SHE OPENS HER eyes. The basement stonework melts away and is replaced by a wall of windows. Curtains cover the panes, but the fabric is so sheer she can see through them. It is night out, but a weak, white glow is seeping through the curtains. Is it moonlight? Streetlights? A yard light? Whatever it is, Bernadette wishes it was stronger. Between the poor illumination and her blurry sight, the room is a poorly focused black-and-white photo rather than a snapshot offering sharp details. The killer moves closer to the windows, and Bernadette prays he takes a peek outside so that she can get a clue about his location. Instead, he turns around.

He’s standing by the side of a mattress. He glances across the bed—it’s a big four-poster—and looks at a woman standing along the other side. She is slender and pale and has long brown hair that flows past her shoulders. The most striking thing about her, however, is the fact that she’s nude. It’s too early for bed, so they’re obviously hopping in the sack for another reason. Is she going to be his next victim? Will he bed this one before he drowns her?

The murderer’s eyes are locked on his partner, and all Bernadette can see of the room is what is beyond the woman’s pale naked body: a single, massive piece of furniture. An armoire. This is either a very simple bedroom or a hotel room. There must be a mirror in the room. If only the murderer would step up to a mirror. Even though the room is dimly lit, a glimpse of his reflection would give her something. A verification of his size. His hair color. Are you a big blond dude?

He looks back to his side of the bed. There’s a nightstand with a lamp on it. Turn on the lamp! He doesn’t, of course, but he glances at a digital clock with large glowing numbers. This is real time. This is happening right now.

Reaching down, he tears back the bedspread. As he does so, Bernadette catches a glimpse of his right hand. It’s white. He glances across the mattress, and the woman pulls down the covers on her side of the bed. She hops onto the mattress and pulls the covers over her body. She’s wearing rings on the fingers of both hands, but Bernadette can’t tell if there’s a wedding band in the collection.

He climbs in next to her and reaches across her. Are those blond hairs on his arm? Too difficult to see for certain. He yanks the covers out of her hands; he wants to see her naked body. His right hand goes to her breasts. This isn’t gentle fondling; he’s kneading and squeezing. Her legs move restlessly as he touches her, but she makes no move to push him away. He crawls on top of the woman, and Bernadette wonders if he’s already wearing a condom. She hopes not.

The murderer’s mouth goes to her throat. Though his face is close to his partner’s, Bernadette still fails to get a clear picture of her. In the dimness, all she sees is a white oval slashed with almond eyes.

The woman beneath the killer brings her arms up to hold him to her, but he doesn’t want that. He grabs her wrists and brings them up over her head, pinning her arms against her pillow. Bernadette senses this is about to get rough, and she feels her own body tense. She wishes she could release the scarf and end the unsettling movie, but she must see this thing through. Bernadette needs to know if he kills the woman after having intercourse with her.

He releases her wrists. The woman rocks wildly under his thrusts and clutches the rails of the headboard in an attempt to brace herself. She opens her mouth. Is she crying out in pain or pleasure?

Suddenly it all goes black. The connection is severed.

BERNADETTE CLOSED her eyes and relaxed her fist, letting the scarf drop from her hand. Opening her eyes again, she saw only blackness. It was like having a sack pulled over her head.

“Tony,” she said to the void.

“I’m here.”

She turned her head toward his voice and blinked twice. Her regular vision cleared and she saw his face. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and she struggled to speak. What escaped from her lips was a panted exclamation. “Oh my God.”

He stood from his crouched position. “What did you see?”

“A woman.”

“Not another victim.”

“No … not yet, at least.” The words came, but they were labored. She felt as if she were talking while running a race. “He was making love to her, but it wasn’t tender. It was cruel … I could feel it … I can still feel it.”

“What do you mean? What do you feel? What was he doing to her? Did he hit her? Choke her?”

“No, but … it was rough,” she panted. “He was rough.”

“Can you describe the woman or where they were? Their surroundings?”

Garcia sounded desperate, and she wanted to help him, but nothing she had seen could immediately lead them to a particular person or place. “I don’t have specifics … I’m sorry.”

“Can you give me anything we can use? Is there something I should be calling in right away?”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m sorry. You know how this works.” She scrambled to her feet and stumbled backward against the wall. “This was nothing but a waste of time. God, what if another one turns up dead tomorrow!”

“Take it easy,” said Garcia, grabbing her by the shoulder to steady her.

“I’m fine.” She pushed his hand down. In the next instant, she wanted to throw herself against him.

He took a step back. “What’s wrong with you?”

She opened her mouth to retort and quickly closed it. The murderer’s mood had become her own, and she had to regain control. “I need a second,” she said, leaning her back against the wall.

“You’ve got it,” he said.

Closing her eyes and concentrating, she worked to moderate her breathing and cool her temper. She inhaled deeply and released the air slowly. In and out. She was having a harder time clearing her system of the lust. Her genuine desire for Garcia was fueling the residual passion of the killer. Perhaps leaving the basement and putting some space between herself and her boss would help. Opening her eyes, she said, “Let’s get out of here, Tony.”

“Fine by me.”

She felt something under her feet. She’d been standing on his coat. “I’m sorry,” she said, and stepped off it.

Garcia retrieved the scarf and slipped it back inside the plastic bag. He picked up his trench, gave it a snap, and draped it over his arm. “I’m sure you got something we can use. Maybe if you sit down and think about it. Tell me what you saw.”

“First let’s crawl out of this sewer,” she said, and headed for the stairs. She was light-headed and paused before placing her foot on the first step.

Garcia put his hand in the middle of her back. “You okay?”

His touch sent a hot, dizzying rush through her body, and she gripped the rail for support. “I’m good,” she croaked, and started up.

Garcia thumped up the steps next to her, sniffing his coat as he went. “Should we just head to your loft?”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said, while thinking it would be a huge mistake.

“I’m starving. How about you talk while I fry those steaks you promised me?”

She was famished, too. It had to be the killer’s hunger. Watching through his eyes had roused more than one sort of appetite inside her. She pushed open the door to the first-floor hallway. “Steak sounds great.”

Chapter 13

WHILE GARCIA FRIED the steaks, she sat at the kitchen table with a Post-it pad in front of her and a glass of Chianti in her hand. She’d hoped to organize her thoughts before recounting what she’d seen, but she was too unsettled to sort through it. Taking a sip of Chianti, she stole a peek at the chef. He was a big reason she remained flustered. He’d peeled off his jacket and tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. She set down the wine, picked up a pen, and clicked it repeatedly.