“Olivia,” he said, his voice soft but firm, “I believe you. But there’s more to this than you’re telling me. Right now, tell me the truth. Why-”

His cell phone rang. “We’re not done with this conversation,” he said as he flipped open his phone and took a step away from her. “Travis.”

“It’s Doug Cohn. I think I have something.”

“What?”

“It’s not much, but I talked to two lab directors who remembered the blonde girls. One in Austin, Texas, the other in Colorado. Both remembered the marks on the forearm. They e-mailed me photographs from the files. I think you need to see them.”

“Why?”

“They’re identical. I thought maybe they were made by something he used to transport the victims, something that had sharp edges. And even when Gil said it was a sharp object, I was thinking it was stationary. There didn’t seem to be a different pressure in the cuts, like someone was intentionally marking the girls. But now-I think it’s his signature.”

“He’s signing his name?”

“Not his name, but maybe his mark. Like ‘Z’ for Zorro. There are twelve marks. It must mean something. When I spoke to Massachusetts, the lab director told me two of the girls were marked, two they couldn’t see any detail because the bodies weren’t in good shape.”

“I’ll be right there.” He hung up and turned to Olivia, but he didn’t have to repeat the conversation. She’d heard enough.

Horror and disbelief in her voice, she said, “He’s branding his victims.”

The police were all over the woods, but they weren’t knocking on doors.

Yet.

He was cautious by nature, which had served him well over the years. He seemed to have a sixth sense about when to pull back. When to move on.

That odd sense started tickling the back of his neck. Just a light touch, and when he rubbed his head, it disappeared.

He couldn’t move on. He’d already seen the next angel he had to set free.

She was waiting for him.

He had work to do first. He hadn’t located a truck yet, but it was only a matter of time. If the police knocked on his door, it would only be to ask questions about the day the girl disappeared. He would tell them he remembered the news about it, but didn’t have any real memories of what happened on that day. He wished he could be of more help, but it was three months ago. Him? Well, he worked for a local restaurant, came here for the job well over a year ago. He’d met most of the people who lived on the island. He liked it here.

Don’t talk too much, keep it conversational, a tad somber.

He’d done it before and no one suspected anything.

No, he couldn’t leave. Not yet. He had one more angel to free, then he would be at peace for a time.

He readied himself for bed. It was early, not yet nine, but he had the breakfast shift tomorrow. It wouldn’t do to miss a scheduled shift. Being late-because he was never late-could arouse attention. Not that he’d ever slept late. His internal clock woke him every morning at five.

His bedtime ritual was always the same. He showered. The thought of sliding into sheets with the filth of the day on his skin terrified him.

He always checked the doors and windows, even if he remembered securing them. Lights off, no nightlight, no bathroom light. Blinds down. He’d replaced the flimsy curtains in the cottage bedroom with shades that blocked all light.

He slept in boxers, his shoes next to his bed. He could slip into them instantly if necessary, a holdover from three years in the military.

In the dark, he could sleep. Sometimes.

And sometimes, like tonight, his mind couldn’t rest.

Sometimes, like tonight, he thought of her. Angel.

The ache in his heart spread until it became almost unbearable. He missed her so much. Her breath on his face. Her smile. He missed the way she smiled just for him.

And like always, when he thought of Angel before he slept, he remembered far more than he wanted to.

They were moving to Los Angeles, the seventh time they’d moved in his eleven years. But this time was different.

This time they left without his mother. She was dead.

“Suck it up, boy. Stop acting like a sissy.”

Bruce wasn’t his father, but he didn’t remember his father. His mother hadn’t married him, just like she hadn’t married Bruce. But, except for some isolated feelings that alternately disturbed and warmed him, he couldn’t remember a time when Bruce wasn’t in the house. He wanted him to leave. He wanted the time when he didn’t have to share his mother with anyone. When she let him sleep next to her in her soft, warm bed.

He missed his mother. But he still had Angel.

She was so beautiful. Her blonde hair, as white as snow when she was little, now had darkened to shimmering gold, natural white highlights shining in the sun.

She was his little girl as much as she was Bruce’s and his mother’s little girl. He loved her more, took care of her more. Bruce and his mother argued and then did things to each other that made his mother’s sheets smell funny. When she went to work and Bruce left him to go down to the bar on the corner, he would often lie on his mother’s side of the bed and remember what it was like to be held by her. He’d wrap himself with her blankets and pillows.

But it didn’t smell the same. It smelled fishy and dirty and more like Bruce than his mother.

Now, his mother was gone. First her scent, now her body.

On that long, long car ride to Los Angeles, Angel reached over and took his hand. Tears welled in her big green eyes. She missed their mother, too.

Or was she already scared of her father?

He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I promise, I’ll take care of you. I won’t let him hurt you.”

She squeezed his hand, her face too old for her seven years. “It’s too late.”

Three years and nine moves later, she was dead, too.

It was after midnight and everyone in the conference room was exhausted. Zack, Olivia, Boyd, Cohn, and Detective Jan O’Neal had been reviewing every report Cohn had received from the labs in other states, plus the pages Nashville had faxed over while Zack and Olivia were talking with Mrs. Davidson.

“Okay, we all need to get some sleep,” Zack said, “but let’s run through what we have one more time and figure out what we’re going to do tomorrow.”

“We have a few more pages to go through, but we have six matches to households that own both types of trucks,” Boyd said. “Jan and I are going to check them out in person first thing in the morning.”

“Good work.”

“I have calls in to the other labs,” Cohn said. “I’ll follow up tomorrow morning. I’m pulling a couple of my lab techs into researching the marks. Maybe twelve signifies something, like in mythology.”

“We should contact the FBI and see if they have information about the marks,” Olivia said quietly, looking at Zack.

“Who? How can we expedite this?”

Olivia swallowed. She was going to be exposed; there was no way around it. “You should contact the Seattle bureau chief and ask for them to run the marks through the research unit, as well as the number ‘twelve’ to see if it means anything.”

“Ask your people to come in. Officially.” Zack ran a hand over his face. “You’re right. This could be the break we need. I’ll talk to Chief Pierson first thing in the morning.”

Olivia nodded. It was the smartest thing to do. She dreaded leaving Seattle. She wanted to be here when they caught this guy. She needed to see him, face him. Confront him.

But stopping him was her number-one goal. If exposing her fraud meant getting closer to finding Missy’s killer, then she would be exposed.