Susan had changed her outfit three times before heading to Archie Sheridan’s apartment. Now she stood face-to-face with him in his doorway, wishing that she’d gone with another look entirely. But he’d seen her, and now it was too late to go back to the car. “Hi,” she said. “Thanks for letting me come over.” It was just after eight o’clock. Archie was still wearing what Susan presumed were his work clothes-sturdy brown leather shoes, wide-wale dark green corduroys, and a pale blue button-down over a T-shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. Susan glanced down at her own ensemble of black jeans, an old Aerosmith T-shirt worn over a long john shirt, and motorcycle boots; her pink hair pulled up in pigtails. The look had worked well when she had interviewed Metal-lica backstage at the Coliseum, but for this it was all wrong. She should have gone with something more intellectual. A sweater, maybe.

Archie opened the door wide and stepped aside so she could enter his apartment. It was true, what she had said to him on the phone: She needed the interview. Her story was due the next day and she had a lot of questions for Archie Sheridan. But she also wanted to see where he lived. Who he was. She tried not to let her face fall when she saw the empty environment he lived in. No books. Nothing on the walls. No family photographs or knickknacks picked up on vacation or CDs or old magazines waiting to be recycled. Judging from the sad-looking brown couch and corduroy recliner, it looked like the place had come furnished. No personality. At all. What kind of divorced father didn’t display photographs of his children?

“How long have you lived here?” she asked hopefully.

“Almost two years,” he said. “Sorry. Not much material, I know.”

“Tell me you have a television.”

He laughed. “It’s in the bedroom.”

I bet you don’t have cable, Susan thought. She made a show of glancing around the room. “Where do you keep your stuff? You must have useless crap. Everyone has useless crap.”

“Most of my useless crap is at Debbie’s.” He gestured gallantly to the couch. “Have a seat. Are you allowed to drink during interviews?”

“Oh, I’m allowed to drink,” Susan assured him. The coffee table, she noticed, was covered with police files. All gathered up and stacked in two neat piles. She wondered if Archie was one of those people who was naturally neat, or whether he just overcompensated. She sat on the couch and reached into her purse and pulled out a dog-eared copy of The Last Victim. She set it next to the files on the coffee table.

“I only have beer,” Archie called from the kitchen.

She hadn’t bought The Last Victim when it came out, but she’d leafed through it. The trashy true-crime account of Archie Sheridan’s kidnapping had been on all the supermarket paperback racks back then. Gretchen Lowell was on the cover. If beauty sold books, then beautiful serial killers made best-seller lists.

He handed her a bottle of mid-range microbrew and sat in the recliner. She watched as his eyes flicked down to the book. And away. “My God,” Susan teased. “An aesthetic choice. Careful. You might accidentally give someone some insight into your personality.”

“Sorry. I also like wine. And liquor. I just happen to only have beer. And no, I don’t have a favorite brand. I just get whatever’s on sale that isn’t swill.”

“You know, Portland has more microbreweries and brew pubs than any other city in the country.”

“I did not know that,” he said.

Susan put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m a data sieve. Occupational hazard of being a features writer.” She tilted her bottle in a small toast. Archie, she noticed, wasn’t drinking. “Here’s to Portland. Incorporated in 1851. Population, 545,140.” She winked. “Two million if you count the greater Portland area.”

Archie smiled weakly. “I’m impressed.”

Susan took her digital recorder out of her purse and set it next to the book on the coffee table between them. “Do you mind if I record this?”

“State bird?”

“Blue heron.”

“Record away.”

She waited for him to say something about the book. He waited for her to ask him a question. The book sat on the coffee table. Gretchen Lowell gazed daringly from under its gold embossed title. Susan thought about excusing herself so she could run back to her apartment and change.

The hell with it. She pressed RECORD and opened her notebook. She had hoped that the book might knock Archie off his game; provoke something, anything. Time for plan B. “I talked to your wife today.”

“Ex-wife.”

Well, Susan thought, he didn’t take that bait. She’d have to try something more direct. She looked up. “She still loves you.”

Archie’s expression did not shift. “And I love her,” he said, not missing a beat.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Susan said brightly. “Why don’t you two get married?”

Archie sighed. “Our relationship is complicated by the fact that I am emotionally retarded.”

“Did she tell you about our interview?”

“Yep.”

“What did she say?”

“She was worried that she had been too honest about”-he searched for the right words-“my relationship with Gretchen.”

“Relationship,” Susan repeated slowly. “Funny word.”

He shook his head. “Not really. Criminal/cop. Kidnapper /hostage. Killer/victim. They’re all relationships.” He twisted his mouth wryly. “I don’t mean to imply that we’re dating.”

Archie was sitting back in the chair. Legs uncrossed, knees fallen apart. Feet on the carpet. Elbow on each armrest. But while he might have been trying to be casual, he was certainly not relaxed. Susan tried to observe him without staring, noting the angle of his head, the fit of his shirt, the heaviness under his eyes. His thick brown hair was all clumps and curls.

The truth was that Archie Sheridan made her feel off-kilter. It was something that Susan wasn’t used to. The power in interviews was usually hers, but more and more, when she spent time with Archie Sheridan, she found herself longing for a cigarette. Or something.

He was looking at her. That was the thing with interviews. Everyone was always waiting for someone to say something. It was like one long first date. So, where are you from? What did you major in? Any Huntington’s in the family? Or, in this case, “Why did Gretchen Lowell kidnap you, do you think?”

“She’s a serial killer. She wanted to murder me.” Archie’s voice was level. They could have been talking about the rain.

“But she didn’t,” Susan pointed out.

He shrugged. “She changed her mind.”

“Why?”

Archie smiled faintly. “Female’s prerogative?”

“I’m serious.”

His expression returned to neutral and he picked at something microscopic on his pant leg. “I don’t know the answer to that question.”

“You’ve never asked her?” Susan said incredulously. “All those Sundays?”

“It’s never come up.”

“What do you talk about?”

His eyes lifted to meet hers. “Murder.”

“That’s not very forthcoming.”

“You’re not asking the right questions.”

Susan could hear a child running above the popcorn ceiling over their heads. Archie didn’t seem to notice it. “Okay,” she said slowly. “I guess I’m interested in what was different about you. I mean, the torture was different, right? She killed all the others after a few days, right? You, she kept alive. So you were different. From the beginning. To her.”

“I was the lead investigator on her case. The others were all random. As far we know, except for the accomplices she killed, she didn’t know any of her victims. She and I knew each other. We had a relationship.”

Susan underlined the word relationship in her notebook. “But she infiltrated the case to get to you. I mean, that’s why she came to Portland, knocked on the task force door? She was after you.”