The sun was setting on Quantico, Virginia.

      Dr. John Baldwin stood. He’d been sitting in a chair that was too low to the ground for his long legs, and it screeched with the sudden movement.

      “Damn it, I don’t like lying to her.”

      “I know that, Baldwin. I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, you know that.” Garrett Woods tried for affable, but Baldwin wasn’t fooled. He’d known the man too long to trust such a conciliatory tone.

      “You know karma is going to bite you in the ass for faking heart problems.”

      Garrett smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges. “I could have gone into a diabetic coma instead. Would that have been more realistic? I am diabetic, after all.”

      “You should take better care of yourself regardless. But be warned, if we find out he’s heading anywhere near Nashville, I am out of here. How in the world did you let him slip the net?”

      “We’re still figuring that out. And don’t worry about your princess. She can take care of herself. Don’t delude yourself there, my boy. She’s managed quite well without you all this time. She’s not some weak-kneed little kitten that needs your protection. You’ll be back there soon enough. There’s work to be done here first.”

      Baldwin took a lap around the small room, stopping at the window that overlooked the parade grounds in front of the gate into the complex. Garrett had asked to meet him in an outbuilding, outside the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime offices, which housed both the Behavioral Science Unit and the Behavioral Analysis Units. It was a smart thing to do; that building was filled with perceptive people. This conversation didn’t need an audience.

      After spending the past year in Nashville, he’d found himself dreading the thought of the BSU walls closing in around him. He’d always hated being stuck inside, much preferred working in the field. He loved the work, just didn’t like having to share his workspace with forty other people.

      Garrett’s reach had been dragging him back to Quantico more and more often. After hearing this news, he was going to have to stick around for a while. Quantico was the last place he wanted to be right now.

      “I could give her a generic warning. Anything funny happens, let me know. Something so she wouldn’t be blindsided.”

      Garrett shook his head, a fine sheen of sweat shimmering along his closely clipped hairline. “No. Not yet. Let’s get some confirmation first. This may not happen. We don’t need to blow your cover over a maybe. Langley would not like that at all.”

      Eight

      When Taylor was deep in a case, every workday lasted just a bit longer than the last.

      She left the office a little after eleven o’clock, planning to forage in her kitchen for wine and cheese, maybe a hunk of bread. It was too late for a real dinner, and after five months living with Baldwin, she’d come to realize she didn’t like to eat alone anymore. She dragged into the house at eleven-thirty, yawned and decided to hell with it. She’d just head upstairs and have a decent breakfast instead.

      Baldwin had called, leaving a message on the machine for her, one designed to incite a lustful longing for his warmth. She’d smiled at the attempt to solicit dirty thoughts, but was too tired to think of much except getting into the bed and sleeping forever.

      There was a bill on the counter from the plumber. God, she’d forgotten all about the leak. It seemed impossible that she’d started her day with such a banal issue. It felt like a week had passed.

      Just a cracked cock and ball assembly, allowing the water to the toilet to steadily overflow. He’d replaced it, and the charge was $150 for parts and labor, but with their new home warranty, their cost was only $42.50. That was a relief. She checked the ceiling in the living room, it had already dried without leaving a stain. Good. Replacing a ceiling wasn’t high on her list of things she wanted to deal with. Though they’d had a million little issues with the house, so far they were just that, little. She rapped her knuckles on the cabinet—knock wood they’d stay annoyances rather than something major.

      She called Baldwin back and they chatted for a few minutes. She told him about her day and he assured her that Garrett was just fine. After her fourth jaw-cracking yawn, Baldwin suggested she get some sleep. They hung up with promises to talk in the morning.

      A dog barked once, sharp and deep, then howled. The sound gave her a chill, and she set the alarm before moving upstairs.

      She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and was climbing in the bed when she heard the tape for the first time. Channel Five kindly replayed their ten o’clock newscast at midnight on their sister cable station. The anchor was intoning with horror, preparing the viewers with a warning that was sure to keep them riveted to their seats and the channel tuned in.

      “We’re going to play the 911 tapes from the Corinne Wolff murder scene. We must warn you, the tape is disturbing, and not appropriate for young viewers.”

      The screen went blank, then a blue background with a graphic of a white rotary telephone popped up, the headline reading 911 Call. The tape started rolling, static whispering at first, then clearer. The station provided a written transcript on the screen to accompany Michelle Harris’s words.

      “911 Operator: Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?

      Michelle Harris: I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God. [crying]

      911 Operator: Can you repeat that, ma’am?

      Michelle Harris: There’s blood, oh, my God, there’s blood everywhere. And there are footprints…HAYDEN?

      911 Operator: Ma’am? Ma’am? Who is dead?

      Michelle Harris: HAYDEN, oh, dear sweet Jesus, you’re covered in blood. Come here. How did you get out of your crib?

      911 Operator: Ma’am? Ma’am, what is your location?

      Michelle Harris: Yes, I’m here. It’s 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. My sister…

      911 Operator: Hayden is your sister?

      Michelle Harris: Hayden is her daughter. Oh, God.

      Background noise: Mama hurt

      911 Operator: Who is dead, ma’am?

      Michelle Harris: My sister, Corinne Wolff. Oh, Corinne. She’s, she’s cold. [crying, indistinguishable noise]

      911 Operator: We’re sending the police, ma’am.”

      Taylor turned off the television. That pretty much guaranteed she wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a while. She got out of the bed and went to the bonus room, knowing that a few games of eight ball would help settle her mind.

      She snapped on the lamp, took the cover off the table and retrieved a Miller Lite from the small dorm refrigerator that stood unobtrusively in the alcove. She twisted off the top, sent the metal cap arcing toward the trashcan with a nice overhead, then cursed. She’d forgotten to bring home the brackets for the basketball pool. Oh well, she could manage that tomorrow.

      She racked up the balls and started shooting, the rhythm of her game helping a quiet calm steal into her limbs. Bend, sight, the clicking smack of the cue hitting the ball, drop. Over and over again, until the table was clear. She racked the balls back up, did it again. The beer was empty now, so she got another, pausing to sip at intervals, focused on the task at hand. Trying to empty her mind.

      Taylor got tired of being a stranger to deep, uninterrupted sleep, but at least