A makeshift fence composed of a line of yellow crime scene tape surrounded the house, blocking the sidewalk in front of them. Bartoli circumvented it by the simple expedient of ducking beneath it, then holding it out of the way so Charlie could follow.

Once on the other side of the tape, she took one last look at the house from the sanctuary of the beautiful summer’s night. It was a large, rambling, two-story structure, with a multitude of windows and a wide gallery on the second floor. Built back-to-front, as most beach houses were, it had the main living areas facing the ocean, while the garage and lesser areas, like laundry rooms, fronted the street. The curtains were tightly drawn, but inside the house blazed with light, making the windows seem to glow. It was a sad commentary on the situation that the darkness outside seemed way preferable to what awaited within, Charlie thought. For a moment longer she stood still, drinking in the night with its starlit, black velvet sky and palely gleaming beach and rumbling waves. Then she mentally squared her shoulders and let Bartoli usher her inside the house.

It was still being processed as a crime scene: technicians were busy everywhere Charlie looked. There was a lot of activity, a lot of noise, a lot to see and hear.

“We’re just going to take a look around,” Bartoli told the cop who admitted them, who clearly knew who Bartoli was. The cop was young, maybe late twenties. Military-cut dark hair, tall and thin in his dark blue uniform. “This is Dr. Stone. Dr. Stone, Officer Price.” Charlie nodded politely, but she didn’t say anything: she was too busy bracing herself for what lie ahead.

Price nodded. “Help yourself.”

“We think the perp came in through the garage,” Bartoli told Charlie as the cop moved away. “The side door has a cheap lock, and there’s some evidence that it may have been jimmied with a credit card.”

Busy looking around, Charlie merely nodded in reply.

They had entered through French doors that opened from the deck, directly into the kitchen, which was large and modern. Bartoli had indicated a white-painted door next to the refrigerator. The door stood ajar. Beyond it, Charlie saw at a glance, was the garage. Its light was on, and a red mini-van was parked inside. Some evidence that investigators had been at work in the garage was visible, but nothing drew her. Turning her head, she surveyed the downstairs. A dining area with a glass-topped table and four chairs adjoined the kitchen, and beyond that was a living room furnished with lots of white wicker. The floors were white tile, the walls soft blue, and the cushions on the wicker sported beach-y motifs. Nothing seemed out of place.

Nothing seemed wrong.

Charlie felt her stomach tighten.

Maybe there’s no one here. Maybe they’ve already crossed over.

“We should go upstairs first.” Bartoli was beside her, steering her toward the front of the house. Charlie saw the entrance hall, saw a flight of stairs leading up, and realized why the atmosphere down here felt relatively normal even as Bartoli spelled it out for her. “The victims were found in the bedrooms.”

Okay, then.

Taking a deep breath, Charlie allowed herself to be escorted to the stairs. Glancing into the front hall, she caught a glimpse of a technician dusting the doorjamb for fingerprints. As she walked up the stairs with Bartoli behind her, she could hear a TV playing somewhere on the second floor, and then as she neared the top it went silent. As they reached the upstairs landing a man of about fifty, with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and a grim expression, walked out of what she presumed was one of the bedrooms. He moved with a slight limp, and had the burly, paunchy build of a former football player gone to seed. He was wearing civilian clothes—a navy sport coat and gray slacks—but no one would ever mistake him for anything but a cop.

“Bartoli,” he greeted them with a marked lack of enthusiasm. His eyes were impossible to read behind thick, black-framed glasses. “You back?”

“Haney,” Bartoli responded just as flatly. “This is Dr. Stone. Detective Lou Haney. Kill Devil Hills PD.”

“I’m in charge of the investigation,” Haney said. Then he shot Bartoli a look. “Or at least I was until the feds showed up.”

“We’re only here to help,” Bartoli replied.

Charlie would have offered Haney her hand, except her palm was damp with sweat. She nodded at Haney instead. He was looking her up and down, and from his expression he wasn’t real pleased with what he saw.

“This is your serial killer expert?” The look Haney shot Bartoli was scornful.

“That’s right, I am,” Charlie answered before Bartoli could reply. She was no stranger to having to defend her credentials. Her youth, looks, and gender tended to work against her being taken seriously, she knew. That’s why she was still letting Bartoli and the others address her as Dr. Stone instead of inviting them to call her Charlie. If she wanted them to give weight to what she had to say, she first had to have their respect.

“Hell’s bells,” Haney said.

“Good to meet you, too.” Charlie’s tone was cool.

“Anything new?” Bartoli asked. As Haney’s gaze shifted to him, Charlie glanced around. Her heart was picking up the pace, and she didn’t know if it was in dreadful anticipation or because at some deep, fundamental level she sensed a presence she would really rather not know about.

Haney shook his head. “We’re rerunning some tests. Guy had to leave something behind.”

“You’d think,” Bartoli replied as his hand moved to rest in the small of Charlie’s back, silently urging her forward.

But Charlie didn’t move, or at least not in the direction he obviously wanted her to take. She could once again hear the TV. Four doors opened off the spacious landing, and the sound was coming from the room on the far left. The one Haney had exited as she and Bartoli had reached the top of the stairs. Moving away from Bartoli’s would-be guiding hand, Charlie took a couple of tentative steps toward the sound.

Every sense she possessed seemed to quicken. She felt like a bird dog on alert.

“The master bedroom is over here. That’s where we probably want to start,” Bartoli said behind her, but Charlie barely registered the words.

“The TV …” Breaking off, she headed determinedly toward the room from which the sounds were emanating. Just inside the doorway, she paused. A glance showed her marine blue walls with a sailboat-themed wallpaper border at chair rail height. Glossy hardwood floors. A pair of twin beds with dark wood, ship’s wheel–style headboards, stripped of their mattresses. A matching dark wood chest with a small flat-screen TV on top of it. A tan corduroy armchair in a corner, facing the TV.

The TV was on. Some weird dragon-fantasy thing filled the screen.

A kid—the blond eleven-year-old from the autopsy photos—curled in the armchair, eyes fixed on the TV, a game controller clutched in both hands. Skinny and undersized, he was clad in soccer ball–dotted blue pajamas and had a determined expression on his face.

Charlie watched as he busily punched buttons on the controller.

“Damned TV keeps switching on by itself.” Haney’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with it.”

Even as Charlie gathered her wits enough to realize Bartoli was watching her closely, Haney brushed past her to walk over to the TV and turn it off, stabbing the button with a little more force than the action called for. The kid looked around then. His eyes widened as they fastened on something. Charlie didn’t think it was any of the three of them, or anything at all that was still real and present. His gaze seemed to fix just beyond her. For a second he simply stared. Then, face contorting in fear, he cast the controller aside, leaped to his feet, and fled toward a white-painted door in the wall. A closet, clearly. He grabbed the knob.…