Casey wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Dammit, Jen. What if we do have a serial killer out there? That's two girls in the last two weeks. What if one of our girls is next?"

Jenna squeezed Casey's hand. "I don't know. But I do know that if Steven's on the job, he'll make sure everything's being done that can be done."

"Steven?" Casey asked cautiously. "As in Brad's dad? That guy was Brad's dad?"

Jenna abruptly stood, making both dogs look up expectantly. "Yes. Agent Steven Thatcher. Brad's dad."

Casey's eyes instantly focused. "Okay," was all she said.

Perfunctory responses from Casey were never a good thing. "What does that mean?"

Casey shrugged. "It means okay."

"Your okays never just mean okay."

Casey retrieved her coffee cup from the nightstand and took a sip. "Jen, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar," she said wryly, then raised a brow. "Isn't it?"

The mental image was too powerful to ignore. "What is that supposed to mean?" Jenna demanded, feeling her cheeks flush.

Casey blinked. "You're blushing!"

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are." She shrugged again. "But it's no matter. You'll probably never see him again."

"I'm going to his house today," Jenna blurted before she could stop herself.

Casey's blue eyes grew round as saucers. "Hello."

"But it's not what you think," Jenna added hastily.

"Of course not."

"It's not," Jenna insisted.

"Whatever you say," Casey said mildly.

"His aunt called last night and asked me to come to pick up my briefcase. So I'm going to pick up my briefcase." She set her lips together. "Nothing more. He probably won't even be there."

Casey sobered, her eyes flicking back to the television. "If he is there, ask him about the girls."

Seattle, Washington, Sunday, October 2,

10:30 A.M. Eastern Time (7:30 A.M. Pacific)

Seattle Detective Neil Davies came home from work, bypassed the piles of newspapers and dirty, sweaty laundry, and went straight to his kitchen for a beer. It wasn't even break-fast time, but somewhere in the world the sun was setting over the yardarm. That had been his old man's way of justifying alcohol at any hour of the day.

He'd no sooner popped the top when the phone rang. He'd given up hoping it would be Tracey. She'd gotten on with her life. He gave a mirthless chuckle. He guessed he couldn't blame her. It was hard for a woman to live with a man haunted by the ghosts of four dead teenaged girls.

"Yeah?" he barked into the phone.

"It's Barrow." His old partner from the West Precinct. "Turn on CNN."

Immediately Neil grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.

"Do you see?" Barrow asked tersely.

"Sshh," Neil hissed and blindly set the untouched beer on the counter. It was a small town in North Carolina. Two girls missing from their beds. Cheerleaders. One found butchered in a clearing, her head shaved. Terrified parents. Mystified police. He felt a strange settling in his gut, a hum sizzling along his skin. "It's him." Neil was sure of it. "William Parker."

"Maybe," said Barrow, guarded as usual. "You thought the guy in California was him and the guy in New York, too. So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to Pineville, North Carolina. Wherever that is."

"Outside Raleigh," Barrow said. "And once you've arrived there, what will you do?"

"I don't know," Neil answered grimly. "Maybe get rid of some ghosts. Maybe get on with my life. I'd settle for a decent night's sleep."

Barrow sighed. "You know you can call me if you need me."

Neil almost smiled. "I know."

Raleigh, North Carolina,

Sunday, October 2, 10:30 A.M. Eastern Time

"Incompetent bastards," he muttered, turning away from the CNN report to examine his most recent photographic handiwork. Having his own darkroom really gave him the freedom to experiment with color and angle and lighting. Lorraine's body looked even more gruesome in black and white. But, he was still partial to color. All that blood… It just didn't get justice in black and white.

"And this was the scene at the headquarters of North Carolina's State Bureau of Investigation early this morning," said the reporter, a woman with short, flippy hair.

He frowned. He hated short, flippy hair. Women should have long hair. He pulled out his most recent photo of her. She was perfect. She'd never get her hair cut like a man. In fact, if he were king of the world, all women would be required to grow their hair long and all scissors would be illegal. He smirked, looking at his head shot of bald little Samantha Eggleston. Except for his scissors of course.

But then, intelligent men weren't subject to the same rules that bound other men. It was fact.

"We will confirm we have a second girl reported missing."

He jerked his eyes up from his photographs and scowled at the talking face on the screen. Special Agent Steven Thatcher, read the caption below the man's face. Special agent. Hah.

Thatcher knew nothing he didn't want him to know. Special Agent Thatcher never would have found poor Lorraine had it not been for his anonymous tip. Thatcher couldn't even find a body if he found a neon sign blinking "body, body, body." Idiots. All of them.

He tilted his head, staring at the flickering visage of Special Agent Steven Thatcher.

"So you think you're hot stuff, huh, Special Agent Thatcher? You ain't seen nothin' yet."

The question was-what was the most effective means to up the ante?

Sunday, October 2, 4:45 P.M.

This is really stupid, Jenna thought, bringing Casey's Ford Explorer to a stop in front of the Thatcher home. Nevertheless she pulled her visor mirror down to check her makeup. Of course it was fine. She'd just freshened it up in the Hardee's parking lot three blocks back. She looked over at Jim in the passenger seat. "You have the bridge, Captain."

The Volvo wasn't in the driveway, so Steven was probably still out in the field. Or the car could be in the garage and he could be inside. Her heart fluttered and she cursed it. It didn't matter if he was here or not. She'd only be staying for a minute. Just long enough to get her briefcase.

She looked the house up and down as she calmly walked up the sidewalk even though the butterflies were doing the polka in her stomach. It was a nice house, really nice. Jenna was a little surprised how nice. She hadn't realized special agents of the SBI made such a good living. It was much nicer than the house in which she'd grown up, a place where loud voices and negativity were the rule. A place she rarely thought about.

She rang the bell and the door was opened by a woman with gray hair. "Come in, Dr. Marshall," she wercomed and yanked Jenna inside where a tantalizing aroma tormented her nose.

"Uh, thank you." Jenna looked around, noting the darkened room off to the right, a study perhaps. Jenna strained her peripheral vision to spy inside, but the room appeared empty. Mentally cursing Casey and berating her own suggestibility, she yanked her gaze back to the woman.

"Let me take your coat," Miss Barnett was saying and Jenna shook her head.

"No, really, I can't stay. I'll just get my briefcase and be out of your hair."

"It's all right," said a young boy, walking down the stairs. Jenna looked up to find a younger version of Steven coming toward her. "Aunt Helen won't have all that hair much longer anyway." He came to stand next to his aunt and tugged at her gray hair. "Tsetse flies, you know."

Jenna shook her head again, this time a little wary. "I'm afraid I don't understand."