"Like I said," Sara began, "she was on the toilet when I found her. We struggled to the floor, I rolled her on her back."

Sara lifted Sibyl's hands, checking under her fingernails. "There's nothing here. I imagine she was taken by surprise, didn't know what was going on until it was too late."

"You think it was quick?"

"Not too quick. Whatever he did, it looks planned to me. The scene was very clean until I came along. She would've bled out on the toilet if I hadn't had to use the rest room." Sara looked away. "Or maybe not, if I hadn't been late getting here."

Jeffrey tried to comfort her. "You can't know that."

She shrugged this off. "There's some bruising on her wrists where her arms hit the handicap bars. Also"-she opened Sibyl's legs slightly-"see here on her legs?"

Jeffrey followed her directions. The skin on the inside of both knees was scratched away. "What's that?" he asked.

"The toilet seat," she said. "The bottom edge is pretty sharp. I imagine she squeezed her legs together as she struggled. You can see some of the skin caught on the seat."

Jeffrey glanced at the toilet, then looked back at Sara. "Think he pushed her back on the toilet, then stabbed her?"

Sara didn't answer him. Instead, she pointed to Sibyl's bare torso. "The incision isn't deep until the middle of the cross," she explained, pressing into the abdomen, opening up the wound so that he could see. "I'd guess it was a double-edged blade. You can see the v shape on either side of the puncture." Sara easily slipped her index finger inside the wound. The skin made a sucking noise as she did this, and Jeffrey gritted his teeth, looking away. When he turned back, Sara was giving him a questioning look.

She asked, "Are you okay?"

He nodded, afraid to open his mouth.

She moved her finger around inside the hole in Sibyl Adams's chest. Blood seeped out from the wound. "I'd say it's at least a four-inch blade," she concluded, keeping her eyes on him. "Is this bothering you?"

He shook his head, even though the sound was making his stomach turn.

Sara slipped her finger out, continuing, "It was a very sharp blade. There's no hesitation around the incision, so like I said, he knew what he was doing when he started."

"What was he doing?"

Her tone was very matter-of-fact. "He was carving her stomach. His strokes were very assured, one down, one across, then a thrust into the upper torso. That was the death blow, I would imagine. Cause will probably be exsanguination."

"She bled to death?"

Sara shrugged. "Best guess right now, yeah. She bled to death. It probably took about ten minutes. The convulsions were from shock."

Jeffrey couldn't suppress the shudder that came. He indicated the wound. "It's a cross, right?"

Sara studied the cuts. "I'd say so. I mean, it can't really be anything else, can it?"

"Do you think this is some kind of religious statement?"

"Who can tell with rape?" she said, stopping at the look on his face. "What?"

"She was raped?" he said, glancing at Sibyl Adams, checking for obvious signs of damage. There was no bruising on her thighs or scrapes around the pelvic area. "Did you find anything?"

Sara was quiet. Finally she said, "No. I mean, I don't know."

"What did you find?"

"Nothing." She snapped off her gloves. "Just what I told you. I can finish this back at the morgue."

"I don't-"

"I'll call Carlos to come get her," she said, referring to her assistant at the morgue. "Meet me back there when you're finished here, okay?" When he didn't answer, she said, "I don't know about the rape, Jeff. Really. It was just a guess."

Jeffrey didn't know what to say. One thing he knew about his ex-wife was she did not make guesses in the field. "Sara?" he asked. Then, "Are you all right?"

Sara gave a mirthless laugh. "Am I all right?" she repeated. "Jesus, Jeffrey, what a stupid question." She walked over to the door, but didn't open it. When she spoke, her words came out clear and succinct. "You have to find the person who did this," she said.

"I know."

"No, Jeffrey." Sara turned around, giving him a piercing look. "This is a ritualistic attack, not a one-off. Look at her body. Look at the way she was left here." Sara paused, then continued, "Whoever killed Sibyl Adams planned it out carefully. He knew where to find her. He followed her into the bathroom. This is a methodical murder by someone who wants to make a statement."

He felt light-headed as he realized that what she was saying was the truth. He had seen this kind of murder before. He knew exactly what she was talking about. This was not the work of an amateur. Whoever had done this was probably working his way up to something much more dramatic at this very moment.

Sara still did not seem to think he understood. "Do you think he'll stop with one?"

Jeffrey did not hesitate this time. "No."

LENA Adams frowned, flashing her headlights at the blue Honda Civic in front of her. The posted speed limit on this particular stretch of Georgia I-20 was sixty-five, but like most rural Georgians, Lena saw the signs as little more than a suggestion for tourists on their way to and from Florida. Case in point, the Civic's tags were from Ohio.

"Come on," she groaned, checking her speedometer. She was boxed in by an eighteen-wheeler on her right and the Civic-driving Yankee in front, who was obviously determined to keep her just above the speed limit. For a second, Lena wished she had taken one of Grant County 's cruisers. Not only was it a smoother ride than her Celica, there was the added pleasure of scaring the crap out of speeders.

Miraculously, the eighteen-wheeler slowed, letting the Civic pull over. Lena gave a cheery wave as the driver flipped her off. She hoped he had learned his lesson. Driving through the South was Darwinism at its best.

The Celiea climbed up to eighty-five as she sped out of the Macon city limits. Lena took a cassette tape out of its case. Sibyl had made her some driving music for the trip back. Lena slid the tape into the radio and smiled when the music started, recognizing the opening to Joan Jett's "Bad Reputation." The song had been the sisters' anthem during high school, and they had spent many a night speeding through back roads, singing "I don't give a damn about my bad reputation" at the top of their lungs. Thanks to an errant uncle, the girls were considered trash without the benefit of being particularly poor or, courtesy of their half-Spanish mother, all that white.

Running evidence up to the GBI lab in Macon was little more than courier work in the big scheme of things, but Lena was glad to have the assignment. Jeffrey had said she could take the day to cool down, his euphemism for getting her temper under control. Frank Wallace and Lena were butting heads over the same problem that had haunted their partnership from the beginning. At fifty-eight years old, Frank wasn't thrilled to have women on the force, let alone one as a partner. He was constantly leaving Lena out of investigations, while she was constantly trying to force herself back in. Something would have to give. As Frank was two years from retirement, Lena knew she would not be the one to bend first.

In truth, Frank was not a bad guy. Other than suffering from the kind of crankiness brought on by old age, he seemed to make an effort. On a good day, she could understand that his overbearing attitude came from a deeper place than his ego. He was the kind of man who opened doors for women and took his hat off indoors. Frank was even a Mason at the local lodge. He was not the kind of guy who would let his female partner lead an interrogation, let alone take point on a house raid. On a bad day, Lena wanted to lock him in his garage with the car running.