"It's set up for multiple people?"

"Yes. We've entered your fingerprints, Montgomery 's, and mine into the system. More can be added as necessary. This way, we can come and go as we please. Plus, it eliminates having a key, which frankly poses another security risk as keys can be stolen or copied."

Quincy nodded. "What about lifting someone's fingerprint? The UNSUB has already stolen my name. Perhaps he got my fingerprints off a piece of mail I sent to my daughter."

"No good," Glenda said. "The scanner not only looks at ridges, but also analyzes the fingerprint for temperature and electrical properties. A lifted print wouldn't register the right temperature or have electrical properties." She smiled tightly. "Nor for that matter, would a severed digit."

Quincy nodded again. She could tell that he liked that. "What about override protection? There must be ways to circumvent the scanner. After all, a homeowner might end up with his hand in a cast, or cut his finger, temporarily altering his own fingerprint. The security company must also consider those things."

"The security company has thought of them, and is even more devious than you are, Quincy. All ten digits are on file. As long as the homeowner has one available finger, he can enter his home."

Quincy rocked back on his heels. He finally looked impressed. "Why didn't I buy this before?" he murmured.

"You weren't a corporation. It's just now becoming available for private residences." Glenda punched in her pin number twice, placed her index finger on the scanner, and opened the front door. Walking back into the house, she said, "So we have a state-of-the-art security system, cameras monitoring most rooms, and wiretaps on your phone lines. And if by some chance our mysterious UNSUB makes it through all that, I always have this." She patted her trusty 10mm, snug in its shoulder holster.

"Fair enough. But bear in mind that my ex-wife also believed her security system would keep her safe, she had taken night classes in self-defense, and she was most certainly nobody's fool."

"She didn't know to expect trouble. I do. Don't underestimate me."

"I won't underestimate you, if you promise not to underestimate him." Quincy offered her a half smile. Instead of lightening the mood, however, the twist of his lips made him look sad. He was worried, she realized for the first time. Worried and truly hurting. She wondered if even he knew how badly.

"Where are you going?" she asked more gently.

"Out of town. My daughter is wrapping up her affairs now. Rainie is attending to a last few details. First thing tomorrow morning, we'll depart. He knows too much about us here. Our homes, our family, our friends. In a fresh location, I hope to negate that advantage."

"That's not a bad idea."

"Well, I am an expert. Just ask Bethie. Or Mandy."

"Quincy – "

"I need to get going."

"What should we tell the Philadelphia P.D.?" "Tell them I'm tending to my daughter, but that I'll be in touch."

"The crime scene," she tried again. "You know there are issues."

He didn't say a word.

" Quincy, it's staged. You know it's staged, I know it's staged, but the homicide detectives… They're going to interpret that fact as yet another indication that you did it. After all, who better to stage a crime scene than a federal agent?" "I know."

"And that note… Left in the victim's abdominal cavity. That's cold, Quincy. It's also very personal, and that won't help you."

"You have word on the note?" he asked sharply. She shook her head. "No, it's too soon. I mean simply that I don't think it convinces them that you're a target. At least it doesn't convince them enough. You are the ex-husband, after all; it's easier to make you their primary suspect."

"I didn't kill Elizabeth." "Of course not!"

"I mean that, Glenda. You're a good agent. And I didn't murder my wife."

She faltered. She would have to be dense not to catch the undercurrents in his voice and she had not advanced so far in the Bureau by being dumb. "There's more, isn't there?"

"This person" – Quincys voice sounded almost far away – "he's very, very good."

"He may be good, but we've gone up against good before. We'll find him."

"Really? Because I've been going through my old cases and I haven't seen a hint of him yet. Glenda, for the last time, don't stay here alone."

"I'll be fine."

"I don't think you understand. I'm removing my daughter from the playing field. With her out of reach, it's anybody's guess where he'll strike next."

New York University,New YorkCity

"I can't believe she's dead."

Kimberly sat in Professor Andrews's office as the last rays of daylight gave way to a slinky gray dusk. Day One, Kimberly called this Thursday. Day One without her mother. She gripped the edge of the old maple seat harder, as if that would keep this day from ending. Day One would only be followed by Days Two, Three, and Four, then Months One, Two, and Three, then Years… Tears slid down her cheeks.

She had come here with the intention of being professional. She had to leave town. She would provide a rough sketch of the last few days for her professor. She would end by calmly stating that circumstances now warranted the resignation of her coveted internship position. Dignified. Firm. In control. Those were her goals. She was nearly a master's student, for heaven's sake. She had buried her sister and had now lost her mother. If she had been a young woman once, she wasn't anymore.

She had stepped into the warm, crowded office with its hodgepodge mix of precariously stacked papers and dying plants and her composure had instantly dropped like a rock. Her eyes welled up. She stood in front of a man she respected almost as much as her father, and bits and pieces of the last few days burst out of her mouth before her throat finally closed up on her.

Dr. Andrews had led her to the chair. He had brought her a glass of water. Then he had sat patiently on the other side of his cluttered desk, his hands folded and his expression steady while he waited for her to recover. He didn't offer any platitudes or comforting noises. It wasn't his style.

In his ten years at NYU, Dr. Marcus Andrews had garnered a reputation for reducing even the most brilliant Ph.D. candidates to tears with his unwavering blue stare. Speculation placed his age anywhere between sixty and older than dirt. He had thinning gray hair, a perpetual scowl, and a penchant for tweed. While in reality he was an average-sized man, trim from a lifelong devotion to yoga, he had an uncanny ability to seem four times his natural size as he stood at a podium and railed at his students to try harder, think broader, and for heaven's sake, be smarter.

According to the grapevine, he'd started his career as a psychiatrist assigned to the fabled San Quentin prison. The work had intrigued him so much, he'd gotten a Ph.D. in criminology and made a name for himself doing groundbreaking work on the institutionalization of criminals, and how the very nature of prisons guaranteed further acts of brutality when hardened inmates were released back into society.

He was hard, gruff, and demanding. He was also brilliant, and Kimberly respected him immensely.

"Maybe you should start at the beginning," he told her.

"No. I don't want to go through it again. It's painful, and I can't afford to be in pain right now. It's funny, I never understood how my father could come home from his job and look so composed. All the cops on TV, they came back from crime scenes and they drank, or smoked, or cursed, or raged. My sister and I, we understood that. It made sense to us. Then my father would come home again, and it was… He was like a pool of still water. No matter how long you studied his face, you never saw a thing beneath the surface. I get that now. The job is war. And you can't afford any emotion. It's your enemy."