“Yes. Absolutely.” Trying not to shiver openly, Charlie cast a quick look around while Bartoli unlocked the door. The screened porch was darker even than the night, with inky shadows everywhere. The wind blowing off the ocean was picking up, making the fronds on the nearby palms flap with a sound like birds’ wings and carrying a strong smell of salt with it.

“He could have acquired it later.”

“Yes.”

At least Bartoli didn’t start delving into the whole how-sure-are-you-and-how-do-you-know-anyway school of questioning, and for that she was grateful. Something about the night itself was unsettling her, but she really didn’t want to start trying to analyze why that should be. She was too tired, too emotionally wrung out. She already knew, because Bartoli had told her on the flight down, that she would be sharing the house with him, Crane, and Kaminsky. She was less clear on how that was going to work, exactly, and at the moment she didn’t care. What she desperately needed was a couple of Tums (knowing she would probably be encountering nausea-inducing spirits, she had brought her own supply, but unfortunately the two she had taken prior to leaving her house back in Big Stone Gap had worn off by the time she encountered the dead kid in the chair), a hot shower, and bed, in that order.

Got to lie down before I fall down. Her mother used to say that a lot, when she came home drunk. Charlie couldn’t believe she was hearing the familiar slurry voice echoing in her head under these very different circumstances, even if the sentiment was apt.

“You want something to eat? Might make you feel better.” Bartoli pushed the door open, and gestured to her to go inside, which she did. “Unless my nose deceives me, they ordered pizza.”

Like the Meads’ rental, this beach house had its main rooms facing the ocean. Charlie walked into the kitchen and glanced around to discover a familiar cardboard box on the table: as Bartoli had predicted, there was pizza. With her stomach in the shape it was in, though, food was the last thing she wanted. Walking past it, trying not to breathe in the spicy aroma, she saw that the layout of this house was very similar to that of the Meads’. The main difference was that the tile floors were terra-cotta and the walls were sunshine yellow. Otherwise, kitchen, dining area, living room, entry hall, stairs: everything looked to be pretty much the same.

Charlie fought the impulse to turn and run away, screaming.

Someone was coming down the stairs from the second floor.

“I ordered pizza. Pepperoni. There’s plenty left.” The speaker was Kaminsky, who stopped a few steps from the bottom. Despite the hour, she was still fully dressed in her suit and heels. Her expression as she looked at Charlie was less than welcoming. “Or if you’d rather, there are some groceries in your refrigerator. Eggs, cheese, lunch meat, that kind of thing. For tonight, that’s the best you’re going to get.”

“I’m not hungry.” The mere thought of food made her stomach cramp warningly. To divert herself, Charlie latched onto something that puzzled her. “I have a refrigerator?”

“You’ve got the in-law suite. It’s basically a self-contained apartment. Fridge included.”

“If you’re ready to go up, Kaminsky will show you where it is,” Bartoli said.

Charlie was. More than ready. She nodded.

“Get anything?” Bartoli asked Kaminsky as Charlie started up the stairs.

“Twenty-seven men who fit the parameters living within a two-hundred-fifty-mile radius. I was working on narrowing it down when I had to stop to babysit.” Kaminsky’s gaze shifted to Charlie, who had almost reached her by that time. “No offense.”

At the moment, Charlie was too tired to take any. She shook her head. “None taken.”

“You’re not babysitting, you’re protecting a witness.” Bartoli’s voice was crisp. “There’s a strong possibility that Dr. Stone has seen our unsub, remember. If he knows that, and discovers she’s here helping us, there’s a chance he’ll come after her.”

That stopped Charlie in her tracks. Her heart lurched. There’s a happy thought to top off a perfect day. She was surprised it hadn’t occurred to her. Gripping the rail hard with one hand, she turned to look at Bartoli.

“The Boardwalk Killer knows I saw him, or at least he should,” she said. “He didn’t see me at the time, but it was all over the news. Killers of his type tend to like to follow the investigation through the media. If this is the same man, he probably has a scrapbook or some similar physical record filled with news clippings from the killings. The authorities tried to keep my identity secret at the time, but it leaked out. I’m quite sure information about me, including my picture, will be among his artifacts.”

Bartoli nodded. “If this unsub is the Boardwalk Killer, and that’s still an if, we’re hoping he doesn’t find out you’re here. We’re doing our best to keep the fact that you’re working with us confidential. Outside of the three of us, and my boss, nobody else knows who you are, and by that I mean about your association with the previous murders.”

“Even if he has a picture of you, it would be of a seventeen-year-old girl, not the illustrious Dr. Charlotte Stone, serial killer expert.” Kaminsky’s eyes ran over her mockingly. “I’m guessing there’s a pretty big difference. He probably wouldn’t even recognize you if he saw you.”

“It’s possible he’s kept track of me over the years,” Charlie pointed out, although it was something she had long since forbidden herself to dwell on. For years after the attack, she had harbored the secret fear that the next time she turned around there he would be, ready to murder her just like he had the Palmers. With the help of therapy and a lot of self-talk, she’d managed to tuck that fear away into a tiny corner of her mind, where it rarely bothered her. Now it was back, impossible to ignore.

I should have stayed away.

“We’ll keep you safe, don’t worry,” Bartoli said, making Charlie wonder what he’d seen in her face. His gaze shifted to Kaminsky, and he gave an upward jerk of his head, which Charlie translated as Go.

“Yeah, okay, I got this.” Sounding slightly more resigned to her fate, Kaminsky started walking back up the stairs, then glanced over her shoulder to tell Charlie, “I’ll be sleeping right across the hall from you, and Bartoli and Crane are crashing in bedrooms on the first floor. You can go to bed and sleep like a baby and not worry about a thing.”

“Good to know.” Charlie followed Kaminsky up the stairs.

“Eight a.m. good for you to get started on this again?” Bartoli called after them. Charlie knew he was speaking to her.

It wasn’t a lot of decompression time—but then, the situation was beyond dire. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“Come downstairs. One of us will be waiting.”

As she reached the top of the stairs, Charlie glanced down at him. “Okay.”

“You’re in here.” Kaminsky opened a door to the right of the landing as, from the corner of her eye, Charlie saw Bartoli head back out the door. Presumably he was not yet ready to call it a night.

Charlie caught herself wondering if the team that had searched for Holly had been as dedicated, then forced the thought from her mind.

“By the way, a two-hundred-fifty-mile radius is too large.” Charlie walked past Kaminsky into what, from her first glance around, appeared to be a decent-sized apartment that took up the entire left side of the second floor. “The killer should be living—or working—within a thirty-mile radius of the crime scene at the most. Say, a half hour’s drive. Since there are three separate crime scenes, that would apply to each of them. If anyone on your list is staying in RV parks or campgrounds within that circle, I’d start there.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Kaminsky’s voice was dry. Charlie once again got the impression that Kaminsky wasn’t a fan, but at the moment she was too tired to care. “If you need anything, I’m right across the hall.” She nodded toward an open door just across the landing. Charlie glimpsed a bedroom through it. “Give a shout.”