking man next to him. Tatum sighed, put the Glock on the small stand nearby, and opened the door.

“Good evening, sir,” the cop said. “Do you know this man?” He glanced at the befuddled gray-haired man beside him.