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  Then he let go of her arm and stormed down the terminal.

  Constance added, under her breath: “She’s not Sibby.”

  chapter 21

  Falls Church, Virginia

  Constance had been right—Stephanie Paulson was nowhere near her apartment. She was staying with her college room-mate, Emily McKenney, who also taught in the D.C. school district and had an apartment in Georgetown.

  Dark watched them from across the street. Paulson and McKenney were in a diner. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but the body language was clear. C’mon, eat something. Drink something. You don’t have to figure out everything tonight, you just have to eat something. Jeb wouldn’t want this. He’d want you to eat the blueberry muffin in front of you.

  It wasn’t so long ago that Dark would look at food and be repulsed by the sight of it. What use was food, if you couldn’t enjoy it with the one you loved? Every type of food reminded him of Sibby. It had been one of the many ways she’d expressed her love for him. Every meal was a kiss. Without her, eating was simply a physical process. Converting calories into energy. Might as well slip an IV needle into his arm, get it over with that way.

  McKenney put her hands to her friend’s face, forced her to look up. McKenney smiled. A big, gorgeous, friendly smile that said: I’m with you, I’m not going anywhere, I’m going to continue to be with you.

  But Stephanie’s look was blank. She saw her friend, she nodded to acknowledge her words, but they meant nothing.

  Because Jeb wasn’t here, and he would never be back.

  Dark had come here to speak to Stephanie. But now that he was standing across the street, he couldn’t bring himself to intrude on her grief. What was he supposed to say—Oh yeah, I used to work in the job that’s just killed your husband. And guess what? A maniac killed my spouse, too.

  It was absurd.

  When his daughter was just a baby, Dark felt like he’d have some time to get his mind right, then return to become a real father to her. Nobody remembered anything before they were two years old . . . maybe even three, right? Dark only remembered little scary fragments of his own early childhood. Flashes no more real than a dream. The more Special Circs cases Dark worked, the more he told himself: There will be time.

  The years had slid by fast, though. Now his baby girl was five years old. What must she be thinking? Especially when he couldn’t even pay attention long enough to tell her good night, and that he loved her?

  Everyone Dark had ever loved had been taken away. His birth parents. Henry. His adoptive parents—and, worst of all, that had been Dark’s fault. His mother. His father. His nine-year-old brothers, all lined up, shoulder to shoulder, mouths taped shut, and shot execution style. All because Dark had pursued a monster. Same with Sibby, the love of his life. Dark had gone after the same monster, trying to set things right, and the monster had taken her away, too.

  Dark’s worst fear was that his daughter would be next.

  III

  three of cups

  To watch Steve Dark’s personal tarot card reading,

  please log in to Level26.com and

  enter the code: cups.

  THREE OF CUPS

  West Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  The stranger had been watching the women for an hour now. They laughed loud, nudging each other’s shoulders, and had one thing on the agenda: getting drunk. Which was going to make this easy.

  He made eye contact with the one on the end—the small blonde who looked like an actress. She’d probably been told that a million times. The look on her face dared him. Go ahead. Try something. I’m not interested. I’m defiant.

  Raising his hand, the stranger curled his index finger. Come here.

  There was the hint of a smile on the blonde’s face, but she pretended to ignore the stranger and turned her attention back to her friends. That was fine. The stranger was patient. There was plenty of time.

  When the blonde looked over again—of course she was going to look over again, it was part of the game—the stranger wiggled his finger. Come on. Come over here.

  The blonde’s mouth twisted into a pout; her eyes narrowed into a look of annoyance. You want me? her eyes asked. You come over here. Again, she looked away.

  She couldn’t fully ignore the stranger, though. He was too ruggedly handsome to be completely dismissed. And while she may have grown up being told she resembled a particular actress, she was just a facsimile. Her nose was bigger than the real thing; her lips not as full. And she knew it.

  When she looked again, the stranger smiled innocently and wiggled his finger again.

  She flashed a churlish smile. Okay, asshole. Have it your way.

  Now confident, the stranger turned his back on her and raised his hand as if ordering another drink. Within a few seconds the stranger sensed her behind him. Then he felt her small fingertips lightly tapping his shoulder.

  “So? What’s so important that I had to come all the way over here?”

  The stranger spun around and grinned.

  “I just knew that if I fingered you long enough, you’d come.”

  The effect was priceless, the stranger thought. As if he’d slapped her across the face. The surprise and shock caught her off guard. No one speaks to her this way. She’s a girl with class. She’s a fucking graduate student, for fuck’s sake! The blonde seemed like she couldn’t decide whether to throw a drink in the stranger’s face or knee him in the balls or just ignore him all together.

  She chose the third option. Tried to, anyway.

  The stranger kept flashing his grin, full intensity, as she rejoined her friends, leaned over, whispered her version of the exchange. The stranger wondered if she’d quoted him verbatim, or invented something more cruel. She looked over at him, utter hate in her eyes, but he didn’t flinch.

  Soon she convinced her friends to join her in the ladies’ room. They carried their drinks with them.

  It was almost time to begin.

  What a fucking asshole!

  As she sat back down, Kate Hale chastised herself. Why the hell had she gone over to that jerk? Because she was an idiot, that’s why. She was also more than a little drunk.

  But she deserved it. The first few weeks of grad school—absolutely crushing. She looked forward to fall break, the chance to catch up on papers. First things first, though. Tonight was about getting all dressed up and downing martinis with her friends. She wasn’t going to let some thickneck moron ruin that.

  “Forget about it, honey,” said Donna, who stood in front of the mirror and checked her eyebrows and smoothed the wrinkles on her blue dress. “A place like this, you’re going to have a high asshole factor. We should have gone to Old City.”

  Johnette, meanwhile, ducked into a stall. Johnette wasn’t big on martinis. She’d been nursing the same vodka and orange all night. Blow was her thing. She’d welcome the opportunity to hit the ladies’ room.

  “This is 2010, though, right?” Kate asked. “Does that guy know pickup lines like that died around the turn of the century?”

  “It’s Philadelphia. What can I say? You grow up here, you get used to it.”

  “I should have picked a school closer to home.”

  Donna smiled. “Then you and I wouldn’t be here, drinking beers, blowing off steam, and fending off lame pickup lines from Alpha Chi thicknecks. Look. Don’t let it ruin your night. We’re here to celebrate.”

  Monday Night Drink Fests were a ritual for Kate and her two best friends. See, Monday was the one night you really shouldn’t drink your face off, which is exactly why they did it. Because they could afford to suffer through a hangover on a Tuesday since they were still in school. They wouldn’t have the luxury of Monday Night Drink Fests a year from now.

  Kate couldn’t help herself. A grin broke out across her pretty face, too.

  “World domination.”

  “World domi-fuckin-nation, baby!” Donna yelled.

  “Yeeee-hah.”

  “And we cou
ld be dominating more if Johnette would finish powdering her nose,” Donna said, exaggerating each word.

  Kate giggled. “Johnette?”

  Nothing.

  The women exchanged glances. Johnette had done this before. Jacked herself higher and higher until she just . . . crashed. Wouldn’t be the first time on a toilet, either. But no, Johnette insisted. She didn’t have a problem. It was a performance enhancer. How the hell else do you think she made it through undergrad with a sky-high GPA?

  “Johnette, honey,” cooed Donna. “Come on.”

  Kate sighed, then stepped over to the stall door.

  “Seriously, girl. Enough’s enough.”

  Nothing.

  “Hell . . . oooo?” she said, nudging the stall door open.

  Johnette was indeed sitting on the toilet. Her dead eyes stared up at Kate. A red cord had been wrapped around her neck so tightly it dug into the flesh, bunching it up.

  An icy numb blasted through Kate’s body. She took a step backward. The ground felt like jelly. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. The sinks were behind her. Kate reached a hand behind her to steady herself. She looked over at Donna—Donna was always the stronger of the two of them.

  Donna wasn’t there.

  “Donna?” Kate shrieked. “Oh God, Donna, please ...”

  Then Kate felt the cord around her own neck. Hands pressed her shoulders, guiding her down to her knees. There was a full-length mirror next to the door, so she was able to see herself.

  And the person standing behind her.

  Kate regained consciousness for a few seconds.

  Not long, really. But it was enough time to see what was happening around her. She was frightened to find herself standing, somehow. How could she be supporting her own weight? Her limbs felt numb, her head spinning. Kate blinked tears out of her eyes, tried to focus. Donna was standing, too, just a few feet away. Her eyes were wide and her mouth flapping open and shut, like she was trying to scream but no sound could be forced from her throat. Kate tried to speak, too. She wanted to tell Donna they’d be okay, that she didn’t know what was going on, but she swore she would make it okay, whatever it was.

  And then the stranger moved behind Donna. Placed the gleaming blade of the knife under her chin. Held a martini glass in front of her chest. The hand with the knife jerked to the right—almost too fast to watch.

  Blood spluttered from the gash across Donna’s throat, running down her chest and into the glass.

  Somehow Kate found the strength to push an anguished scream out of her mouth.

  “WHY? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?”

  The stranger looked at her, smiled.

  He ducked under Donna’s outstretched arm—God, how could she just be standing there, arms out, after someone cut her throat—and took three steps, bringing him nose to nose with Kate. The knife was still in his hand.

  “This is not about you,” the stranger said. “This is about what you would have become.”

  Kate tried to cry out again but the stranger was too fast. One second she could feel the cold, sticky blade against her own throat.

  And the next second she couldn’t scream at all.

  chapter 22

  Washington, D.C.

  Around one in the morning Dark managed to find a cheap room near the Capitol building. He’d brought very little with him: a change of shirt, a notepad, his laptop. He knew he should eat something, so he bought a turkey sandwich and a six-pack at an all-night deli. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something.

  Sipping the beer, he thought about Stephanie Paulson. Dark couldn’t ignore the parallels. Paulson had gone after a monster, too. Only, the monster had cut him down quickly. Why had Riggins sent him down to Chapel Hill alone? Usually, you sent a small team. Two agents, at least. Dark had been the only one who could get away with the lone wolf routine. Was Paulson trying to follow his lead? Insisted on doing it solo?

  Stop it, Dark told himself. This is not about you. Put your mind on the case. Figure out how Paulson’s death is connected with Martin Green’s.

  The first was a complicated torture-murder. The killer had to have scouted the scene in advance—for instance, he had to know that the ceiling could support Green’s body weight. By contrast, Paulson’s death seemed less studied. Almost spur of the moment. No torture. Just a push.

  But if it was indeed the same killer, Paulson’s death was meant to send some kind of message. Why throw Paulson off his own roof? Why not shoot him, or snap his neck, or run him down with a car for that matter? No, this murder had also been planned out in advance. The killer had to lure Paulson up to his own roof. Or incapacitate him, then bring him to the roof. Revive him. Convince him to step to the edge. Push him. It was too elaborate.

  As Dark racked his brain for connections between the two, his cell phone buzzed. A text from Graysmith:

  IT HAPPENED AGAIN CALL ME

  Twenty minutes later a car picked him up outside the hotel. It had been the fastest check-in/checkout the dull-eyed clerk at the front desk had ever seen. “Something wrong with the room? Sir?” Dark ignored him. There was nothing wrong with the room. There was probably something wrong with his head.

  Graysmith had told him that less than an hour ago, Philly PD had been summoned to a triple slaying in a sports bar in West Philly, near the Wharton School of Business. Three women, tortured, throats slit, in a locked bathroom. Their bodies had also been “arranged.”

  Now, Graysmith had said, was their chance. She could get him to the crime scene immediately, full access, where he could work the scene—before Special Circs even roused someone out of bed. How? Dark had asked. You let me worry about that, Graysmith had said.

  Dark decided that, at the very least, it was a chance to see if Graysmith was full of shit or not.

  The car brought him to a private airfield where a Gulfstream jet was waiting. The best thing about owning your own plane? You don’t have to deal with any FAA security checks. He was airborne within minutes of stepping onto the plane. The only other passenger: a woman in a business suit. Dark assumed she was just hitching a ride on the Secret Government Agency express until she stood up and asked if she could get Dark anything to drink.

  “No, thanks,” Dark said.

  The plane cut through the air like its tail was on fire—faster than most commercial travel was allowed, especially over U.S. soil.

  It wasn’t just the buzz of the plane. Dark was amazed how alive he felt, even after a full day of travel. Maybe this was what he was meant to do. It was a compulsion like no other. If he wasn’t chasing predators, Dark knew he might as well just lie down and stop breathing.

  But if that was true, where did that leave his daughter?

  The plane landed at Philadelphia International not more than twenty minutes later. The twinkling skyline of the city was hazy in the distance. Dark thought about Philadelphia. If this was the killer’s next stop, why? Was it because Stephanie Paulson was originally from Philadelphia? Maybe this was part of a pattern. Green to Jeb Paulson. Paulson to his wife? Would someone in her family be next? Some other arcane connection?

  Within minutes Dark was transferred to another car. It was approximately ten miles to West Philly, the driver informed him—they should be arriving in five. On the way, Dark’s cell buzzed against his inner thigh. He fished the phone out of his pocket. It was Graysmith. Never mind that it was the middle of the night. She sounded wide awake.

  “I see you’re en route to the crime scene,” she said. “Got everything you need?”

  “You said I’d have access,” Dark said.

  “Sending it to your phone right now. Just show the lead investigator your screen. Name’s Lankford. He’ll let you in.”

  chapter 23

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Without the people, noise, or music, the bar looked like an empty stage. The room was full of props, but no one to inhabit them. The stark houselights highlighted every imperfection—scratches in
the wood, dust on the light fixtures, stains on the fabric. In a place like this, you’d only consider drinking or eating if the lights were low.

  The bodies had been discovered an hour before closing. After the first screams, a bouncer ran back to the ladies’ room to find it locked, a key snapped off inside the mechanism. Once he had finally managed to pry open the door and saw what was inside, the bouncer couldn’t help it. He’d screamed, too. Panicked patrons fled the bar. The tables were still littered with half-full pint glasses, uneaten chicken wings. Some had even left jackets, and in one case, a pair of high-heeled shoes. If it was a set, Dark thought, then it was as if the actors had been fired mid-production, and told to leave everything where it was.

  Graysmith’s magic cell-phone credentials had worked. When Dark showed it to Lankford, the lead investigator, he was quickly guided back to the scene of the crime. Two patrolmen were posted as guards, but otherwise they let Dark have his way with the scene.

  Which was unreal. How many jurisdictional battles had he fought over the years? How many fights after access to evidence—even with his Special Circs creds in hand?

  Dark began to examine the blood-soaked crime scene. First things first—even though the tangle of ropes and bodies in the middle of the room screamed for attention. Dark knew better. He checked every possible entrance (two transoms), hiding place (supply closet, toilet tanks), and crevice (wooden baseboard enclosure) before he turned his attention back to the bodies, ducking under ropes as he searched. There was always the possibility that whoever did this was still here. Waiting. Watching.

  He’d learned that the hard way, five years ago.

  Finally Dark began to take in the scene, which looked like a marionette show from hell. The bodies of the three young women—Kate Hale, Johnette Rickards, and Donna Moore, according the driver’s licenses left in their purses—were arranged with thin ropes and cords fixed to overhead pipes and the supports of the bathroom stalls. A first set of ropes ran from around their necks and up to the ceiling. A few inches below, each woman’s throat was slit. Quickly, forcefully. Three more ropes ran from their upraised wrists, also up to the ceiling. A final set of ropes bound their waists, securing them horizontally in place. Their hands, still holding their cocktail glasses, were half-filled with blood. The tile floor below them was slick with blood, too.