Also by Lisa Gardner

Novels

The Perfect Husband

The Other Daughter

The Third Victim

The Next Accident

The Survivors Club

The Killing Hour

Alone

Gone

Hide

Say Goodbye

The Neighbor

Live to Tell

Love You More

Catch Me

Touch & Go

Fear Nothing

Crash & Burn

Find Her

Short Works

The 7th Month

3 Truths and a Lie

The 4th Man

An FBI Profiler/Detective D. D. Warren Story

Lisa Gardner

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street

New York, New York 10014

Copyright © 2017 by Lisa Gardner, Inc.

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ISBN 9781101986325

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Also by Lisa Gardner

Title Page

Copyright

The 4th Man

Author’s Note

Excerpt from Right Behind You

About the Author

“They’re all here?”

“Three out of four,” Boston homicide detective D. D. Warren said. “Still think this will work?”

“Ten years later, it’s the best chance we have.” The independent police consultant eyed the four interrogation rooms. Two on each side of the hall. Three doors closed. One door open.

“This is what I’ve got.” Sergeant Detective Warren held up a file. The inside was filled with glossy black-and-white crime scene photos, per profiling expert Pierce Quincy’s request. On the outside, the detective had attached her personal notes.

“I inherited the cold case a month ago,” D.D. informed Quincy and his partner/wife, Rainie Connor, both of whom had flown in from Oregon. “Since then, myself and any detective with a moment’s free time have been running down the names of each person present that night to reconfirm alibis. As we discussed by phone, the university’s library had decent security protocols: a guard on duty for the evening, plus one for the graveyard shift; an electronic access system that required students to swipe their IDs to gain entrance to the library, while keeping vagrants and non-students out. This system also generated a log of everyone who was in the library that night, so from the very beginning, police have had a full list of potential witnesses and suspects.”

“More than you can say for most crime scenes,” Quincy murmured.

“Exactly. Now, here’s the wild card: Students could bring guests with them. These non-students would be manually logged in by a guard, under the umbrella of the student’s ID. They were checked out by the original investigators, but the list of names was lost sometime in the past decade. Meaning, we didn’t have the names of the guests, just the host students, so to speak. Given that the original investigators dropped some balls ten years ago, I wanted to follow up on every angle.”

“More legwork,” Rainie said.

“Good thing homicide’s been a little slow lately. Any detective with downtime has been picking a name from the guest log, contacting the former student, and asking him or her to recall exactly who they were with one night ten years ago. . . .”

“‘I don’t remember,’” Quincy supplied in perfect monotone.

“Very good. Though my personal favorite is ‘Ten years ago?’ As if even a decade has suddenly become higher math.”

“But clearly you’ve made progress.” Quincy gestured down the hall to the three closed doors, one open.

“We started with a list of sixty names. Sixty possible murder suspects, who’ve had ten years to run, hide, or, hell, become gainfully employed taxpayers in the great state of Massachusetts. Of those, we’ve tracked down fifty-seven. Not perfect, but pretty good.”

“Good enough to bring us to this moment,” Rainie said.

D.D. nodded. “I’ve never seen a murder quite like this one. No physical evidence, barely even signs of violence. We’re talking someone who’s either very clever or very cold. Either way, he’s made our job a tough one.”

She turned her attention to Quincy. “As I told you by phone, it’s going to take a confession to nail this killer. Which normally I wouldn’t consider to be an issue. Except I don’t just have a suspect. I have suspects.”

D.D. handed over the case folder. “I’ve assembled for you our top three persons of interest from the night in question. Attached to the top of this file, you’ll also find my personal notes: basically, for each of these suspects, I’ve listed the lie I know they told ten years ago that slipped by the original investigators. All of these men look good for murder. What I need from you, however, the experts in deviant minds, is which one really did it. Or . . .”

D.D. glanced down the hall. To the fourth room. The open door.

“A new variable had entered Jaylin Banks’s life in the weeks leading up to her murder,” D.D. said softly. “Whispered conversations. Phone calls she wouldn’t explain. Canceled meetings with family and friends. It could mean nothing at all. Or maybe . . . it isn’t a matter of what had changed in Jaylin’s life ten years ago, but who.”

“A fourth man,” Quincy said.

D.D. nodded.

Being a former Fed, looking for an UNSUB—unknown subject—was right up Quincy’s alley. He could already feel his blood thrumming in anticipation.

He hefted the case file in his hand. Smiled at his wife.

“All right. Let’s get to work.”

*   *   *

Suspect number one: James Duchovny. Ten years ago, the boyfriend of the vic. At the time, Duchovny was known for his binge drinking and violence toward women. His rap sheet had grown since then, though few of the charges seemed to stick. Once a bully, always a bully, Quincy thought. Given the suspect’s high regard for women, Quincy and Rainie had agreed Rainie’d be the one running the interview. All the better for agitating their man.

Now, as Sergeant Warren took up position in the hall, Quincy opened the door of the tiny interrogation room and held it for Rainie as she entered. Duchovny sat on the opposite side of the metal table, crammed up against the wall, facing the door and viewing window. It was obvious from the sneer on his face that it wasn’t his first time in a police interrogation room. He had his arms crossed over his chest in a way designed to beef up his chest while highlighting the tattoos on his biceps.

Rainie barely gave the man a glance. Quincy pulled out Rainie’s chair. She took a seat, placing the case file neatly on the table in front of her. Quincy then made himself comfortable, turning his head toward his partner and remaining completely deferential.

Policing, Quincy knew from his FBI-profiler days, was seventy percent deductive reasoning, thirty percent drama. Because what was the point in figuring out the ins and outs of your prime suspects, without the fun of pushing their buttons first?

Rainie’s job right now was to push buttons. Quincy knew from personal experience that his wife and partner was very good at it.

Duchovny had been twenty-two when his girlfriend had been murdered at a major Boston university. He’d been an aspiring hoodlum back then. Now, ten years later, his face was harder, his dark hair buzzed short to better show off his beady eyes, the jagged scar across his left eyebrow, the harsh planes of his cheeks. At nine in the morning, he reeked of cologne, testosterone, and cheap beer. He’d probably just been crawling in from a night’s misadventures when the uniformed officers had roused him from his apartment. Wearing a thin black T-shirt and broken-in jeans, he was doing his best to appear confrontational as he scowled at the investigators sitting across from him.

Quincy kept his attention on Rainie, who was looking particularly lovely this morning in a form-fitting light-purple button-down shirt, with a dove-gray jacket and matching slacks. He flashed her another smile. No acting, but genuine appreciation. Sitting beside him in the tight quarters, she winked back.

Across from them, their suspect shifted restlessly, scowled harder.

“What the fuck is this?” Duchovny growled. “Come on. Been sitting here for a fucking hour! Whatever it is, I didn’t do it. Now let me get back to bed.”

In response, Rainie opened the folder and started setting out photos. Large, glossy eight-by-tens. The images were not graphic nor particularly violent. At first glance, the woman in them, young, pretty, wearing a short denim skirt and an off-the-shoulder white sweater, looked like she’d lain down on a flight of steps. It wasn’t till you looked closer, at the way her wide eyes peered sightlessly into the distance, that you understood she was dead. And it wasn’t till you looked closer still and caught the line of bruises ringing her throat that you understood she’d been murdered.

Ten years ago now. And not a single break in the case since then. Till Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren had inherited it along with a whole box of other cold cases and thought to bring in outside experts for assistance.

“Jaylin Banks,” Rainie murmured. She spread out the photos, covered the table in them. “Beautiful girl.”

“Not this shit again,” Duchovny muttered. He kept his arms over his chest, thumbs splayed above his armpits.

“You’d been going out how long again? Eight months?” Rainie asked him. Quincy kept quiet, letting his partner do the talking. For his part, he noted Duchovny’s body language, looking for changes in breathing or posture that might alert them that they were on to something.

“Six months,” Duchovny grumbled. He kept his gaze away from the pictures. Signs of remorse in a tough guy for what he’d done in one moment of jealous rage? Or proof that all these years later, he still cared for the sweet, quiet English major, known for her infectious laugh?

“You were with her in the library.”

Duchovny shrugged. “She asked me to meet her there. We were supposed to go out. Afterward. Bar around the corner had a band we both liked. But come eleven, her stupid paper wasn’t done. No point in both of us sitting around. I bounced.”

For the first time, Quincy spoke. “You left your twenty-year-old girlfriend alone in a library after eleven at night?”

“Not alone. University paid for security guards. One was posted right in the lobby. I told the dude she was still up on the second floor. He should keep an eye out for her.” Duchovny suddenly uncrossed his arms, leaning forward heavily. “He’s the one who did this, didn’t he?” Duchovny tapped the first photo, still not looking. “Ten years later, you finally got proof the loser rent-a-cop killed my girlfriend?”

Rainie simply stared the boulder in the eyes. “More like ten years later, we finally have proof you killed your girlfriend. What, she really did want to finish her paper that night? Whereas you were hoping to get lucky? Have a little ‘public display of affection’ in the library stairwell? But Jaylin wasn’t quite that adventuresome, was she? I mean, maybe she had been enjoying her walk on the wild side with the local bad boy, but an honor student, a girl that smart . . . You were never going to keep her. And you knew it.”

Duchovny stared at her. “No sexual assault. No DNA. Police admitted as much at the time. Meaning, Jaylin and I never got it on that night. Evidence backs me on this one, and we both know it.”

“Is that why you strangled her?” Rainie asked evenly. “A man with your . . . attributes.” She gazed pointedly at his inked-up muscles. “You can’t be used to being told no that often.”

“Jaylin didn’t tell me no. She told me later. And a man with my attributes”—Duchovny suddenly dropped one hand, very obviously grabbed his crotch beneath the table—“I can appreciate the difference.”

“You’re used to women doing what you say.”

“Never been a problem.”

“Except for Jaylin.”

“Jaylin was an excellent listener. Said she needed an extra hour. Would meet me in the bar after that.”

“Your previous girlfriend Felicia mentioned you weren’t a guy who liked to wait. And she had photos of her black eye to prove it.”

“I don’t see any black eyes,” Duchovny said, tapping the photo again, his gaze still averted.

Rainie leaned forward. So close her eyes had to be watering from the stench of the man’s cologne. But nothing showed on her face as she whispered, a mere inch from his lips, “That’s your defense? Your dead girlfriend wasn’t beaten badly enough for it to have been you?”

“Whatever works, baby. You bored with the stiff suit? ’Cause I never mind an older woman’s expertise. . . .”

“You left the bar,” Quincy spoke up. He didn’t sound sharp, nor angry, not even as the thug’s gaze lingered on his wife’s upturned face. Quincy knew Rainie. All Duchovny had to do was move one more inch and he’d be singing soprano for the rest of his life.

“What?” Duchovny was still staring at Rainie, who merely shrugged.

Quincy’s finger rested on the notes Sergeant Warren had attached to the file. Her list of lies, including the one told by Duchovny on the night in question.

“We talked to the bouncer,” Quincy continued. “You didn’t think anyone would check up on your alibi, that even if they did, who would remember in such a crowded bar? But the bouncer remembers you—model citizen that you are—exiting the bar at eleven forty, just thirty minutes after arriving. So much for the killer band.”

Duchovny leaned back, appeared for the first time less certain. “Just wanted fresh air.”

“Outside the library? Because we have a witness who puts you there.” They didn’t, but there was nothing wrong with lying to a suspect during an interrogation.

The big guy didn’t answer right away.

Rainie did the honors. “You suspected, didn’t you? You suspected your girlfriend was seeing someone else. Hence the real reason she couldn’t go out with you that night.”

Duchovny didn’t speak. His gaze dashed around the tiny room. He looked at anything but the photos.

“You loved her, didn’t you.” Rainie pushed. “First time in your life. Why not? She was beautiful, smart, kind. Way too good for you.”

“Stop it.”

“Of course it couldn’t last forever. A girl that great . . . Who was it, James? You returned to the library that night and who did you see with your girlfriend? Tell us.”

“I didn’t go back.”

“Liar. You left the bar. You were already suspicious—”

“Of course! Dammit!” Duchovny rocked back in his chair, slamming the top of his head against the wall. He still couldn’t seem to get far enough away from the table, covered in black-and-white images of his girlfriend. His young, beautiful, murdered girlfriend.

“Suddenly Jaylin was busy all the time. Phone calls she wouldn’t talk about. Meetings with friends, except she’d never tell me their names . . . Yeah, I suspected.”

Their fourth man, Quincy thought, eyeing Duchovny with renewed interest.

“But I didn’t return to the library that night. I, uh . . . I met up with someone else. A girl I once dated. Because you know, if Jaylin was moving on . . .” Massive shoulder shrug. Duchovny pursed his lips. “Whatever.”

Quincy was sure, then, of what he’d only suspected before. James Duchovny, neighborhood thug, truly had loved Jaylin Banks. And certainly, people had killed for less.

“What did you do that night?” Quincy asked softly.

“Nothing! Selena Madrill. I was with her from midnight on. You don’t believe me, you can ask her. You were right. I left the bar shortly before midnight. Which is why I didn’t realize Jaylin never showed. Why I never . . .” His voice broke slightly. “Why I never reported her missing.”

Quincy and Rainie didn’t speak. They eyed the man wordlessly, waiting. But Duchovny didn’t offer anything more. He finally thumped his front chair legs back to the floor.

Then stared at the photos. Long and hard, as if a man forcing himself to face his pain.

“’Sides,” he said at last, tone more tired than confrontational. “If I’d really been the one who did this, then how the hell do you explain her missing shoes? I mean really, what would I want with my cheating girlfriend’s dirty Keds?”

*   *   *

Ten years ago, Jaylin Banks had been found murdered in her university library’s stairwell. Manual strangulation. No signs of struggle, no evidence of sexual assault. For that matter, not a single print, hair, thread, speck of dirt, or swab of DNA to be recovered. Which was one of the reasons the case had languished. As Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren had said, Jaylin’s killer had been either that clever, or that cold.

The only detail out of place: she’d been missing her shoes. A pair of dirty white Keds, which, according to her family, she’d purchased the year before for fewer than twenty bucks and wore for ease and comfort. Both Jaylin’s roommate and Duchovny remembered her slipping on her Keds that night before heading out to the library. And yet they’d never been recovered from the crime scene.

“He’s got a point,” D.D. said now. Quincy and Rainie had exited the interview room. They clustered together in the hall. “Jaylin had purchased the shoes months before she even met Duchovny, so there’s no obvious reason for him to want the sneakers, feel entitled to take them back, that kind of thing.”

“Add that to the lack of violence . . .” Rainie’s voice trailed off doubtfully.

D.D. nodded. In contrast to the original case detective, D.D. didn’t like Duchovny for the murder. As she’d explained to Quincy and Rainie, Duchovny was a brute known for his explosive temper. If he’d killed Jaylin, the murder would’ve been in a fit of rage, with all the ensuing blood, bruising, and DNA that went with such attacks.

Instead, the college student’s murder was almost startling in its nonviolence.

“Duchovny gives credence to our fourth-man theory.” D.D. glanced at Quincy, then jerked her head toward the open door at the end of hall. “He certainly seemed suspicious of his girlfriend. New friends she wouldn’t talk about, a sudden uptick in her number of social engagements. Sounds like he even wondered if she was truly staying at the library to work on a ‘paper.’ Maybe she had a midnight rendezvous after all.”

“All interesting suspicions,” Quincy assured her. “Except we need more from Duchovny than rampant paranoia; we need a name.”

“And make something about this case come easy? Not a chance. I’ll assign a detective to run down this Selena Madrill, confirm Duchovny’s cheating alibi. If he really was with her after midnight . . .”

“Then one down, two to go.” Rainie glanced at Quincy, then pointed to the next shut door.

“Bachelor number two,” he agreed.

File in Quincy’s hand, they got on with it.

*   *   *

Dennis Ringham had been one of two security guards working on the night in question, the university’s rent-a-cops, as Duchovny had called them. A decade ago, Ringham had been in his early thirties, with a history of washing out of both military recruitment and the local PD. Someone who wanted a uniform but couldn’t have one. A man, Quincy knew, who wanted to look bigger and better than who he really was.

As the senior consultant of their two-person team, Quincy would take the lead on this interview. In theory, Ringham was drawn to authority figures and should aim to please.

The years had not been kind to Dennis Ringham. In contrast to Duchovny’s heavily muscled presence, Ringham sat nearly folded in on himself. He was a slightly built, stoop-shouldered middle-aged man with thinning blond hair and the swollen gut of a professional drinker. Which, to read Sergeant Warren’s notes, was exactly what he’d become in the years since Jaylin Banks’s murder—a drunk. Even now his eyes were red-rimmed as he blearily watched Quincy and Rainie enter the room, take a seat.

Quincy opened the case file. “Jaylin Banks,” he said casually.

Ringham flinched, immediately looked down. He didn’t appear to be the kind of guy who’d leave his girlfriend with a black eye. Then again, he could still be the kind of killer who snuck up from behind and grabbed a smaller, weaker woman around the throat.

Rainie began distributing the crime scene photos, lining them up on the table as she’d done in the previous room, covering all available surface. As before, Sergeant Warren remained out in the hall, utilizing the viewing window to observe and form opinions of her own.

Quincy picked up the first photo. A close-up of Jaylin Banks’s face. Her long brown hair swept back at the temples. Those huge, dark, unseeing eyes. A lace of shadows just beginning to bloom across her throat.

“She’s beautiful,” Quincy murmured.

Ringham kept his gaze on his lap. He was trembling slightly. Stress, shame, need for a drink?

“She had a signature scent,” Quincy continued. “Her parents told us about it. Nothing fancy, just something she’d blended herself using oils she’d purchased from a local store.” He held the photo closer, shutting his eyes as if pondering its smell. “Jasmine, vanilla . . . but something else. A touch of something earthy to keep it from being too sweet. Bergamot . . . citron . . . pine . . . musk—”

“Sandalwood.” The word sounded dragged from Ringham. Less an utterance than a moan.

“Sandalwood. That’s it. I’m told men were wild for that scent. And she knew it.”

“She was alive. When I left, she was alive. Told everyone then, will say it again now. Her big ape of a boyfriend found me at eleven. Told me he was taking off—had better things to do.” Ringham’s thin lips twisted into a sneer. He still wouldn’t look at them. “Girlfriend was up on the second floor. Computer lab. I’d better keep my eye on her.”

“So you went upstairs. You checked on her?” Quincy asked.

“Not like . . . right that second. I had work to do.” Ringham already sounded defensive. He’d hardly been known for his on-the-job diligence, and that was before a student had been murdered.

“Tell us about that night,” Rainie said. If Quincy sounded in command, then she was a sympathetic ear, ready to hear Ringham’s side of the story. “Who was in the library?”

“Um, students. Dozens of them. First, second, third floors. You know, typical study night.”

“And on the second floor? The computer lab. Tell us about those students.”

“Not much to tell. There was a boy and a girl, obviously together, outside the lab. They were packing up their bags when I walked by. Leaving.”

“And Jaylin Banks?”

“I, uh, saw her, in the lab. She had a stack of books next to her. Like she was working on a report.”

“Jaylin.” Rainie repeated the girl’s name, softly, like a caress.

“I don’t know everyone,” Ringham mumbled. “Lots of students. Hundreds, you know. But, yeah, I assumed the girl must be Jaylin. Because the big lug, he said she was up there. Ordered me to look out for his girl.” Ringham thinned his lips. Stared at anything but the photos.

“Shame isn’t it,” Rainie said, “that all the cute girls hang out with such assholes.”

“She was alive when I left,” Ringham repeated stiffly.

“When did you last see her?” Quincy asked.

“Eleven forty. Final pass. She was in the computer lab, like I said, working. Then it was midnight, my shift was up, I left, too.”

“After rechecking on Jaylin Banks.”

“I didn’t go back to the second floor.”

“Why not? You have a young female in the computer lab all alone that time of night.”

“No.” Ringham shook his head. “Computer lab closes at midnight. If she was still on the second floor at the end of my shift . . . it wasn’t to do work.”

“Meaning maybe she hadn’t stayed for the computer lab after all,” Quincy suggested. “Maybe she’d left the computer lab. In order to meet someone. Say . . . someone new. Someone special.”

“She was beautiful,” Rainie said. “And sweet. Everyone said that. She was lovely, intelligent, definitely the kind of girl who could do better than some meathead like Duchovny. Wouldn’t you agree, Ringham? Don’t you think?”

Ringham didn’t speak. His gaze darted around the room, as if he didn’t know where to look.

“Tell us about the other students in the library that night,” Quincy said, jerking Ringham’s attention back to him. “Anyone you saw. Everyone you saw. Who was there to meet Jaylin?”

“I don’t know what you mean. There were students. Lots of students. Fifteen on the third floor. Half a dozen on the first. There were . . . plenty of students, even at that time of night.”

“Did you recognize them? Know who they were?”

“No. It was a university library. There were hundreds of kids coming and going. Of course, I didn’t know them. How could anyone, any guard, know that many kids?”

“But you knew Jaylin.” Once again, Quincy’s thumb rested on D.D.’s notes. Her list of lies.

“All students have to swipe their IDs to access the library after dark,” Ringham rattled off, as if reciting a manual. “It didn’t matter if I knew them or not. They swiped their IDs, an electronic turnstile would let them in. Us guards, the guards,” Ringham amended; he’d lost his job after Jaylin’s murder, “just kept an eye out for unusual or unruly behavior, that’s it.”

“Library exits.”

Quincy’s sudden switch in topic threw Ringham for a loop. “Wh-wh-what?”

“The library egresses. First there is the main entry. Where you kept post.”

“Yeah.”

“But the library also had stairwells. Two stairwells, leading to the street.” Jaylin Banks’s body had been discovered in one of those stairwells.

“Yeah. But they were locked,” Ringham added hastily. “That time of night. You could exit a stairwell door, but it wouldn’t open from the outside. No one could come in through the stairwells.”

“Did you inspect these outer doors? Check to ensure that a student hadn’t left one propped open, say, his own personal entrance to the library?”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course. It happened sometimes. So I checked. I always checked!”

“And did you inspect the locks? Make sure they didn’t appear scratched, jimmied, forced?”

Ringham was fidgeting faster now, nearly levitating with discomfort. “I heard from the police. I asked directly. No one broke in through the stairwell doors! No one. They told me that. No one broke into the library. Not on my watch!”

“Meaning,” Quincy dragged out slowly, “whoever killed Jaylin Banks had to be someone already inside the library. It’s the classic closed-room mystery, Mr. Ringham. Only someone with access to the library could’ve killed Jaylin Banks. Such as a student. A guest of a student. Or, here’s a thought: a security guard.”

Ringham stopped fidgeting. He stared at them, wide-eyed.

Rainie reached over, took the file from Quincy. She made a show of skimming D. D. Warren’s notes. “Four times. Says here, witnesses saw you four times hanging out in front of Jaylin Banks’s apartment. Seems a bit much for coincidence, don’t you think? Particularly after you explained to us you didn’t even know the names of the students who used the library.”

Ringham kept staring.

“Did you try to talk to her that night?” Quincy asked. “Duchovny was gone, finally out of the way. And he’d as much as ordered you to check in on his girlfriend. So you went up. Told yourself this was it, you’d say hi. Finally introduce yourself to the girl you’d obviously been watching from afar.”

“Except she wasn’t alone, was she?” Rainie piled on. “She was already with someone else. And just like that, she was once more beyond your reach. It got to you, didn’t it? That even with Duchovny out of the picture, she still wasn’t going to be with you. Was never going to be with you.”

“No,” Ringham whispered.

“Is that why you had to kill her?” Rainie asked. “Just to show her the error of her ways? How stupid she’d been not to see the great guy right in front of her? Or was it when you confronted her as she exited down the stairwell, tried to tell her how you really felt, and she laughed in your face? We understand. How such a thing might drive you to reach out, and maybe without even thinking, wrap your fingers around her throat.”

“No,” Ringham whispered again.

“You killed her,” Quincy picked up. “She wouldn’t have you. You tried so hard to get her to see you. Waited in front of her apartment. Worked night after night, right there in the library, standing guard. And still . . .”

“I didn’t!”

“Then who did?!” Quincy abruptly slammed the table with his fist. The sharp rap grabbed Ringham’s attention, fixed the skinny guard’s gaze on Quincy’s face. “If not you, then what happened that night? Duchovny’s gone. He signed out of the library at eleven and we have proof he never returned. Meaning now it’s just you and all those nameless students you cared so much about. We know one of you killed Jaylin Banks. We know one of you had to be the killer. Come on Ringham, four visits to her apartment? Jaylin wasn’t just another girl to you. So what happened that night? It’s time to tell the truth. About what you really did. Or maybe, who you really saw.”

“I went up a second time,” Ringham said suddenly. Not looking at them, speaking in a rush. “Eleven forty. Except that wasn’t my first visit, but my second. You were right, I checked in when Duchovny left, eleven twelve. Walked by, looked in, saw for myself she was there, alone. Which of course got me to thinking . . . Just this once, you know. Maybe I could go in, strike up a conversation. Just this once.

“Eleven forty I, uh, got my courage up. Second walk-through, I told myself. A good security guard conducting extra rounds. Except this time, once I was on the second floor, I’d introduce myself. Say hey. Something. I don’t know. I was gonna do it.”

“Where was she, Ringham?” Quincy, voice firm, commanding.

“Computer lab. Sitting with her pile of books. But . . . she wasn’t alone. There was someone else there.”

Quincy leaned forward. “Tell us his name, Mr. Ringham. Provide a description. Who was Jaylin Banks’s new boyfriend?”

“But it wasn’t a boy!”

“What?” Quincy sat back.

“She was a woman. Older than a student. Like, maybe a professor or something. And she wasn’t sitting next to Jaylin or anything. I didn’t know if they were even together. But still, she was there. A second person. So I couldn’t . . . So I didn’t. I left. I walked away. Eleven forty. Jaylin Banks still alive. Just like I’ve always said.”

“You went to her apartment four times—”

“She never saw me. We never spoke.”

“You wanted her—”

“She never saw me,” he intoned mournfully. “We never spoke.”

“Come on, Ringham. Tell us the truth!”

But the former guard shook his head. He finally stared at the photos. An entire tabletop filled with the end of a young girl’s life. He took her in, the object of his affection, studying her all the way from her head down to her toes.

Then he re-laced his fingers on his lap, looked up, and declared simply: “Yes, I liked her. Yes, I thought she was too good for him. A pretty thing like that with such an over-pumped ape. But then, a girl at that age? Who could ever change her mind? Shame though. The computer lab. For days later you could still smell it. Jasmine, vanilla, and sandalwood.”

*   *   *

“I feel like I need to shower,” D.D. announced, “and I was standing on the other side of the glass.”

“He puts the creep in creepy,” Rainie agreed. Now that they were out of the room, door closed behind them, the distaste was plain on her face.

Quincy was frowning, still turning over the conversation in his mind. “Clearly Ringham was interested in a personal relationship with Jaylin Banks,” he said. “Four visits to her apartment.” He glanced at D.D. “Nice work on your part.”

“Thank you. Every now and then I try to be competent. Even when the case is ten years old.”

“But for all his secret desires, it’s not clear Ringham ever managed so much as a hello to Jaylin Banks in person. Even more interesting, he didn’t spot some mysterious new man in her life. But a woman? An older female, who might have just been a second person using the computer lab, of course. Or . . .”

They all stared down the hall, to their open fourth door.

“There’s no evidence Jaylin Banks was bisexual,” D.D. said.

“Maybe the woman was a friend?” Rainie asked. “Or given the age, maybe one of Jaylin’s professors, helping her out on an assignment?”

“Right before Jaylin is strangled to death in the library stairwell?” D.D. arched a brow skeptically, then opened her personal notebook on the case. “As I said, we’ve been running down the names of everyone who used their student passes to access the library that night—which, for the record, would include staff IDs as well. As Quincy explained to Ringham, this is the classic closed-room murder. Whoever killed Jaylin Banks should be listed on either the electronic log generated by the student passes or on the guards’ manual log of guests. We’ve interviewed fifty-seven of sixty names, documenting endless stories of ‘I was asleep,’ or ‘Making out in this corner,’ or, heaven forbid, ‘Working so hard on my homework I never even realized a girl was murdered that night.’ Since students often worked in clumps, most were able to alibi one another. But we do have three names we’re still working on. . . .”

D.D. flipped through a sheaf of papers. “All right. Here we go. There is one female we haven’t been able to locate. Her ID doesn’t list her as a professor, but as a student, Erin Pizzey. According to the detective’s note: Lives in England. Too old.” D.D. frowned. Looked at them. Frowned again.

“‘Too old’ sounds promising,” Rainie said. “It confirms Ringham’s story of an older woman.”

“Yeah. But Erin Pizzey. Does that name sound familiar to you? Because I feel like I’ve heard it somewhere before. Pizzey, Pizzey, Pizzey. Huh. Something’s off here. I’m going to ask my squad mate, Phil, to personally track down this Erin. He’s my best when it comes to computer searches. I’m sure he’ll hit us back shortly with more information.”

“At which point, maybe our fourth man will actually turn out to be a woman,” Quincy said, glancing at the open door down the hall.

“I’m all for equal opportunity,” D.D. assured him. “Even when it comes to murder.” She got on her cell, started dictating new search info to her detective, then, just as quickly, had her phone slipped back into her pocket.

She glanced at her watch. “Almost noon. Shall we?”

“Bachelor number three,” Quincy agreed. Laurel Santana, the second security guard who’d been working that night, and the one who’d finally discovered Jaylin Banks’s lifeless body.

D.D. took up position in the hall.

They went back to work.

*   *   *

In contrast to Dennis Ringham, Laurel Santana was a professional security guard. The night Jaylin Banks died, he’d already logged fifteen years at his uncle’s security firm, which supplied personnel to the university as well as several area businesses. According to the initial report, he’d taken on the night shift, as he and his wife had just welcomed their first baby and he’d wanted to be home during the day to help out.

He looked up now as Quincy and Rainie walked in. Clear-eyed, short-cropped silver-dusted hair, casual in a T-shirt and jeans. He wasn’t a large man, not, say, compared to James Duchovny. But he had a look about him. A guy who exercised regularly, probably logged weekly time on some form of self-defense, and felt confident in his ability to handle himself. The fingers of his right hand drummed the table restlessly, but he didn’t speak as Rainie pulled out her chair, then Quincy. A security guard who still worked graveyard, he was no doubt accustomed to long spans of silence.

Rainie and Quincy considered him the wild card. Certainly he presented a better front than the overly muscled Duchovny and obviously weak-willed Ringham. Family man. Long-term employment. A direct, steady stare.

And yet, he’d been the one to find the body. In Rainie and Quincy’s line of work, you always had to wonder about the person who found the body.

Rainie opened the file, began removing the photos. Santana glanced at them once, then returned his gaze to Rainie and Quincy.

“Jaylin Banks. It’s been ten years.” He didn’t sound surprised. “What do you want to know?”

“Walk us through that night,” Rainie said. She leaned forward, resting her crossed arms on the table. “Tell us anything, everything you think might help.”

“I logged on eleven fifty. Checked in with Dennis Ringham from the previous shift.”

Rainie nodded encouragingly.

“He said there had been a student in the computer lab, which was due to close at midnight. Also, he counted fifteen students on floor three, six on floor one.”

“But only a single student on the entire second floor?” Quincy asked. Which still struck him as odd. Especially as Ringham was now saying he’d seen an older woman also in the computer lab around eleven forty.

“Second floor was rarely populated that time of night. Most of the floor was composed of the computer lab, accompanied by general reference materials. Given the lab closed at midnight, I’d usually find the floor next to empty. Maybe a stray student catching some shut-eye between the stacks, that sort of thing.”

“And that night?”

“When I conducted my initial walk-through, I counted ten students on the first floor, not six.” Santana didn’t come right out and say that Ringham was an idiot, but his tone implied enough.

“Second floor, however, appeared deserted. Computer lab was usually staffed by a single student—maybe a computer science major, that sort of thing. But as you can imagine, kids didn’t always show up for their shifts. In that case, the lab worked on the honor system. At midnight, the last student should lock the door, pull it shut. My job was to double check. Night in question—lights were still on. Looking through the windows, space appeared deserted. I tested the knob, found it locked as required. I inspected the rest of the second floor, all was quiet.

“I made my way to the third floor, identified fourteen more students—”

“Fourteen, not fifteen?” Quincy interjected quietly.

“I counted fourteen, sir.”

Quincy nodded, filed that away. Which could mean one student was unaccounted for, or that Dennis Ringham had done just as good a job of counting occupants on the third floor as he had on the first.

“You check the stairwells?” Rainie asked.

“Next stop, make a round of the stairwells. One in each of the rear corners of the building. I completed my first walk-through at twelve twenty-two. Both stairwells were clear.”

“At which point . . . ?”

“I took up position at the front desk in the lobby. Waited till one a.m. Walked my next sequence of rounds.”

“More or less students at one a.m.?” Quincy asked.

“About the same, sir. Five left, while three new students signed in—”

“Male or female?” Rainie spoke up.

“Two females, one male. They appeared to be together. They said they were headed to the third floor. I confirmed their presence during my next walk-through, shortly after one.”

“And the stairwells?” Quincy pushed.

A slight hesitation this time. “Clear, sir.”

“Any sign of Jaylin Banks?” Rainie asked.

“No, ma’am. I didn’t know her by name at the time. But after . . . everything. I’ve gone through my first two passes time and time again in my mind, ma’am. To the best of my knowledge, I never spotted anyone who matched Jaylin Banks’s description anywhere in the library.”

“What about an older woman?” Quincy asked. “Someone more like a professor, say, than a student?”

Santana looked at them, shook his head.

Quincy resumed his original line of questioning: “You continued down to the front desk. You’ve conducted two walk-throughs. It’s now two a.m. Hear anything? See anything of note?”

“No, sir.”

“But your rounds,” Rainie spoke up. “They take around twenty-five minutes based on your times.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“During which time you’re not in the lobby. Other students could be walking in or walking out.”

“Yes, ma’am. But after eight p.m., all entering students have to swipe their IDs to access the library. Not just anyone could enter.”

“We saw two approved access entries shortly after midnight.” Quincy pushed now. “Two students who would’ve entered the library right after you took over from Dennis Ringham and right before you made your first rounds. The students were both males, both seniors. What can you tell us about them?”

Santana shifted restlessly. “Honestly, sir? It was ten years ago; I don’t recall. But assuming they used their student passes, the electronic log should list their names.”

“Matthew Shepherd. Stan Hobson. Either name ring a bell?”

Santana shook his head.

“Both shared a class with Jaylin Banks. Shakespeare’s England, or something like that.”

Again, Santana shook his head.

“You know the most vulnerable time for a security system?” Quincy asked the guard.

“Switchover,” Santana admitted.

“Presents a window of opportunity. Granted, a small window, where one guard is winding down and another guard is gearing up and so neither guard is completely paying attention. On a night when something goes wrong, that’s the time period we have to consider: What happened during the window of opportunity?”

“When these two guys, who knew Jaylin Banks, entered the library,” Santana filled in. “Can you give me their descriptions?”

Rainie did the honors. Two photos in the back of the file. Blown-up shots from student IDs, ten years old. Two of the three students D.D. hadn’t yet been able to track down.

Santana didn’t speak right away but took the time to study each image.

“They do look familiar to me, sir. I believe they were on the third floor.”

“Not the second?”

“No, the third.”

“By themselves, with a group. With a girl?” Quincy suggested.

But Santana shook his head. “I only remember seeing them sitting together. No one else. Sorry, sir.”

Quincy nodded, still staring hard. Which brought them to the next phase of the evening.

“And at two a.m.?” Rainie asked.

Santana straightened his posture, placed his hands on the table. “I conducted my normal drill. Inspected floors one, two, three, then hit the stairwells. Two eighteen a.m., rear south stairwell, I noticed . . . I noticed something white, one floor down. It looked almost like a piece of paper.” His voice grew hoarse. The security guard glanced away. “I thought someone had dropped something. Maybe a report. It wasn’t until I made it down to the second-floor landing . . . She was sprawled on the steps, between floors one and two. Like maybe she’d slipped. It wasn’t until I drew closer that I saw, I noticed . . . the bruising on her throat. Then I realized what had happened.”

Rainie and Quincy didn’t speak right away, but let the silence draw out. This was the moment, the key moment, as disclosed on Sergeant Warren’s list of lies.

“You never saw Jaylin Banks before then.” Rainie pushed. “Your entire shift, you never saw her?”

“No, ma’am.”

“But you knew about her. A lone female in the computer lab. Dennis Ringham had told you about her.”

“The computer lab was locked and empty when I first saw it. Like I said, I’ve thought about it and thought about it. To the best of my memory, I never saw her that night. At least . . . not alive.”

“But how can that be?” Rainie pressed. “Jaylin had been there. Eleven forty in the computer lab. Ringham swears it. And there’s no activity in the logs showing she ever left or reentered the library. Meaning once your shift started, where did she go, Santana? Where was Jaylin Banks hiding, and who was she with?”

“I figured she exited while I was walking my first rounds. Twenty-five minutes out of every hour, I’m not in the lobby. So by definition, I don’t see everyone come or go.”

“You assumed she left,” Rainie repeated.

“It happens. And it’s not like I had specific instructions regarding her or anything. I checked the computer lab as advised. Once I saw it was locked . . .”

“You didn’t give her a second thought,” Rainie provided. “Until two eighteen, when you were walking down the rear stairwell, checking out a piece of paper.”

Santana looked down, had the good grace to flush.

“Do you know how long it takes bruising to form, post mortem?” Quincy interjected quietly.

Santana shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”

“At least an hour for initial bruising. Fully formed can take as long as four to six. In other words, for there to be enough color around Jaylin Banks’s neck for you to see obvious strangulation marks . . . Jaylin Banks hadn’t just been murdered when you discovered her on the stairwell. She’d been there for a bit.”

Santana was holding rigid now. As if he could finally see the trap. And just how easily he’d walked right into it. “It was the first time I saw her, sir. I swear it.”

“How?” Rainie piled on. “If you’d been inspecting the stairwells all along? If you’d been checking them since midnight.”

“I didn’t—”

“See her?” Rainie interrupted. “Or complete your rounds? Which is it, Mr. Santana? Because it couldn’t have been both. Jaylin Banks never left the library that night. She entered around ten, was last seen alive at eleven forty, then according to you, suddenly disappeared after midnight. Except that couldn’t have been the case. She was in the library. The entire time. So tell us. It’s been ten years. For the sake of this girl, tell us the damn truth!”

Santana put his head in his hands.

For a moment, Quincy thought the man might continue to resist. Then . . .

“I didn’t walk the stairwells. First couple of times. Midnight. One a.m. I just . . . pushed open the doors. Glanced into the landings. I was tired, okay? The new baby. Me and my wife, we hadn’t been sleeping. . . . So I didn’t walk the stairs. Not till two a.m. Not . . . till then.”

Santana’s voice broke. He stopped holding his head and looked directly at the photos. Stared at them hard. The beautiful young woman. Her dark, sightless eyes. The clear line of bruises marring her throat.

“She was dead well before two,” he stated roughly. “That’s what you’re telling me. After she left the computer lab . . . The whole time I was there. She was dead all along.”

“Yes,” Quincy told him. “We believe so. Shortly around midnight, Jaylin Banks was strangled to death in the stairwell. Which brings us back to the two male students who entered the library right as you went on shift.”

“This Matt and Stan,” Santana said. He grimaced, fingered their pictures. “I wish I could tell you they were twitchy, or up to no good. But I walked past them twice. Both times they were just sitting there, reading. If they’d really been the ones . . .” He looked up. “Why would they stay? I don’t know, sir. They might have known Jaylin, had a connection to her. But I never saw them with her. And they weren’t sitting anywhere near the stairwell door.”

Quincy leaned forward. He tried one last time. “What about an older woman? Not a student, but maybe a staff member?”

“All I can tell you is check the electronic logs. I’m sorry, sir. I truly am. I wish . . .”

Quincy knew what the man wished. That he hadn’t been so tired. That he’d done his job correctly. That he’d not had a young woman die on his watch.

Another moment passed. Santana dropped his head.

Quincy and Rainie got up and left the room.

*   *   *

“We’re still missing something,” Quincy murmured, as he escorted Rainie out into the hall. “Sergeant Warren may have found an alibi for Duchovny on the night in question, but that doesn’t change the fact that even he thought there was someone new in Jaylin Banks’s life.”

“A mysterious older woman?” Rainie asked doubtfully.

“Or two male classmates who just happened to enter the library at the same time as the changing of the guards. And yet Santana swears there was nothing suspicious about either one of them.”

“Santana also swore he did his rounds that night,” Rainie pointed out.

Quincy nodded, tapping D.D.’s notes once more. “It’s amazing what you can discover, even in a cold case, with a talented detective.”

They glanced down the hall, toward the final door, open and waiting.

Except it was no longer open, or waiting.

D.D. came bustling up behind them. “I found her,” she said. “Erin Pizzey.”

They all stared at the closed interrogation room door. “And this Erin Pizzey is our fourth man?” Rainie asked, because she definitely wouldn’t have guessed that.

“Yes. And no. Technically speaking, Erin Pizzey wasn’t a student at the university. The name is an alias, used by the woman running the university’s domestic abuse program.”

Quincy got it. “In honor of the woman who opened the first shelter for battered women in England. That Erin Pizzey.”

“Jaylin Banks’s secret meeting,” Rainie murmured. “With an older woman.”

D.D. led them down the hall toward the final interrogation room. “And now, you can learn all about it.”

*   *   *

“Erin Pizzey” was indeed an older woman. Aging bohemian chic, Quincy thought. Direct blue eyes, flowing steel-gray hair, and a strongly sculpted unlined face that placed her years somewhere around ageless.

She rose when they entered the room, extended a hand to Quincy, then to Rainie.

“Rebecca Stein,” she said. “I understand from the detective you’ve been looking for me. I apologize for the confusion.”

They all took a seat. D.D. was once again in the hall, if only because the interrogation room was too small to accommodate more. Rainie had the case folder, though how much it would apply in this situation remained to be seen. This was hardly the pre-prepped and well-strategized approach they’d had for their earlier conversations. Still, some of the best moments in a case came from working on the fly. And this is where Rainie and Quincy’s years of working tightly together came in handy. They didn’t have to look at each other to know how to proceed.

They just did.

Rainie spoke first. “Tell us about your work as Erin Pizzey; how you came to know Jaylin Banks.”

Ms. Stein smiled. “It all seems overly dramatic. The alias, fake student ID. And yet, it’s necessary more often than you’d think. It’s estimated that forty percent of college women experience violent and abusive dating behaviors during their time in school. Even in this day and age, it’s a topic many women find difficult to discuss, ask for help. As overseer of the university’s domestic-violence program, my job includes raising awareness, educating students and staff on reporting procedures, and, of course, establishing and manning a twenty-four-hour-a-day hotline. Most of the cases I’m personally involved in come via the hotline. Interestingly enough, Jaylin was first brought to my attention by another girl who I’d been counseling. We’ll call her F.”

Rebecca paused, regarded them directly. Quincy got the message. Felicia. Duchovny’s former girlfriend, already known for her string of black eyes.

“F’s boyfriend was a bit of a local thug. Not one to take no lightly. Appearances and respect were very important to him.”

“James Duchovny,” Rainie said.

“Yes.”

“We’ve heard of his . . . habits. Did F ever file a police report against him?”

“No. I was working with F to build her courage toward taking such a step, when the relationship came to an abrupt end. James announced he’d met someone else. That was it.”

“Jaylin Banks.”

“F was relieved. And jealous and devastated and hysterical. Wanting to get out, then being suddenly cast out . . . These relationships are complicated.”

“We understand,” Quincy assured her.

“I continued to work with F. One of the myths of an abusive relationship is that when it ends, the woman is now safe, can move on. In fact, having once entered such a relationship, F remained at risk to repeat the pattern. Also, power-dominating abusers such as Duchovny have a tendency to feel like they can pick back up the relationship anytime they want. Their ex is just lucky they felt like revisiting the neighborhood.

“Over the course of F’s healing, she started to understand more of her own self-worth and how badly James had been treating her. Then, rather than feeling threatened and even angry about James’s new girlfriend, she started to worry about her. Jaylin, she told me, was very sweet. But also a bit shy, introverted. F was concerned that against a man as violent and dominating as James, Jaylin wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“So you reached out to Jaylin?” Rainie asked. “Said hey, hear your boyfriend is a brute. Wanna discuss?”

Rebecca smiled. “Actually, F arranged our first meeting. The three of us, in a bookstore off campus. Where both could feel safe enough to talk.

“In the beginning, Jaylin was quiet. F shared her story. What had happened to her. Which was difficult, exposing what to her still felt like shame. Jaylin mostly listened. She seemed compassionate, to genuinely feel bad for what F had gone through. But I would say she already had that internal guard up. ‘This is sad and sounds awful, but I’m sure my boyfriend will never do that to me.’”

Quincy and Rainie both nodded. They had heard that story before.

“I thought that might be the end of things. I congratulated F on her courage. Kept working with her on her healing. As for Jaylin, I gave her my card, told her she was welcome to call anytime. But later I saw that she’d slipped the card into the trash on the way out. Not the first time in my line of work.”

More nods.

“Jaylin called me three weeks later. Turns out, she has a photographic memory. And she hadn’t wanted the card to be found on her, because she was already starting to understand that Duchovny had a temper and just what kinds of things might set him off.”

“She wanted to end the relationship,” Rainie said softly.

“If only it were so simple. She wanted to keep the boyfriend she loved. The strong guy, the sexy guy, the guy who made her feel like a woman who didn’t just read great adventures, but who lived them. The explosive boyfriend, though. The one who put his fist through the wall of her apartment. Who swung a lamp at her head after he showed up drunk two hours late for their date and she told him she wasn’t going out with him. That guy was a problem.”

“You started meeting with her,” Quincy said.

“I made myself available. I got her information on safe houses. I walked her through various options, the safest options for ending the relationship. Beginning with getting her to understand that the most dangerous moment in these relationships is the moment the woman announces she wants to leave.”

“Is that what you were doing in the computer room?” Rainie asked. “Plotting Jaylin’s escape?”

“I thought that’s what we were doing,” Rebecca said. “But when I arrived, Jaylin said James had found out what was going on. According to him, F had called him directly and told him that Jaylin was leaving him, possibly in the hope that James would be so furious he’d dump Jaylin and come crying back to F instead.”

Quincy nodded, watched Rainie wince. They had both seen such things before. Some people’s desire, need, to further their own pain and punishment . . .

“Do you think F really called him, went behind Jaylin’s back?” Quincy asked.

Rebecca shrugged. “I think anything’s possible. People are complex, and these kinds of relationships . . . If only there were an on/off switch. But here’s the interesting part: James didn’t lose his temper. He’d come to the library with Jaylin that night. He’d said he’d hang with her while she worked on her paper, then they were supposed to go to a bar.”

Quincy and Rainie nodded.

“Except the moment they were alone in the computer lab, Duchovny announced he’d really come that night to let her go. He wasn’t the right guy for her. She could do better. So that was it. It had been fun. Good times. Great ride. Good-bye. And then he left.”

Quincy frowned. This he couldn’t picture. “Duchovny just . . . walked away.”

“Took the high road,” Rebecca assured him. “Jaylin was still trying to process it when I got there. But definitely James had spoken to F. He knew all about Jaylin’s growing fear of him and his temper. Her secret plans to try to end things. And rather than drop the hammer, or take some kind of stand, no way, no how, over my dead body, he . . . let her go. No big whoop, he told her. Have a nice life.”

Rainie turned to Quincy. “Duchovny broke up with Jaylin? Why wouldn’t he just admit that to us?”

“Guy clearly has an ego,” Quincy said mildly. “And for the record, saying he ended things with his girlfriend that night would only make him a bigger suspect. Because, of course, a good detective would have to wonder if Jaylin hadn’t actually broken up with him, leading him to take revenge. Duchovny might be a brute, but he clearly isn’t stupid.”

“I think he cared about her in his own way,” Rebecca spoke up. “Enough that he was willing to let her go, do what was right for her, instead of taking what he wanted for himself. Though, that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have changed his mind later. I’d advised Jaylin not to be alone for the near future. Maybe take a trip home for the weekend. Make sure she had friends and family around her at all times. Just in case.”

Rainie looked at the woman. “Why didn’t you come forward sooner?” she asked Rebecca. “Why are we just hearing about this now?”

Rebecca smiled apologetically. “Technically speaking, the hotline, my job, are confidential and anonymous. Hence the Erin Pizzey ID to use in public situations. Please understand that anonymity isn’t just for my sake, but to help protect the students who meet with me. Can you imagine the consequences if the jealous hothead learned his lover was last seen with the university’s expert on domestic violence? Things can turn ugly fast.”

“But Jaylin was dead. Isn’t that cause to break confidentiality?”

“I still had F to consider. Also, the police were already looking at James as a suspect, based on his violent history. I didn’t have anything to add to that. He made no specific threat to Jaylin and, if anything, had given the end of their relationship his blessing. If James had done it, I figured the police would find evidence. Then when week turned into week . . .

“I didn’t know what to think. Everyone said she was strangled. That there wasn’t any sign of battery or assault. To be honest . . .” Rebecca shook her head. “I didn’t know what to think.”

“When did you last see Jaylin?” Quincy asked.

“Shortly before midnight. She said it was time to lock up the computer lab. She gathered up her things. I followed her out the door. She pulled it shut. Checked that it was locked.”

“Was she wearing a coat?” Quincy asked.

“No.”

“Shoes?”

“Um . . .yes. White sneakers. Nothing fancy. Dressed for comfort.”

“What happened next?” Rainie asked.

“I wanted to grab a book while I was there, from the third floor, but I didn’t want Jaylin to exit alone, not until we knew more about James’s true intentions. I’d made the offer to walk out with her, when the security guard showed up. He said he’d escort her out.”

Quincy stilled. Beside him, he felt Rainie’s corresponding quiver. This was it. The moment that made cases.

“Describe the security guard,” Rainie said quietly.

Rebecca laughed. “That was the irony. He was such a skinny little thing. Hardly a match for a guy like James. Why, the guard couldn’t even look Jaylin in the eyes. He just kept staring at her shoes.”

*   *   *

Quincy and Rainie reentered the second interrogation room five hours later, Rainie once more with a manila file in hand, but this time filled with an entirely new batch of photos.

Quincy walked in first, partially obscuring Rainie from view. He remained standing until Rainie had taken her seat. Then he pulled out his own chair.

Duchovny had been turned loose. Santana. Their mysterious witness number four. Now, only one remained.

Ringham had his head folded into his arms on the tabletop, ostensibly trying to rest. When they walked in, he straightened up, appearing both sullen and sleepy.

“Fifteen minutes after midnight,” Rainie stated. She slapped the folder down on the metal table, causing Ringham to flinch. “That’s what time you logged out the night Jaylin Banks died. Fifteen whole minutes after your shift ended. Why so late, Ringham? Did it take you that long to find your jacket?”

Ringham scowled, scrubbed at his pale face. “Whaddya mean so late? I had to talk to my replacement, gather my things. Takes some time.”

“Really? Because according to the logs from other evenings, you usually hightailed it out of the library by twelve oh five. But that night . . . Twelve fifteen. Ten extra minutes. What were you doing for those ten minutes?”

“Seriously? You’re busting my chops because one night I ran ten minutes late?”

Rainie stared at him. Then she opened the file, and without ever taking her eyes from Ringham’s face, began laying out a fresh series of photos.

These ones weren’t glossy, but simple, computer-printed black-and-whites.

When Quincy had first reviewed the cold case, his initial suspicion had been a sexual fetish.

Foot fetish, in particular. Unfortunately, the ME hadn’t thought to swab Jaylin Banks’s toes for saliva. An oversight in Quincy’s mind. That was why he and Rainie had made sure to force their suspects to look at the multiple pictures of Jaylin’s body, to see who reacted to the images of her bare feet. The lack of response had been troubling until Rebecca had unwittingly revealed that Jaylin Banks’s killer hadn’t been into toes after all, but sneakers. A killer, with a passion for ladies’ white tennis shoes.

“Sneakerheads,” Quincy spoke up, softly now, jerking Ringham’s head toward him. The man didn’t glance up, though. His gaze remained riveted on the images Rainie was still laying out on the table. Photo after photo of various brands of white gym shoes. Rainie saved the best for last. A single shot of plain white Keds, such as the pair Jaylin Banks had been wearing the night of her murder.

“Trading, collecting, selling sneakers has become a one-point-two-billion-dollar industry. And not just brand-new limited-edition Nike high tops still in their original packaging, but used tennis shoes as well. Ones worn by celebrities, with their pedigree attached. Or rare sizes of iconic styles. Sneakers have become the baseball cards of the millennials. Because some people love them that much.”

Ringham remained fixated on the images, his breath shallow in his chest.

“You don’t trade them,” Rainie spoke up bluntly. “You just collect them. Women’s plain white tennis shoes. We know, Ringham. There are two major dealers in the Boston area. Two hours ago, we e-mailed them your photo. Both recognized you instantly. You like to visit the trade shows and acquire women’s sneakers. In particular, you like Nikes and Keds. Which, for certain models, can be worth quite a bit of money. Except you don’t care about iconic styles, or limited editions, or fancy pedigrees. No. You want, you need, you must have women’s white running shoes. The dealers knew all about you, Ringham. Including just how much you’re willing to pay for pairs of used shoes that are worthless even to sneakerheads.”

“You noticed Jaylin,” Quincy picked up. “You followed Jaylin. You became obsessed with Jaylin. Caught loitering four times outside her apartment. Pretty girl, of course you noticed her. That’s what we all thought. That’s what you let us think. Because it wasn’t Jaylin you wanted. It was her shoes. Her plain white Keds. Her favorite shoes, which she wore every time she came into the library.

“You liked those shoes, didn’t you, Ringham. You wanted those shoes. You needed them. But how to get them?”

“You returned to the computer lab after Santana logged on duty,” Rainie stated. “You knew he’d walk the ground floor first, giving you precious minutes. Finally that older woman would be gone, and you’d have Jaylin to yourself. Actually, the woman was still there. But then she saw your guard uniform. Perfect. You could walk her friend out. You could protect Jaylin from her evil boyfriend.

“Did it make you pause at all? This chance to actually do the right thing, be the hero you dreamed about being?” Rainie gave the man a disappointed look.

While Quincy said: “Obsessions are too strong. You know that. So Jaylin’s companion left, and you opened the door to the stairwell. You invited Jaylin to walk down first. And then you attacked from behind, the only way someone like you would have the courage to take on an opponent. Standing one step above, you were in the perfect position to reach out, grab her by the throat, and squeeze. One minute. Two. Three. Then, just like that, it was over. She was dead. You slid off her shoes, tucked them into your own bag, and exited the building. Ten extra minutes. Not much time at all, to kill a woman, and walk away with what you really wanted. Ladies’ white gym shoes.”

Ringham didn’t say anything. He licked his lips.

“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren executed a search warrant on your apartment an hour ago,” Quincy continued. “You know what she found in all your closets, piled behind the furniture, stuffed beneath the bed? Tennis shoes. Hundreds of pairs of white sneakers. One of those pairs is Jaylin’s. You know it. I know it. It’s only a matter of time now.”

“It’s okay,” Rainie said softly. “We understand. It was her fault. She never should’ve worn those shoes.”

Ringham’s gaze darted up, narrowed in on Rainie’s face.

“Were they as good as these ones?” Rainie stuck out her right foot. Where she’d exchanged her black pointed high heels for a pair of shocking white Keds. Brand new. Fresh out of the box.

Ringham didn’t even hesitate. He lunged for her foot. Rainie kicked out and caught him squarely under the chin. He went down. She shoved back her chair, rose to towering above him.

She kept her newly acquired sneakers in his line of sight as she said, “Tell us, Ringham. Tell us exactly what you did to Jaylin Banks that night.”

And staring at the canvas sneakers, he did.

*   *   *

Detective D. D. Warren followed up days later. When Rainie and Quincy were back home in Oregon, dealing with more mundane matters such as how to get their thirteen-year-old foster daughter to complete her latest homework.

After Ringham’s confession, the Boston police had continued their investigation. Follow-up with his female neighbors had revealed that yes, now that the detectives mentioned it, their white running shoes had gone missing while Ringham lived nearby.

Perhaps even more disturbingly, however, they’d found a video collection. Of various 1980s aerobic tapes, edited down to show just the participants’ feet, dozens of white gym shoes, dancing in place.

Given the full weight of evidence, Ringham had plead guilty. Which saved Jaylin Banks’s family the trauma of sitting for hours in a courtroom, hearing how their bright, beautiful daughter had been killed for her taste in classic sneakers.

Author’s Note

Most of my novels have been inspired by real-life cases, and, sadly, this short story is no exception: a killer with a shoe fetish took a young woman’s life in 1984. Fortunately, the investigators prevailed, identifying the perpetrator and finding justice in a case where the truth truly was stranger than fiction.

For more real-life-inspired suspense, check out my latest novel, Right Behind You, where Quincy and Rainie take on a spree killer with the help of their foster daughter and an expert in fugitive tracking. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did researching it!

Read on for an early look at Lisa Gardner’s next thriller

RIGHT BEHIND YOU

On sale January 31, 2017

Had a family once.

Father. Mother. Sister. Lived in our very own double-wide. Brown shag carpet. Dirty gold countertops. Peeling linoleum floors. Used to race my Hot Wheels down those food-splattered countertops, double-loop through ramps of curling linoleum, then land in gritty piles of shag. Place was definitely a shit hole. But being a kid, I called it home.

Mornings, wolfing down Cheerios, watching Scooby-Doo without any volume so I wouldn’t wake the ’rents. Getting my baby sister up, ready for school. Both of us staggering out the front door, backpacks nearly busting with books.

Important to read. Someone told me that. Mom, Dad, grandparent, teacher? Don’t remember now, but somewhere I got the message. Book a day. Like an apple. So after school I headed off to the library, sister still in tow. Read some books, ’cause God knows we didn’t have any fruit.

I liked Choose Your Own Adventures. Each scene had a cliffhanger ending, where you had to decide what would happen next. Turn left in the forbidden temple or turn right? Pick up the cursed treasure or walk on by? In the Choose Your Own Adventure books, you were always the one in control.

Then I’d read Clifford the Big Red Dog to my little sis. Not old enough to read yet, she’d point and laugh at the pictures.

Sometimes, the librarian would sneak us snacks. She’d say stuff like, Someone left behind their bag of chips. Would you like them? I’d say, Nah. She’d say, Go on, better you than me. Potato chips aren’t good for my girlish figure.

Eventually my sister would grab the chips, eyes greedy. She was always hungry back then. We both were.

After library, home.

Sooner or later, always had to go home.

My mom had this smile. When she was in the right mood, having a “good day,” oh, that smile. She’d ruffle my hair. Call me her little man. Say how proud she was of me. And hug me. Big, strong hugs, envelopes of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. I loved that smell. I loved the days my mother smiled.

Sometimes, if things were going really well, she’d fix dinner. Spaghetti noodles with ketchup—that’ll leave a stain, she’d cry gaily, slurping up noodles. Ramen noodles with scrambled eggs—dinner for fifteen cents, now we’re living the dream, she’d declare. Or my favorite, Kraft macaroni and cheese—it’s the nuclear orange color that makes it special, she’d whisper.

My little sister would giggle. She liked my mother in this mood. Who wouldn’t?

Dad was usually at work. Bringing home the bacon. When he had a job. Gas station attendant. Night clerk. Warehouse stocker.

Stay in school, he’d tell me, afternoons when we came home in time to watch him button up yet another grimy uniform. Fucking real world, he’d tell me. Fucking bosses.

Then off he’d go. And my mom would appear from the hazy cloud of their bedroom to start dinner. Or the door would never open, and I’d get out a can opener instead. Chef Boyardee. Campbell’s soup. Baked beans.

My sister and I didn’t talk those nights. We ate in silence. Then I’d read her more Clifford, or maybe we’d play Go Fish. Quiet games for quiet kids. My sister would fall asleep on the sofa. Then I’d pick her up, carry her off to bed.

“Sorry,” she’d say sleepily, though neither of us knew what she was apologizing for.

Had a family once.

Father. Mother. Sister.

But then the father worked less and less and drank more and more. And the mother . . . Dunno. Drugs, booze, her own foggy mind? Parental units appeared less and less to cook, clean, work. More and more to fight, scream, yell. Mom, hurling plastic plates across the kitchen. Dad, punching a hole through the cheap drywall. Then both would guzzle more vodka and do the whole thing all over again.

Sister took to sleeping in my room, while I sat by the door. ’Cause sometimes, the parents had guests over. Other boozers, druggies, losers. Then all bets were off. Three, four, five in the morning. Locked doorknob rattling, strange voices crooning, “Hey, little kids, come out and play with us. . . .”

My sister didn’t giggle anymore. She slept with the light on, ragged copy of Clifford clutched in her hands.

While I kept watch with a baseball bat balanced across my knees.

Then, morning. House finally quiet. Strangers passed out on the floor. As we crept around them, stealing into the kitchen for the Cheerios box, then grabbing our backpacks and tiptoeing out the door.

Rinse, spin, repeat.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Had a family once.

But then the father drank or shot up or snorted too much. And the mom—envelopes of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume—started to scream and scream and scream. While my sister and I watched wide-eyed from the sofa.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” the father yelled.

Scream. Scream. Scream.

“Fucking bitch! What’s wrong with you?”

Scream. Scream. Scream.

“I said, SHUT UP!”

Kitchen knife. Big one. Butcher knife, like from a slasher film. Did she grab it? Did he? Don’t remember who had it first. Can only tell you who had it last.

My father. Raising the knife up. Bringing the knife down. Then my mother wasn’t screaming anymore.

“Shit!”

My father, turning to my sister and me. Bloody knife, drip, drip, drip. And I knew then what he’d do next.

“Run,” I told my little sister as I dragged her off the sofa, shoved her toward the hall.

The shag carpet slowed him down. But the peeling linoleum tripped us up. As we raced through the double-wide, silent in our terror, I passed my sister, scooped her up, little legs still churning through the air.

I could hear him, right behind me. I could feel his breath on my neck, already picture the blade slicing between my bony shoulder blades. I threw my sister into my bedroom.

“Lock the door!”

Then sprinting down the hall, my father and his bloody knife close behind.

I bolted into my parents’ bedroom. Leapt onto the bed.

“Fucking kid. Stay still, stay still, stay still.”

Knife going up, knife going down. Shredding the bedding. Tearing into the mattress.

I jumped down the other side. Grabbed anything I could find from the top of the bureau. Empty wine bottles, beer cans, perfume. Hurled them into my father’s beet-red face.

“Shit shit shit.”

Then, as he staggered, I jumped back over the bed, whirling around him. I heard the slash of the knife. Felt the burning pain in my shoulder. But then I was clear, hammering down the hall. If I could make it out the front door, into the yard, cry for the neighbors . . .

And leave my little sister behind?

Then she was there. Standing in my bedroom doorway. Holding out the baseball bat.

I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the wooden bat. I raced into the family room, turning at the last second, assuming the proper stance.

My father. Wild eyes. Flushed face. Lights on, I thought, but no one home.

He raised the bloody knife.

I swung with all my might. Felt the connection, a solid, wet smack, as I knocked it out of the park. My father, falling down, down, down, knife dropping into the carpet.

And still I swung the bat. Bam. Bam. Bam.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

My little sister, suddenly appearing beside me.

“Telly, Telly, Telly.”

Myself, looking up. Wild eyes. Flushed face. Lights on but no one home.

“Telly!” my baby sister cried one last time. As I lifted the bat.

Had a family.

Once.

***

Sheriff Shelly Atkins met her lead homicide sergeant, Roy Peterson, at the scene, followed shortly by his team, then Deputy Dan Mitchell. Roy put his detectives to work, then paused long enough to confer with Shelly and Dan outside the EZ Gas. The sweltering August heat had already darkened their uniforms with sweat but was still easier to take than the rapidly increasing stench of blood and gore inside the tiny convenience store.

No sign of media yet, which just went to show there were some advantages to being a backwoods town. Given that Bakersville was nestled equidistant between the bustling metropolis of Portland, Oregon, and political fuss of the state’s capital, Salem, Shelly didn’t expect that situation to last for long. Ninety minutes was an easy enough drive for a rabid reporter hell-bent on the latest tale of violence. Though sadly, a convenience store shooting was hardly newsworthy in this day and age. Only the location of the murders—the proverbial small town—would make it a story of note.

“Call came into dispatch eight oh four a.m.,” Shelly related to her sergeant, tone clipped. “Report of shots fired. I arrived on scene at approximately eight sixteen a.m., discovering two bodies inside. One a young male, approximately midtwenties. Second a young female, eighteen, nineteen years of age. Both appear to have been shot multiple times.”

“Owner of the store?” Roy quizzed.

“Don Juarez,” Shelly answered, having already asked dispatch the same question. “I spoke to him briefly by phone. He was headed to Salem but is returning now. He tentatively identified the cashier as Erin Hill—at least that’s who was scheduled to work this morning, and the body matches her description. She’s from a local family. I already contacted Officer Estevan, asked her to pay the parents a visit.”

“And the DOA male?” Roy asked.

“No ID, no wallet. Maybe shooter grabbed it on his way out. Truck outside is registered to a fishing charter company. We’ll need to fax the vehicle registration over to our counterparts in Nehalem. Maybe one of them can get us a name.”

“Got Rebecca and Hal photographing the scene, bagging and tagging evidence,” Roy reported. “ME should be here shortly. So far, we’ve recovered nine shell casings, one slug.”

“Nine shots for two victims?” Shelly shook her head. “Seems a bit much.”

“Male customer was shot three times to the chest, once to the head. Female clerk the same: single shot to the head, three to the torso, including one slug through the palm of her hand.”

“Weapon?” Shelly asked.

“Recovered slug appears to be nine millimeter.”

Shelly sighed. Nine-millimeter handguns were common enough, especially around here. Certainly wouldn’t narrow their search any.

Dan spoke up. “That’s eight bullets.”

Roy and Shelly glanced at him.

“Four shots for each victim,” Dan supplied. “Eight bullets. But you mentioned nine casings. So where’s the last shot?”

“Oh. Haven’t gotten to that part yet.” Shelly smiled grimly. “Turns out, we got a third victim: store security camera. Which, with any luck at all, might be our lone witness.”

Here was the issue: Security cameras fell under the umbrella of technology. Being a rural county department, Bakersville didn’t have a technology expert or forensic computer tech. Meaning, their safest bet was to wait for assistance from the state police. Except, Shelly didn’t feel like waiting.

She had a double homicide in a town that saw only a handful of murders each year. Community leaders would be demanding answers sooner rather than later. Hell, Shelly wanted answers sooner rather than later.

On the other hand, botch recovery of the video and they’d be ruining one of the only leads they had.

“Business of this size, location,” Roy was saying now, “how sophisticated can the security system be? Odds are, it was picked up at an office superstore. Nothing so sophisticated three well-trained members of law enforcement couldn’t figure it out.”

Both Roy and Shelly turned to Dan. He was their resident tech expert. Which was to say, he was the youngest member on the force and the one who managed their online community outreach.

“You saw the camera?” he asked Shelly.

“Mounted behind the cash register, up near the ceiling.”

“Big, little, old, new?”

“Small. Well, what remained of it. Black plastic,” she added helpfully.

“So an electronic eye.” Dan nodded. “In that case, actual footage is most likely recorded to a DVR. This place got a back office?”

“Yeah, straight through there.”

Shelly pointed to the open door of the EZ Gas, where a flash of light indicated the detectives were still snapping photos. The other downside of attempting to retrieve the security video now; they risked further contamination of the crime scene.

“What do you want to do?” Roy asked her.

“I don’t want to wait an hour for state assist,” Shelly said.

Roy grimaced. “An hour? I’m guessing more like half a day.”

“True. All right. Dan, you’re with me. If the security system seems too complicated, we can always call the owner for assistance. But somewhere out there is a double murderer. I want to see his face.”

The flies were everywhere. Shelly grimaced as they buzzed thickly over the holes in the first victim’s chest, forehead. Her first instinct was to shoo them away, but she knew from experience there wouldn’t be any point.

Hal looked up from his camera, greeting her and Dan with a small nod of acknowledgment. They nodded back, none of them speaking. Air was hotter in here, the stench of blood and death forcing them to breathe through their mouths.

Shelly kept as far right as possible, Dan following in her footsteps, so they would disturb the area the least amount possible. They sidled past the body, then tiptoed down the outer aisle to arrive at the wall of cold drinks. In front of the refrigeration units, the air felt marginally cooler, and Shelly exhaled softly. From this vantage point, she could look back toward the front door and take in nearly all of the small, six-aisle store. The front counter, to the right of the door, was partially obscured by bags of chips. But looking up, Shelly could see the camera in question. A small black eye, now dangling haphazardly, the lens shattered by a bullet.

“Good shot,” she murmured.

Dan shrugged. “For all we know, he was standing right beneath it at the time.”

“All the better to see you with,” Shelly agreed, leading the way past the refrigeration units to a plain wooden door marked employees only.

The office door was locked. Dan grimaced, probably already wondering which of them would have to search the dead cashier for the key. Shelly, however, had a better idea. Snapping on gloves, she raised one hand, ran it along the top of the door frame, and sure enough . . .

She smiled. Dan chuckled softly. Then, as if realizing how out of place such a thing sounded, both fell back to silence.

Shelly inserted the plain brass key into the lock, eased the door open.

If the small convenience store was hot, the windowless back office was stifling. In a coastal town known for mild temperatures, plenty of places didn’t have air conditioning, and this store was no exception. When Shelly snapped on the overhead light, she discovered a tiny fan perched on a top shelf, someone’s idea of heat relief. Otherwise, the standing-room-only space contained a plank of wood topping two dinged-up metal filing cabinets, a battered-looking laptop, and sure enough, a DVR, matte black, clearly new, stuck in a back corner with an attached monitor.

“Looks like a recent purchase,” Dan said from behind Shelly’s shoulder. The small space forced them to stand close, which only made the heat that much more uncomfortable.

“Recent thefts, suspicions?” Shelly murmured. The security system was a lucky break. Even basic models were over a hundred bucks, which, for a business that looked as worn and tired as this one, couldn’t have been an easy expense.

She shifted to the side, sucking in her gut as Dan squeezed past, eyeing the DVR.

“Most systems offer immediate playback,” Dan said, already punching buttons on the DVR.

He worked his tech magic, then an icon for SuperSecurity appeared on the monitor. A few seconds later, the screen filled with the top-back view of a woman’s head.

The cashier, Shelly thought, Erin Hill, who’d started work at four a.m. and dutifully activated the security system.

Dan fiddled again, moving them forward in time: Five a.m. Six. Seven. Seven thirty, then . . .

Not a bad image. Fixed, which was a little disorienting. Black and white. Customers appeared and disappeared from the side of the screen, while the back of Erin’s head remained dead center. From time to time, she also disappeared, maybe sitting down to read a book, or, more likely, play on her phone, during the lulls.

Seven fifty-three a.m. The male victim appeared. Shelly made out the side of his face as he briefly walked into the store, then disappeared down the aisle in search of chips. Thirty seconds. Forty. Fifty. The man reappeared, full face shot now as he stood at the counter and dug around in his pocket for a wad of cash.

No audio. They could see but not hear. Given that the guy’s mouth was moving, he was saying something to Erin. She must’ve replied because he appeared to laugh in response. Then he pocketed his change. Grabbed his bag of chips. Turned toward the entrance.

Suddenly, his arms flew into the air. His body seemed to jerk, then stumble back, then jerk again.

He went down, his head disappearing offscreen till they were left with only the image of his sprawled legs.

Erin turned, her dark hair, their single focal point, suddenly whipping around. She gazed up at the camera, eyes wide, terrified.

Shelly couldn’t see her mouth. Only the top half of her face. Was she screaming, was she trying to tell them something? At the side of the screen, a bare forearm came into view. Holding a gun. Pop, pop, pop.

And Erin disappeared from sight.

A life ended. Just like that.

Shelly found herself leaning over Dan’s shoulder, staring at the video intently, as the shooter’s arm came down, vanished off the screen. No, no, the shooter had to appear. He still had to take out the camera. A lull. Maybe the shooter pausing to check around outside, see if the sound of shots aroused any nearby suspicions. Or maybe he did rifle through the first victim’s truck.

But eventually, three, four, five minutes later . . .

A lone figure walked into view. Not a man. A kid. Younger than even his first victim, maybe even younger than Erin Hill. Wearing a bulky black hoodie, sleeves balled up to his elbows but still totally inappropriate for a ninety-degree August morning. The boy approached the counter. He didn’t look back at his first victim, nor down at his second. Instead, he peered directly up at the camera. Stared straight at it.

Wearing the flattest expression Shelly had ever seen. No remorse, no glee, not a drop of sweat on his brow.

The dark-eyed boy stared at Shelly through the lens.

Then he raised his arm and fired.

Shelly had to take a moment to get her breath back. Leaning over the monitor, Dan wasn’t doing much better.

“Recognize him at all?” Shelly asked her deputy.

“No.”

“Me neither.” She doubted it mattered. An image this good, a description this solid, they should have a name within hours.

“He didn’t take money,” Dan murmured.

“No.”

“Didn’t even talk to them. Just . . . walked in. Murdered two people.”

“I know.”

“Did you see his eyes?”

Shelly nodded. She understood what her deputy was trying to say.

“What happened here?” Dan asked, his voice more plaintive now.

“I don’t know,” she told him honestly. “But I know who to ask: Pierce Quincy. If this video is anything to go by, we’re gonna need a profiler’s insights. But the shooter’s motivation isn’t our biggest question yet.”

“What’s our biggest question?”

“A kid who kills this easily—is he done yet?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lisa Gardner is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of eighteen previous novels, including her most recent, Find Her. Her Detective D. D. Warren novels include Find Her, Fear Nothing, Catch Me, Love You More, and The Neighbor, which won the International Thriller of the Year Award. Her FBI Profiler novels include Gone, The Next Accident, and The Third Victim. She lives with her family in New England.

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