"But why?"

"To make it look like a sexual-sadist attack. But a posed sexual-sadist attack. Such as what an expert in violent crimes might do to try and cover the cold-blooded murder of his ex-wife."

"Parlor tricks," Rainie said. "The police will see through them soon enough."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"There's still the fact the police saw you hours after the murder without a trace of blood or bruising on your body."

"They'll simply argue that the crime was more controlled than it originally appeared to be. They'll find traces of blood in the sink pipes, indicating the murderer cleaned up afterwards. As knowledgeable as our UNSUB has been, I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't follow washing his hands by pouring a sample of blood that is the same type as mine into the sink. Or maybe he has the same blood type as me. At this point, how would I know?" His voice started out cool, but ended bitter.

"There's still the note," Rainie persisted. "That proves it was done by somebody out to get you."

"The note's not going to help me."

"Sure it will."

"No." Quincy shook his head. An odd smile curved his lips. "The note… the handwriting. Rainie, it's mine. I don't know how, but it's as if this man… it's as if he's really me."

Kimberly was sitting at the battered kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee and trying to figure out what to do with her second day off, when the buzzer rang. Her roommate, Bobby, after announcing that he would stay tonight at his girlfriend's, had left for work. That left Kimberly with a whole day to kill and a whole apartment to kill it in. She should take a long nap. Exercise. Eat lots of fresh fruits and vegetables. Screw her head on straight.

Kimberly sipped black coffee, felt the weight of another sleepless night on her shoulders, and wondered how many city blocks she'd have to run to feel human again.

The buzzer repeated its whine. She finally got up and pressed the intercom button. "What?"

"Kimberly, it's your dad."

Oh no, she thought instantly. She hit the front-door button and let him in.

The old, eight-story apartment building didn't offer an elevator. It would take her father a few minutes to mount the stairs. She should do something. Gain ten pounds. Sleep four days straight. Down a bottle of vitamins to get some luster back in her too-long, too-dirty blond hair. Her old FBI sweats bagged on her frame. Her threadbare T-shirt hung low enough to reveal the gaunt line of her collarbone.

She stood trapped in the middle of the tiny kitchen until her father finally rapped on the door. She didn't want to answer it. She couldn't explain why. But she didn't want to open that door.

A second round of knocking. Her heart was pounding too hard in her chest. She slowly crossed the kitchen. She slowly opened her apartment door. Her father stood gravely in front of her, accompanied by some woman Kimberly had never seen before.

"I'm so sorry," he said hoarsely.

He took her in his arms. She started to cry and she didn't even know what bad thing had happened yet.

Thirty minutes later they sat in the TV room, Kimberly Indian-style on the floor, her father and his friend, Rainie Conner, on the sofa. Kimberly had gone through the first box of Kleenex. Somewhere in the middle of her crying jag, things had gone from unbearable to horrible to simply numb. Now she sat, staring at the worn blue berber carpet and struggling to get the words to make sense in her head.

Your mother is dead.

Your mother has been murdered.

Someone is stalking our family. He's killed Mandy. He's killed Bethie. He will most likely come after you next.

"You don't… you don't know who's doing this?" she asked finally, working on forming the words, working on getting herself to think, working on keeping herself from splintering apart. She was the strong one. Her mother had always said so.

Your mother is dead.

Your mother has been murdered.

Someone is stalking our family. He's killed Mandy. He's killed Bethie. He will most likely come after you next.

"No," her father answered quietly. "But we're working on it."

"It's probably someone from an old case, right? Someone you caught, or nearly caught, or you caught his dad, his son, his brother."

"Probably."

"Then you build a database! You build a database and you fill it with all the old names, and then… then you figure out who got out from jail when and you arrest his ass! Process of elimination, then arrest his ass!" Her voice was high, she didn't sound anything like herself.

Her father repeated, "We're working on it."

"I don't understand." Her voice broke. She was close to weeping again. "Mandy… Mandy was always attracted to the wrong sort of men. But Mom… Mom was careful. She didn't talk to strangers, she wouldn't let some guy sweet-talk her into entering her home. She was too smart for that."

"Had you spoken to your mother recently?"

"No. I've been… busy." Kimberly bowed her head.

"She called me two days ago. She was worried about you."

"I know."

"I've been worried about you, too."

"I know."

He waited. An expert pause, she'd always thought. But she'd been studying and learning things, too. That was the hard part of following in her father's footsteps. Once he'd seemed almost God-like to her. Lately, however, no longer a neophyte, she watched him perform the old tricks and could see him pulling the strings. The first time it had happened, she'd been proud of her new insight. After Mandy's funeral, however, it only left her feeling empty.

He got off the sofa. Paced the room the way he did when he was tense or working on a particularly baffling case. He was pale, she realized. Thinner, nearly gaunt. Then it hit her. He looked like her. She nearly started crying again.

Her mother, yelling: "You're just like your father!"

Herself, yelling back: "I know, Mom, and Mandy's just like you!"

"Why don't we walk through this from the beginning," the chestnut-haired woman said from the sofa. Her father turned and frowned at her, his favorite intimidating look. The woman, however, wasn't impressed. " Quincy, she's part of this now. She might as well know as much as we know. Information may be the only defense we have left."

"I don't – "

"Yes!" Kimberly interrupted from the floor. "I am part of this. I need to know… There has to be something we can do."

"Dammit, you're my daughter – "

"And I'm his target."

"You're only twenty-one – "

"I've been trained in martial arts and firearms. I am not helpless!"

"I never wanted this. If there was anything I could do…"

"I know." Her voice quieted. She said more sincerely, "I know. But here we are. There must be something I can do."

Her father closed his eyes. For a moment, she thought she might have glimpsed tears in them. Then he sighed, returned to the sofa, and sat down. When he spoke again, he sounded cool, composed, like an FBI agent instead of a father. She wasn't sure why that comforted her.

"We'll start at the beginning," Quincy said. "It would appear that someone is seeking revenge against me for some perceived wrong. We don't know who, but as you suggested, Kimberly, process of elimination should be able to tell us more. For now, what we do know is that this person has been planning this for a long time. At least a year and a half, more likely two years."

"Eighteen to twenty-four months?" Kimberly was genuinely shocked.

"We think he started with Mandy," Rainie said. "Maybe targeted her through an AA meeting. Things progressed from there."

"Her new boyfriend," Kimberly filled in. "She mentioned something once, but I didn't pay much attention. Boyfriends… There were a lot of them."