“When they find forensic evidence in that closet, you can thank me,” Charlie called after him.

Haney replied with a dismissive wave of his hand before disappearing into the kid’s bedroom.

“Way to be tactful.” Bartoli gave her a faint, wry smile.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Charlie said, making an effort to lighten the atmosphere.

“I doubt I top his favorite person list, either. He’s one of those local cops who resent us being here. He thinks it’s his investigation, and we’re hijacking it. Happens sometimes. Plus, word is he suffers a lot of pain from his leg. Smashed it up pretty bad in a car accident years ago.” Bartoli slid a comprehensive look over her. “You sick or something? That’s the second time today that you’ve tossed your cookies. What’s up?”

She managed what she felt was a truly commendable casual shrug. “I’m thinking I might have a touch of food poisoning. Or the flu. Hard to say, really.”

“Yeah.” Bartoli’s eyes slid over her again. “You up to the girl’s bedroom?”

No was the honest answer. But it had to be done, so Charlie braced herself and nodded.

CHAPTER SEVEN

In the end, there wasn’t anything to see. Just a small bedroom with a stripped double bed. Pale blue walls, white wicker headboard and chest. No bloodstains, no sign of a struggle. Clothes and other belongings already carted away by the FBI. Since the house was a vacation rental, Charlie wouldn’t have expected to find anything of Bayley Evans’ personality in the room, and she didn’t. What she also didn’t find was Bayley Evans’ spirit.

Which didn’t necessarily mean that the girl was still alive, although Charlie hoped it was the case. Charlie hadn’t seen Tom Mead’s spirit, either, and he was definitely dead. Some souls, no matter how violently they had died, crossed over peacefully without lingering. Although it was always possible that Tom Mead’s spirit was still earthbound and was just not attached to anything in the house. In her experience, spirits forcefully ripped from their bodies were unpredictable in what they attached to. She’d encountered one attached to a neighbor’s cat.

“Come on, let’s go,” Bartoli said as they emerged from the bedroom. His eyes slid over her, the expression in them making Charlie question what she looked like. If the way she felt was any indication, she was as white as Wonder bread, huge-eyed, and covered with a fine sheen of sweat. Chalk it up to meet-the-ghosts anxiety. Although, of course, he had no way of knowing that. “Time to wrap it up for the night.”

Charlie wasn’t sorry to precede him down the stairs. She’d had the day from hell several times over, and right now what she needed was to put as much distance between herself and the spirit world as she could.

There was just one problem with that.

“Bayley Evans is still out there.” Her voice was flat as she spoke over her shoulder to Bartoli, who followed her out the French doors. Letting herself think about what might be happening to the girl was the worst thing she could do, Charlie knew. If she did, she would devolve into a mass of quivering despair, which would do no one any good. As difficult as it was, she had to stay strong, had to stay focused, had to keep the horror at arm’s length. It was the only way she could do her job.

Anything else was counterproductive.

This time, when the brisk sea breeze hit her, she shivered like it was an arctic blast. She was glad for her jacket. Sliding it on as she walked across the deck and down the steps to the walkway below, she was still freezing as she buttoned it up and had to fold her arms over her chest in an effort to get warm. Everywhere she looked, the night was dark and forbidding. The beach was deserted, the sea oats blew almost double, the tide rolled in with a crash, and the weathered planks beneath her feet seemed to stretch out endlessly into the shadows. Even the stars seemed small and cold and distant.

She was, Charlie realized, still suffering from her reaction to the gruesome visions of Julie Mead and the heartbreaking ones of her son.

God, you’ve got the wrong woman here. I’m not tough enough for this.

Bartoli said, “We have teams of agents working twenty-four seven to find her. You’ve done everything you can for today. You are officially off the clock.”

Charlie sighed inwardly. She was so exhausted, so cold and queasy and headache-y, that her thought processes were affected. For the moment, coming up with a good lie to explain how she knew what she knew was probably beyond her, but still there was something that she had to tell him.

“The killer wore surgical gloves. More important, he has a red heart on the back of his hand. Maybe it’s a tattoo, I’m not sure.”

Bartoli had been walking beside her. He stopped. Charlie kept on going, head bent against the wind, arms folded, trudging on determinedly toward the pink house that thankfully was getting close now. It took him a few seconds to catch up with her again.

“You want to tell me how you know that?”

No, she really didn’t. “I just know. It’s accurate. Use it to find Bayley Evans.”

“You do some kind of fancy expert analysis back there that I missed?”

“Yep.”

“Want to explain your methodology?”

“Let’s just say that your investigation is benefiting from my years of experience, okay?”

Bartoli said nothing for a moment. He was frowning, and Charlie could feel speculation rolling off him in waves. She kept walking. The planks ended when they reached the driveway. It was packed with official-type vehicles, and the RV was brightly lit and still as busy as a beehive at noon. It was good to know that, even if she was about to bow out for the night, the search for Bayley Evans would be proceeding at full throttle.

Realizing she was just a tiny cog in a big machine was an enormous relief.

She was going to put Bayley Evans, and her family, and the other victims, out of her mind, at least for the next few hours. What she needed to do now was rest and get her brain back up to speed. Then she would turn all her formidable resources to helping the authorities find the bastard who had done this.

Please, God, let it be enough.

“A red heart on the back of the unsub’s hand. You’re sure enough about that for me to add it to the official description of the individual we’re looking for,” Bartoli said finally. From his tone, it wasn’t really a question.

“As of the night the Meads were killed, he had a red heart on the back of his hand.” Charlie looked back at Bartoli as they reached the steps that led up to a wide, screened-in back porch. “I’m absolutely positive about that. I’m not sure what it is, or if it was permanent. But it was there.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

“I do.” Charlie felt her throat tighten. She’d been battling the memory ever since Julie Mead had described the heart, but it kept thrusting itself into the forefront of her mind, and now there was no escape.

Once again she was seventeen years old, peeking around the basement door just in time to watch a killer cut Diane Palmer’s throat. For the space of a terrible heartbeat, she could picture the scene as clearly as if she were there.

Stumbling on the top step, Charlie nearly fell to her knees. Only Bartoli’s arm hooking her waist at the last minute saved her from a fall.

“Careful.” He hauled her upright.

“Thanks.” Thrusting the memory away, grateful for the steadying arm that remained around her waist as she regained her balance, she took a deep breath, then forced herself to take one more quick plunge into the past. “The Boardwalk Killer—the man I saw when I was seventeen—didn’t have a heart on his hand. There was nothing on the backs of his hands, nothing at all.”

“You sure?”

They were walking across the dark screened porch as they talked. When they reached the door, Bartoli’s arm dropped away. Charlie was surprised by how much she missed its warm support.