She winced. If Donner found out… That didn’t even bear consideration because if it ever happened, all her research would be nullified. She would probably be kicked out of the grad program. Expelled from Marshall University. And that could not happen. She’d worked too hard to come into the sunlight, to establish a real life for herself.

But at what cost? She’d believed in this research when she first started.

Now… Now she wasn’t so sure. But that wasn’t something she could resolve tonight. Christy was okay, flirting as usual. Eve had five more red-zone cases, three here in the Ninth Circle bar. Two others hung out in the Casino Royale, dancing and playing poker. She’d check up on them, then get busy on her Abnormal paper, the topic of which was the pathology of serial killers.

Eve flinched when she realized she was tracing the scar that she could now barely see, but still couldn’t feel. She didn’t need to research. She had all the background any professor could ever want. It was always in her mind, that voice that still taunted. It was, after five years, eleven months, and seven days, still written on her face.

Sunday, February 21, 11:55 p.m.

Noah locked his front door, worn. He and Jack had spent an hour going over the missed homicide, trying to glean any detail that would connect her to Martha Brisbane but so far, nothing. The two were connected in the most obvious way, of course. They’d been killed in the same exact way. But why? And who? And why those two women?

Then he and Jack read months of suicide reports, praying there would be no similar scenes. They’d found none, but after reading all of those accounts of suicide, Noah’s relief was mixed with sadness and a feeling of hopelessness he was finding difficult to shake. There but for the grace of God, he’d thought more than once.

He sat wearily on his bed. Jack had no understanding, no compassion for those who’d taken their own lives. But I do. I understand all too well.

One night, ten years ago, he’d been so close… He’d been sitting right here on the edge of his bed, his revolver in one hand, their picture in the other.

His eyes strayed to their picture on his nightstand, the frame worn smooth by years of rubbing. The boy was only two and looked just like the woman who held him. A woman who, twelve long years later, could still make him wish for just one more day. If only.

It hadn’t been twelve years the night he’d decided to end it. It had only been two years since the night his car spun out of control, taking his world with it. Two years that he’d sunk deep into the darkness and crawled deeper into a bottle.

He’d been drunk that night he’d held his gun in his hand. Almost drunk enough to pull the trigger and end the pain that never seemed to fade. But he hadn’t been quite drunk enough. It had been Brock that he’d called, Brock who’d come, Brock who’d dragged his ass to AA. Brock who’d saved his godforsaken life.

Ten years, Noah thought. Sober for ten years. But there were times, unguarded moments when the pain still speared deep. Tonight was one of those times.

It was no longer grief as much as loneliness. The house was so quiet. Too quiet. Brock had Trina and the kids. What do I have? Or who?

He picked up the novel he kept next to his bed for nights he couldn’t sleep, pulled out the glossy postcard he’d shoved between the pages. It was Sal’s holiday card. Sal and Josie stood in the middle, surrounded by all their employees. Sal’s arm was solidly around Eve’s shoulders, as if holding her in place for the picture. Her lips curved in her little sideways smile, but her dark eyes were serious. Too serious.

Eve had drawn him the moment he’d laid eyes on her, and he’d convinced himself to approach her a million times. But in the end it was his own voice he heard. Hi, I’m Noah, and I’m an alcoholic. It was a hell of a burden to ask any woman to share.

Anyone with eyes could see that Eve bore her own burdens. There was no way he’d add his to her shoulders. His heart heavy, he put Sal’s holiday card in his drawer.

Tonight, after reading all those suicide accounts, he’d wanted a drink so goddamn bad… If he’d had any booze in the house, he’d be halfway to drunk this very moment. If the craving got any worse, he’d be calling Brock for a midnight workout. A few rounds in the boxing ring usually got him through the worst of it.

Somehow Eve didn’t strike him as much of a boxer. He thought of her slender hands and the pain in her eyes every time she lifted a heavy pitcher to the bar. A million times he’d nearly jumped out of his chair at Sal’s and done the lifting for her, but he hadn’t. Because along with her pain was a determination, and then satisfaction that she’d done it. Determination and satisfaction, he understood.

Brock had told him that when Sal first hired her, one of her hands had been useless, but that she’d just worked faster with the good hand, somehow managing to keep up. She was a woman who’d been through a hell of her own. And persevered.

She deserved a hell of a lot more than… me. Brock was right. He played with fire every time he walked into that bar. He couldn’t go back to Sal’s. Not ever again. Which meant he wouldn’t see Eve, ever again. Which in the end, was for the best.

He would do his job. Two women, murdered. He would find out by whom, and why.

And then? And then he’d take one day at time, as he’d been doing for ten years.

Monday, February 22, 2:20 a.m.

Christy Lewis puckered her lips in a kiss, checking her lipstick and the rest of her reflection. The lipstick was new, just like the outfit she’d been saving for a night like this.

Her eyes were bright with anticipation. She’d never done anything like this before. Anything so naughtily tawdry. She’d met him in Shadowland, mingling in Ninth Circle. He’d said his name was John. She was pretty sure it wasn’t, just as she was pretty sure he wasn’t divorced. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was married with two point five kids and a dog. But she wouldn’t ask. She didn’t want to know.

He was in sales and traveled. She’d left the open invitation that if he was ever in the Twin Cities… Tonight he was. For just one night. The words “one-night stand” tickled her imagination. She’d never done one, not even in college when all of her friends did. She might not even do one tonight. It would depend on him, how he looked.

She didn’t expect him to look like his avatar. Who does? If we looked like our avatars, we’d have real lives.

But, if he was cute and clean, then why not? It had been a while since she’d had her watch wound. And men did it all the time. Her miserable ex-husband had. All the time.

So now it’s my turn.

And if “John” had a wife, two point five kids, and a dog? Christy’s shoulders sagged. She knew if he did, she couldn’t go through with it. She’d been the “injured party.”

But just maybe, he didn’t. She dropped her lipstick in her purse. Maybe he was telling the truth. And if not? She’d get out, drink a cup of coffee with someone who was flesh and bone. And then she’d come home alone, like she always did.

Finally. He’d thought she’d never leave. He watched Christy Lewis drive away, then pulled into her driveway. She lived out in the country, her nearest neighbor a quarter mile away. The location was logistically inconvenient to get to, but once they returned together later, there would be no need to tape her mouth closed as he’d done to the others. She could scream as long and loud as she wanted and no one would hear her.

And she would scream. Or maybe she’d be so terrified she’d go completely silent. One never knew how people would react when confronted with their worst fear. Either way, he had very high hopes for an intense experience.