“Get the fuck away from the TV! We can’t see!” someone yells.

I do not move. I stand in front of the screen, touching her face, remembering how her coal-dark eyes once stared up at me in submission. Remembering the slickness of her skin. Perfect skin, unadorned by even the lightest stroke of the makeup brush.

“Asshole, move!”

Suddenly she is gone, vanished from the screen. The female newscaster in the jade-green jacket is back. Only a moment ago, I had been content to settle for this well-groomed mannequin in my fantasies. Now she strikes me as vapid, just another pretty face, another slender throat. It took only one glimpse of Jane Rizzoli to remind me of what is truly worthy prey.

I return to the couch and sit through a commercial for Lexus automobiles. But I am no longer watching the TV. Instead, I am remembering what it was like to walk in freedom. To wander city streets, inhaling the scents of women who pass by me. Not the chemist’s busy florals that come from bottles, but the real perfume of a woman’s sweat, or a woman’s hair warmed by the sun. On summer days, I would join the other pedestrians waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green. In the press of a crowded street corner, who would notice that the man behind you has leaned close to sniff your hair? Who would notice that the man beside you is staring at your neck, marking your pulse points, where he knows your skin smells sweetest?

But they don’t notice. The crosswalk light turns green. The crowd begins to move. And the woman walks on, never knowing, never suspecting, that the hunter has caught her scent.

“The folding of the nightgown does not in itself mean you’re dealing with a copycat,” said Dr. Lawrence Zucker. “This is merely a demonstration of control. The killer displaying his mastery over the victims. Over the crime scene.”

“The way Warren Hoyt used to do,” said Rizzoli.

“Other killers have done this as well. It’s not unique to the Surgeon.”

Dr. Zucker was watching her with a strange, almost feral glint in his eye. He was a criminal psychologist at Northeastern University and he frequently consulted for the Boston Police Department. He had worked with the homicide unit during the Surgeon investigation a year ago, and the criminal profile he’d compiled of the unknown subject at that time had turned out to be eerily accurate. Sometimes, Rizzoli wondered how normal Zucker himself could be. Only a man intimately familiar with the territory of evil could have insinuated himself so deeply into the mind of a man like Warren Hoyt. She had never been comfortable with this man, whose sly, whispery voice and intense stares made her feel invaded and vulnerable. But he was one of the few who had truly understood Hoyt; perhaps he would understand a copycat as well.

Rizzoli said, “It’s not just the folded nightclothes. There are other similarities. Duct tape was used to bind this victim.”

“Again, not unique. Did you ever watch the TV show MacGyver? He showed us a thousand and one uses for duct tape.”

“Nocturnal entry through a window. The victims surprised in bed-”

“When they’re most vulnerable. It’s a logical time to attack.”

“And the single slash, across the neck.”

Zucker shrugged. “A quiet and efficient way to kill.”

“But add it all together. The folded nightgown. The duct tape. The method of entry. The coup de grâce-”

“And what you get is an unknown subject who is choosing rather common strategies. Even the teacup on the victim’s lap-it’s a variation on what’s been done before, by serial rapists. They set a plate or other dishes on the husband. If he moves, the falling chinaware alerts the perp. These are common strategies because they work.”

In frustration, Rizzoli pulled out the Newton crime scene photos and laid them across his desk. “We’re trying to find a missing woman, Dr. Zucker. So far we have no leads. I don’t even want to think about what she’s going through right now-if she’s still alive. So you take a good long look at these. Tell me about this unsub. Tell me how we can find him. How we can find her.”

Dr. Zucker slipped on his glasses and picked up the first photo. He said nothing, just stared for a moment, then reached for the next in the series of images. The only sounds were the creak of his leather chair and his occasional murmur of interest. Through his office window Rizzoli could see the campus of Northeastern University, nearly deserted on this summer’s day. Only a few students were lolling on the grass outside, backpacks and books spread around them. She envied those students, envied their carefree days and their innocence. Their blind faith in the future. And their nights, uninterrupted by dark dreams.

“You said you found semen,” said Dr. Zucker.

Reluctantly she turned from the view of sunning students and looked at him. “Yes. On that oval rug in the photo. The lab confirms it’s a different blood type from the husband’s. The DNA’s been entered into the CODIS database.”

“Somehow, I doubt this unsub is careless enough to be identified by a national database match. No, I’m betting his DNA isn’t in CODIS.” Zucker looked up from the photo. “And I’ll bet he left no fingerprints.”

“Nothing that popped up on AFIS. Unfortunately, the Yeagers had at least fifty visitors at the house following the funeral for Mrs. Yeager’s mother. Which means we’re looking at a lot of unidentified prints.”

Zucker gazed down at the photo of Dr. Yeager, slumped against the blood-splattered wall. “This homicide was in Newton.”

“Yes.”

“Not an investigation you’d normally take part in. Why are you involved?” He looked up again, his gaze holding hers with discomforting intensity.

“I was asked by Detective Korsak-”

“Who is nominally in charge. Right?”

“Right. But-”

“Aren’t there enough homicides in Boston to keep you busy, Detective? Why do you feel the need to take this on?”

She stared back, feeling as though he had somehow crawled inside her brain, that he was poking around, searching for just the tender spot to torment. “I told you,” she said. “The woman may still be alive.”

“And you want to save her.”

“Don’t you?” she shot back.

“I’m curious, Detective,” said Zucker, unruffled by her anger. “Have you talked to anyone about the Hoyt case? I mean, about its impact on you, personally?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Have you received any counseling?”

“Are you asking if I’ve seen a shrink?”

“It must have been a pretty awful experience, what happened to you in that basement. Warren Hoyt did things to you that would haunt any cop. He left scars, both emotional and physical. Most people would have lingering trauma. Flashbacks, nightmares. Depression.”

“The memories aren’t any fun. But I can deal with them.”

“That’s always been your way, hasn’t it? To tough it out. Never complain.”

“I bitch about things like everyone else.”

“But never about anything that would make you look weak. Or vulnerable.”

“I can’t stand whiners. I refuse to be one myself.”

“I’m not talking about whining. I’m talking about being honest enough to acknowledge you’re having problems.”

“What problems?”

“You tell me, Detective.”

“No, you tell me. Since you seem to think I’m all fucked up.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you think that.”

“You’re the one who used the term fucked up. Is that how you feel?”

“Look, I came about that.” She pointed to the Yeager crime scene photos. “Why are we talking about me?”

“Because when you look at these photos, all you see is Warren Hoyt. I’m just wondering why.”

“That case is closed. I’ve moved on.”

“Have you? Really?”

The question, asked so softly, made her fall silent. She resented his probing. Resented, most of all, that he’d recognized a truth she could not admit. Warren Hoyt had left scars. All she had to do was look down at her hands to be reminded of the damage he’d inflicted. But the worst damage was not physical. What she had lost, in that dark basement last summer, was her sense of invincibility. Her sense of confidence. Warren Hoyt had taught her how vulnerable she really was.