“Because it's borderline preposterous,” Griffin said quietly.

“I don't care.”

“I know. Which is the second problem.”

“Huh?”

“Off the record. Way off the record. Between two experienced detectives. You need the College Hill Rapist to be Eddie Como.”

“Hey now-”

Griffin shook his head. “I know what it's like. I've been there myself. The internal pressure, the external pressure. The media isn't wrong. At a certain point, we all have to get our man.”

“You think I'm all wigged out because maybe I gave in to the public's demand for justice and screwed a major investigation?”

“No. I think you're all wigged out because maybe by rushing the investigation, you missed Sylvia Blaire's killer.”

Fitz didn't say anything, which they both knew was a yes. If Eddie was innocent, if the real College Hill Rapist was still out there… then Fitz had screwed up, and probably the women had screwed up, and not only were two young girls dead, but Eddie Como, Jr., was orphaned for no reason, and someone, probably a victim or a family member, had been driven to murder for no reason. The cost, the carnage, grew very high.

Which was one of the fundamental problems with a long-term investigation. At a certain point, the suspect had to be guilty, because everyone involved in the case couldn't afford for it to be otherwise.

Fitz had finally come around the block again and located Griffin's car. He double-parked beside it, ignoring the irate honking that promptly sounded behind him.

“One in three hundred million times the population of the earth,” Fitz said. “Think about that.”

“I will.”

“Hey, Griffin, how much money was missing from Jillian's account?”

Griffin hesitated, his hand on the door handle. “Twenty thousand.”

“Enough to hire a shooter.”

“Probably.” Griffin hesitated again. “Fitz, she's not the only one. Dan Rosen is up to his eyebrows in hock. He took out a second mortgage on his home six months ago for a hundred thousand. Then last week, he liquidated one of his brokerage accounts. The financial guys are still trying to figure out where that money went.”

Fitz closed his eyes. “And the day just keeps getting better and better.”

“Nothing on the Pesaturo accounts yet,” Griffin said, “but I think we all know that they wouldn't need money to hire an assassin.”

“They already got Uncle Vinnie.”

“Exactly.”

“You really think one of them did it.”

“I think it's the answer that makes the most sense.”

“Yeah.” Fitz nodded, sighed heavily, then went fishing for more Tums. “I like them, you know. You're never supposed to get too close, but after the last year, the shit they've been through, the way they've held up, Jillian, Carol and Meg. They're good people. I've been… proud… to work with them.”

“We'll get this figured out.”

“Sure.” Fitz looked at him. He smiled, but it was bitter. “State's involved now. And the state always gets their man, right, Griff? Not like us hardworking city cops who are only fit for drive-by shootings and other lowbrow gang-banging hissy fits. No, state detectives never make any wrong turns in an investigation. State detectives never succumb to pressure.”

Griffin's hand spasmed on the door handle. A muscle leapt in his jaw. The buzzing was almost immediate in his ears. Very slowly, he let go of the handle. Very slowly, he took a deep breath and counted to ten.

“You've had a rough night,” Griffin said quietly when he finally trusted himself to speak. “So I'm going to do us both a favor and pretend you didn't say that.”

Fitz continued to regard him steadily. His pupils were small and dark, his sagging face twisted into a stubborn scowl. For a moment, Griffin thought Fitz would push it anyway. Probably because he had had a rough night, spent at the side of a young girl who never should have died. And now the press was beating up on him, the state was beating up on him, and probably, within the next half an hour, his lieutenant would be beating up on him. And that kind of frustration could build in a man. Build and build and build, until you didn't care anymore. You thought too much about those poor young victims, all the ones that if you'd just moved faster, thought smarter, fought better… Until your desire to destroy was even higher than your desire to be saved.

Then you went home and held your dying wife in your arms, so weakened by cancer she couldn't speak, but only blink her eyes. Soon that would be gone, too. You would just come home, sit in an empty house and see images of missing children dance before your eyes.

“Go home and get some sleep,” Griffin said.

“Fuck you, Griffin. You know, I may not be young like you. I may not be able to bench-press three times my body weight or whatever the hell it is you do in your free time. But don't underestimate me, Sergeant. I'm old. I'm bitter. I'm fat. I'm bald. And that gives me a propensity for violence you can only dream about. So don't you lecture me about procedure and don't you patronize my handling of a case. Oh, and one more thing. I know where Jillian's money went.”

“Fitz-”

“Call Father Rondell of the Cranston parish. Tell him Jillian gave you his name.”

“The Cranston parish?” Griffin frowned, then blinked. “Oh, no way.”

“Yeah way. I know these women, Sergeant. I know them. Now get the fuck out of my car.”

Griffin shrugged. Griffin got out of the car. “You know, Fitz, these cross-jurisdictional investigations continue to improve relations all the time,” he said.

“Yeah, that's my thinking, too.”

Fitz peeled away from the curb. Griffin headed for Cranston.

THE WAVES ROLLED INTO THE BEACH, GENTLE TODAY, peaking low with a cap of frothy foam, then fading back into the dark depths of the ocean. The sandpipers rushed into the retreating wake of low tide, searching frantically for anything good to eat. Slow day on the beach this early in May. Another dark green wave descended upon the sand, and the small white birds took flight.

Jillian continued watching the water long after she heard the car pull up, the engine turn off, the door open, then close. Footsteps in the sand. The thought reminded her of the religious poem she'd read as a child. She smiled, and the pain cut her to the bone.

She had never been good at belief. Never been one for faith. Too many nights alone as a child maybe. Too many promises broken by her mother, until she internalized, somewhere way down deep, that the only one she could depend upon was herself. Yet she had flirted with religion, talked about it with friends, found herself attending the occasional Christmas mass. She loved the sound of a choir singing. She took comfort, during the endless gray days of winter, from going to a cathedral warmed by hundreds of bodies, standing side by side in communal worship.

Trisha had joined a Congregational church when she was in high school. She'd gotten quite into things. Faith in a higher power fit her rosy outlook on life. Conducting good works suited her bubbly nature. Jillian had attended services with her several times, and even she had been struck by the glow that filled her sister's face during prayer. Faith recharged Trisha. Made her somehow even bigger, larger, more Trisha than she had been before.

Until the night she had truly needed God… or Jillian… or even a big, strong policeman intent on doing his job.

If there was a God, and He hadn't seen fit to save Trish, then should Jillian really feel so guilty? Or maybe there was a God, and He had turned to Jillian as His instrument, and by not being up to the task, she had failed Him and her sister both. So many thoughts she could torture herself with in the middle of the night. Or even during bright spring days in May, standing in the warm caress of the sun and watching the ocean break against the shore.