“It’s hard to convince myself that it doesn’t fall on me.”

“I didn’t say it would be easy. But if you’re going to work on this case, you’re going to have to put your own feelings aside or you won’t be effective.”

Sam nodded slowly. He’d be saying the same things to John if the tables were turned. Come to think of it, he had said those same words to John, back when Woods was doing his best to make John crack.

“Fiona said Annie was coming with her,” Sam said. “Is she coming to read me, or the killer?”

“Probably both.” John smiled. “But mostly the killer. I think she figures you’re smart enough to figure out the rest of it yourself.”

“Apparently not.” Sam looked slightly chagrined. “Since you had to come all the way up here and point it out to me.”

“That’s what friends are for. And for the purpose of this meeting, we’re friends, not colleagues. Former colleagues,” he corrected himself. “By the way, did you get your annual love note from Laurie Heiss?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t open it. I was out of the country on August fifteenth, and when I came back, I did pick up my mail at the post office. But I know what her card says. I’m sure there’s nothing new there. I just haven’t been in the mood to read it.”

“When was the last time you saw Don Holland?”

“A month or so before I left on my trip.”

“He’s still denying that he had anything to do with Carly’s murder?”

“Yes,” Sam said, “and I don’t know why. His fingerprints were all over my house…”

“Which he explained by saying he’d broken in there when neither of you were home, just to prove he could, and that he could get away with it. That always bothered me.”

“What, that he admitted he was in my house a few days before the murder?” Sam snorted. “That’s just another way of tweaking me.”

“That’s the point I’m making. He’s giving you the finger.”

“And he’s still flipping me off by continuing to insist that he didn’t kill Carly. By having his wife tell me every year that the real killer is still out there.” Sam dragged a hand through his hair. “They want me to believe that someone is walking the streets free because no one is looking for him. That’s what pisses me off.”

“What if it’s true, Sam?”

“What if it’s…?” Sam stared at John as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “It’s not. He’s fucking with me from his prison cell and she’s helping him.”

Sam got up and smacked a hand on the back of the leather chair he’d been sitting in. “They’re lying.”

“Just stop and think for a moment.”

“I’ve thought about nothing else for the past three years. You know the evidence. Holland’s prints were in my house. He killed Carly in exactly the same way he killed all those other girls. Same MO, same signature.” Sam grimaced. “Right down to cutting off her fingertips.”

“Why weren’t hers with the others?” John swiveled around to face Sam. “You found the souvenirs Holland took from every other victim. Nothing from Carly. Why not?”

“Maybe he didn’t have time to put them with the others,” Sam snapped, annoyed that John would even question this. He must know that Sam needed to believe that the man who had taken his wife from him had been caught and punished. Sam had to believe that the system had worked for him, that Carly had gotten justice. Anything less was unthinkable.

“Maybe he didn’t have them.”

“Are you serious?”

“John Mancini is always serious,” a feminine voice floated into the room from the doorway. “He doesn’t have a nonserious bone in his body.”

Sam turned as Anne Marie McCall came into the room, accompanied by Fiona.

“Annie.” Sam opened his arms to hug his former colleague. “It’s really good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, sport.” The petite blond profiler was, as always, impeccably dressed in a linen suit in spite of the ninety-degree weather.

“How’s the husband? Still holding on to his cop job?” Sam asked.

“Holding on with everything he has.” Anne Marie dropped her briefcase to the floor with a thud. “But not to worry. We’ll bring him around sooner or later.”

“I’ve been trying to lure Evan to the Bureau for the last few years without success,” John said. “He likes being a detective, so until I can offer him something better…” John shrugged. “Our loss.”

“Sam.” Fiona smiled a greeting. She wore white Capri pants and a black T-shirt and looked very tidy. Casual, but tidy. Sam wondered if she ever looked mussed or if a hair was ever out of place on her pretty head.

“I hope we’re not too early, that you two had time to finish your discussion. We were here with time to spare and were content to sit out in the car for another fifteen or twenty minutes, but the lovely woman who runs this fine home-hard to believe someone actually lives here, isn’t it?-well, she saw us out there and took pity.” Annie took a seat next to Sam and leaned down to open her briefcase. She took out several files and placed them on the table in front of her. “She forced us to come inside and have iced tea and the most delicious lemon cookies I ever tasted.”

“Ah, you met Trula.” Sam nodded knowingly. “She’s a rare gem.”

“And the little girl, Jill,” Fiona added. “She was darling.”

“You mean Chloe?” Sam asked. “Dark hair, dark skin?”

“Yes, but she said her name was Jill.” Fiona laughed. “But after she went outside, Trula confided that when Chloe found a name she liked, she tried it on for a while. Trula said she does it all the time. Today she’s Jill.”

“She is one funny little kid,” Sam agreed. “Her mom is an investigator here. Emme Caldwell. She was their first hire.”

“So she told us.” Annie opened a file. “Now. Business. Will Fletcher pulled up all your old cases and their dispositions.” She handed Sam a copy of a three-page report. “As you can see, just about every one of these characters who’s still living is still in prison. Most of them divorced, deserted by their families once their horrendous deeds became known. A number of them are dead, either by their own hand, a fellow inmate, or the state. So the field is narrowed considerably.”

“Maybe there’s a copycat, someone who wants to be like one of these guys.” Sam scanned the list.

“You knew them, Sam. Does any name stand out as someone who’d be wanting revenge on you for something? Anyone there who threatened to ‘make you pay’?”

“Annie, right now, looking at these names, it could be any one of them.”

“So it could just as likely be none,” she replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He frowned.

“You’ve been trained to pick out the aberrant. Remember those picture puzzles we used to get in school, where you’d have to look at several pictures and decide which one wasn’t like the others? Well, profiling, as you very well know from your own experience, is often like those picture puzzles,” Annie explained. “You look for the one who isn’t like the others. The one who stands out.” She held up the file. “None of these stood out to you.”

“So?”

“So I’m thinking the guy you’re after isn’t one of these people.”

Sam took another look at the list of names, going from page to page. It had to be one of them.

He paused over one name. “Here. Peter Longacre. Twelve years ago, I testified against him for…” His voice died away as he finished reading the information that followed Longacre’s name. “Oh. Died in the prison infirmary seven years ago.” He continued to check the list. “Well, then, here. This one. Frank Myles.” Sam waved the page. “He was convicted of a double rape and homicide nine years ago. I was the one who tracked him down. You think maybe he might have stored up a little resentment since he started serving those two life sentences? No chance for parole?”

“Sam, have you seen the book, My Life, Revisited? It’s been on all the bestseller lists.” Annie folded her arms calmly on the table.

“Sure.” He blinked. “Oh, shit. Frank Myles? He’s that Frank Myles?”