She was about to clear her throat when Michelle Judas Kiss

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noticed her. The group stopped talking, just looked at her with unfathomably sad eyes.

“Lieutenant,” Michelle said. There were a few murmured good mornings from the rest of the group. Taylor nodded at them, then answered, “What can I do for you?”

It was the mother who spoke up. “We’re just here for Corinne. Is it…” She stood a bit straighter. “Is it over?”

Taylor nodded. “Dr. Loughley is finishing up, but yes, the postmortem has been completed. I can’t discuss any of the findings, you know that.”

“We do. We just wanted to be here for her. It’s hard.”

A deep sniff, but she didn’t break. Taylor liked her a bit for it. “Hard to let your child go through something so invasive. If Corinne’s spirit is anywhere near, she’ll know we’re here for her.”

“Todd didn’t want to come?”

Mr. Harris coughed out a noise of disgust. “Todd took Hayden to his parents’ this morning. He didn’t even bother to stay, just whisked her away. He doesn’t care about Corinne. He’s just concerned with himself.”

“Daddy, that’s not fair.” Michelle came to her father’s side, touching his arm. “Todd knows you and Mom are too upset to care for Hayden. He’s trying to do you a favor.”

“Bullshit!” Derek Harris spoke for the first time, his full, thick hair falling over his forehead. He turned to Taylor. “You need to look a little closer at my brotherin-law, Lieutenant. I know he’s got something to do with this. I wasn’t so sure yesterday when we talked, but he’s acting strange. Something is up with him. I think he might be responsible for Corinne’s death.”

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Interesting. The united front for Corinne certainly didn’t extend to her husband. Taylor held up a hand. “I will be looking at every angle of this case backwards and forwards, I can guarantee you that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make it downtown for a meeting.”

“Lieutenant?” Nicole Harris, raven hair, soulful brown eyes, thin frame bordering on emaciation, put up her hand as if she were a student seeking a professor’s attention.

“Yes?”

Nicole took a deep breath. “It’s about the baby. What’s…we want to know what’s happening

with…with his body.”

“Oh,” Taylor said. “Of course. That’s going to be up to you. The folks here at Forensic Medical will issue a fetal death certificate, and you’ll have the option to bury him separately, or with Corinne. His body will be released with hers.”

The relief bled from them in waves. Michelle took her mother’s hand and looked at Taylor. “We were afraid he might be…disposed of.”

Taylor’s stomach flipped at the thought. It was horrid enough to have seen the tiny body, imagining him being thrown away saddened her deeply.

“I understand. That happens sometimes, but usually with indigent women who are early along in their pregnancies and don’t have family to claim a fetus. After twenty weeks, though, the baby is treated as a person by the medical examiner. I assure you, the baby was handled with a great deal of care.”

“Did you see him?” Mr. Harris spoke quietly, almost as if he didn’t want to hear her answer.

“I did.” Taylor’s voice cracked as she spoke. “I have Judas Kiss

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to go now. Please accept my deepest condolences on your loss. I’ll be in touch soon.”

She left them there. As she walked away, she didn’t look back.

Ten

Taylor got into the 4Runner. Jesus. She rubbed her eyes hard. Buck up, she told herself. It could have been worse. You could have had to tell them their daughter was raped, or slit open, or stowed away in a barrel of acid. Unfortunately, as bad as Corinne Wolff’s murder was, it could always have been something more. Little comfort to the Harrises, she knew, but it made her feel better.

Hoping for an escape from the thought of those accusing eyes, she plugged her phone into the charger, then turned on the speaker and dialed “one” for her voice mail.

Baldwin’s deep voice spilled from the little phone, made tinny by the poor quality of the speaker.

“Just checking in, babe. Hope you’re having a good day. Call me when you get a chance. Love you.”

Taylor dialed him back. He answered on the first ring, sounding a bit distracted.

“I’ve had a fun morning. Everything good with you?” she asked.

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“Absolutely. Everything is fine. Can’t say I miss the place, I’ll tell you that.”

“Is Garrett okay?”

“Oh. Yes, yes, completely. He’s going to be just fine.”

“That’s good. Send him my best, will you? And take care of yourself.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, then she depressed the end button, her mind immediately back in the case. Time to go to work.

Baldwin hung up the phone and sighed deeply, running his hands through his dark hair at speed. It made the ends stand at attention, a look he knew Taylor found terribly amusing. My little porcupine, she called him. He rolled his eyes at the silliness of it and wished he were home.

God, he hated lying to her.

No, everything was not okay.

Baldwin had always excelled at compartmentalizing. He was able to stay calm in the face of the most intense scrutiny, could clinically analyze any situation without getting close, then could move on to the next case with precision and no regrets. The FBI knew that when they hired him. The CIA knew that when they called on him.

He’d been with the profiling unit for about four years when Garrett suggested a quick day trip to Washington, D.C. for an unusual case. “It’s a favor for a friend, Baldwin. I just need you to look the scene over, go through some of the evidence, and tell me what you think.”

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been fair, a mentor. He both regretted his acquiescence and thanked God he’d been the one asked to come that day. He thought back to the beginning of this subterfuge, the June morning that altered the course of his life.

Traffic was difficult, as it always was. Garrett hadn’t spoken much as they made the drive north. It took them an hour and forty-five minutes to reach the Beltway. Not the greatest time. But once they were on 495, the roads miraculously cleared and within five minutes they were on the George Washington Parkway, heading toward McLean, Virginia.

Just past the Chain Bridge Road exit, Garrett had pulled into a scenic overlook. The Potomac River churned at their feet, the woods beyond the overlook were thick and foreboding. The faintest of paths could be seen. Garrett walked that way, beckoning Baldwin to follow. There was something familiar about the area. It took Baldwin’s mind a moment to register that they were very near Fort Marcy Park, the site of one of the most famous alleged suicides in Washington history—

White House Deputy Counsel Vince Foster. Talk about a can of worms. Pushing the scandal out of his mind, he followed Garrett deeper into the woods. About two hundred yards into the thicket, they came to a slight opening among the trees. Baldwin smelled the blood before his mind registered the scene. The clearing looked like the set of a low-budget horror flick. A makeshift drying rack was strung between two trees: flayed skin, pieces of genitalia, a severed head with wild, staring milky eyes, all were precisely tacked to the wires. There were at least five women in various stages of decay, their bodies no Judas Kiss

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longer attached by the normal seams. Flies buzzed heavily around the torso of one obviously fresh kill. Baldwin felt the bile rise in his throat, a completely unnatural reaction for him. Something evil lurked in these woods. He could feel it oozing through his pores, and fought the urge to run back to the car.