“Maybe you got lucky.”

“Maybe.”

The external exam and mapping of the wounds continued as both officers stood back and observed. Several times Deke looked away, his frown deepening, though he was still listening.

Alex understood. He didn’t like standing there witnessing this final indignity either.

Dr. Heller quietly made the Y incision into the victim’s chest, working steadily and professionally as she catalogued her findings. An hour later, as her assistant stitched up the incision, the doctor faced the men. “Before you arrived, I did a preliminary exam and can tell you there were no signs of sexual assault. No vaginal bruising. No tearing. She’d had sex in the last forty-eight hours of her life, but that appears to have been consensual.”

“You’ll get me a DNA sample?” Alex asked.

“Of course.”

“By the way, gentlemen, I have an update on the John Doe.”

She turned toward a computer screen and, pulling off her gloves, punched a few keys. “After some of my magic tricks, I discovered that one of his tattoos was an eagle and the other was a woman’s face, though that part of the body was so badly burned I could only make out an outline.” She scrolled down the page. “There were needle marks on the arms. I’ve run toxicology screens, but they won’t be back for a couple of weeks. I’ve also pulled DNA and have plugged it into the system. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get a hit.”

The men thanked the doctor and walked out into the hallway, where they stripped off the disposable gowns and gloves and dumped them in a bin.

“One stab to the back is effective, even lethal, but not very dramatic,” Deke said. “Twenty-three cuts would be unforgettable. What the hell do the two victims have in common?”

“It will come together soon. Just let it play out.”

He sat in the coffee shop in front of a steaming cup of coffee and a half-eaten Danish on a paper plate. Flecks of white powdered sugar dusted the faux wood tabletop and his jeans. He took a sip, savoring the heat as he leaned back in his chair. It felt good to be off his feet and out of the cold morning.

He tapped his toe on the brown tile floor as he reached in his pocket for his phone. He typed in the four-digit security code and chose the photo app. He took another bite of the Danish and scrolled through the images until he found the ones of his wife. He smiled. She was such a pretty woman. How had a guy like him ended up with such a lovely, smart woman? Going places, his old man had said. From the moment she’d first kissed him, he’d known he’d be devastated if she’d walked out of his life.

He scrolled through more pictures of her. Running. Shopping for shoes. Laughing with a friend over coffee. Cooking in the kitchen.

He couldn’t get enough of her. He thought about her every waking moment and dreamed about her in his sleep.

His little bird had balked at his endless attention, and the harder he squeezed, the farther and farther from him she’d grown. She’d tried to tell him he was too much. That he needed to relax. But he couldn’t.

He traced her face with the tip of a callused finger. Tears welled in his eyes. She’d betrayed him, left him, and God help him, he still loved her. Why do you make me hurt you? You know how much I hate to hurt you.

The thin sliver of moon did little to cut the night’s inky black that shrouded Leah as she arrived at the old Victorian-style home. It had been hard finding street parking, and she’d been forced to circle the block a few times before she’d found a spot across the street. By the time she climbed the wide brick front steps, the cold air stung her lungs and nipped at her face.

She reached for the brass doorknob and pushed open the heavy door. Warm air greeted her, and she allowed its embrace to envelope her as she shrugged off her jacket. She smiled to the receptionist, a redhead in her late forties with ruddy cheeks and freckles.

“Hi, Frances,” Leah said.

Frances stood, hands on her wide hips. “It’s been a few weeks.”

“I was busy at work. I kept meaning to come, but I could never get my act together.”

“Hey, no worries. We’re here all the time, ready to help whether you need us or not.”

Leah had joined a support group days after moving back to Nashville. The people in this group had survived an attack from a loved one. When she’d been here last, she’d spoken with such confidence to her counselor. “I’ve finally taken a giant step toward getting on with my life.” But since finding Deidre, all the hard-won territory had surrendered to fear. “Group still tonight?”

“Six P.M. like always. Go on in; they haven’t started yet.”

Leah slid open the pocket doors that led to what must have been a formal parlor when this house had originally been built as a private home. A circle of chairs, half full, were in the center of what was now a meeting room. A coffeepot on a side table gurgled beside a plate of chocolate chip cookies. There were a few cooks in the group who brought baked goods when they’d had a bad week. Many apologized for the confections, saying cooking was preferable to sitting and worrying. Judging by the spread, it had been a rough week.

She draped her coat over an empty chair and set her purse on it before moving to the refreshment table. She filled a cup with coffee and took a seat nearby. She always chose a chair that faced the back wall and gave her a clear view of the door. Nervous habit.

As Leah sipped her coffee, she scanned the group and realized she didn’t recognize the women. They ranged in age from late teens to early sixties. A couple of the older women looked as if they had money. A few others looked middle income. They came from all walks of life.

The facilitator, Sierra, was a short woman in her early thirties. She had a round face, olive skin, and salt-and-pepper hair that brushed her shoulders. She carried a mug that read Number One Mom. Sierra had a master’s in psychology and had opened her counseling center, Homestead, ten years before, after she’d nearly died in a car accident caused by her ex-husband.

“Welcome, Leah,” Sierra said as she sat down next to her. “How’s it been going?”

“Crazy at work. But all good.” She’d uttered the last statement from reflex. It hadn’t been all good. In fact, not good one bit.

Sierra nodded, sipping her own coffee. She recognized the not-ready-to-talk smile but let it pass. “Cold night.”

“I can’t wait for spring.”

Sierra’s gaze roamed the room. “I see familiar faces and some new ones. We always begin the meeting with introductions.” She nodded to a slim woman who wore an expensive dark sweater, jeans, and her thick silver hair twisted into a chignon.

The woman grinned. “My name is Ester. I joined the group seven years ago. I haven’t been here in a while, but I joined because I was in a plane crash eight years ago. My husband and son were killed. My husband was the pilot, and he intentionally crashed the plane because he knew I wanted a divorce.”

Heads nodded before Sierra turned to the next woman. In all, there were six, a few joining after the meeting started. All had different experiences. One woman had been beaten nearly to death by a boyfriend. Another had survived a car accident caused by a lover. Another a near drowning.

“Want to finish up the introductions, Leah?” Sierra asked.

Leah glanced at Sierra, knowing the counselor had called her out on purpose. Leah had a bad habit of hiding, allowing the conversations to swirl around her. “My name is Leah. I was nearly stabbed to death by my ex-husband four years ago.”

A hush ran through the room. They’d all suffered violence at the hand of a loved one.

“Leah, you also have an anniversary coming up, correct?”