Got in the car, lay in wait in the car—like with Jayne Arlo in Erie. Killed her right off—why take chances? But drove the car from the studio lot to the strip mall. It would take longer to find her that way, Rachael concluded. More time to get some distance.

Left her in the car, so the killer had a car, probably in the same lot.

Get in, get gone.

She made copies of the news reports for her files before she shut down again, locked up again.

Nine now, she thought. At least nine women dead. But by Christ, they were going to end this. They were going to shut this murderous revenge spree down.

She considered calling her uncle, decided to wait until she got home, settled some.

After ten now, she noted, but he’d be up.

And she’d stop for the damn ice cream. The least she could do since she’d probably be up half the night on this—and bring cops into the house.

Struggling against guilt and anger, she stepped outside and started toward her car.

She saw the flash, felt the sharp bee-sting pain in her arm.

She whirled, grabbed for her keys and the panic button on them.

Pain speared into her chest, her shoulder. As she tumbled back, she struck her head on the door of her car, felt herself start to drift away.

He moved in. He’d used a .22 semiauto to try to keep the noise down. But he knew he should’ve gotten closer first—the .22 didn’t pack a lot of punch!

He was, he had to admit, better with a knife than a gun.

But he liked the way a gun barked in his hand, the way bullets just punched into people.

She was bleeding pretty good, but he’d just give her one in the ear for good measure.

As he closed in, he heard a burst of wild laughter, raised voices.

Let her bleed to death, he thought as he got down, duckwalked back. Let her lie there and bleed out on the ground like the nosy bitch she was. “Two bitches down,” he mumbled.

He eased back, back, then used the dark to circle wide around the building before he strolled onto a sidewalk and whistled away.

Stay awake, she ordered herself. Don’t fade off. Oh Jesus, oh God. Ethan, our kids. No, no, no, she wasn’t going to do this to them. She wasn’t going to die like this and leave them.

She tried to call for help, but her voice barely made a croak.

Shaking, she shifted enough—oh God, it hurt!—to draw her phone out of her pocket. It slipped out of her fingers—sweat, blood, shock, shakes—but she gripped it again. Pressed nine-one-one.

“Nine-One-One. What’s your emergency?”

“Shots fired. Shots fired. Officer down. No, no, not officer anymore. I’m shot. I’m shot. Parking lot.” She gave the address while her teeth began to chatter.

“I’m dispatching the police and an ambulance to your location. Stay with me. Stay with me. What’s your name?”

“I’m Rachael McNee. Hit, three times. Maybe four. Maybe four, I think. Hit my head. Head shot? Dunno. Chest is the worst. Losing blood. Suspect is …”

“Stay with me, Rachael. Help’s coming.”

“Cau—Caucasian male. I saw him, I saw him. Middle thirties. Five-ten, a hundred fifty. Blond, got a beard, little beard, and … can’t remember. I’m going out.”

“Stay with me, Rachael. I can hear the sirens from your phone. Just stay with me.”

“Can’t …”

And she faded.

She came around again briefly while the world whirled. Light, too bright in her eyes. Voices, too loud. She couldn’t think over them.

Shut up, she thought. Shut up so I can think.

She flailed out with a hand, and someone—a stranger—leaned down. “We’ve got you. Hold on now.”

“Bennett.” The word slurred. She couldn’t feel her tongue. “Junior. Shot me.”

“Okay. It’s okay. Hold on.”

But she’d already faded again.

In the bathroom, Nikki huddled. Sometimes she was so cold her body shook. Sometimes she was so hot sweat poured.

She stank. She’d tried to wash herself, but she stank anyway.

She couldn’t reach the light switch.

Sometimes she prayed for the bulbs to burn out so she’d have some dark. Then she shuddered at the idea of being left in the dark.

Her right wrist, bruised and bloody, ached. Her face, where he’d struck her, pounded. She took the pills JJ left her, and it helped. In her head she visualized how some animals chewed off their own paw to free themselves from a trap.

Could she do it? Should she try?

Then the idea of that had her vomiting again.

She didn’t know how much time had passed. A day? A week?

She ate dry cereal, crackers. An apple. A banana. And started to fear she’d run out of food, then slowly starve to death.

She feared he wouldn’t come back.

She feared he would.

She’d known.

Whenever she fell into weeping, she admitted she’d known what he was. Not right, not ever really right. Prone to meanness and violence, and covering all that up with adoring smiles for their father.

He’d always hated her; she’d known that, too.

Because, he’d told her once, she’d come first in birth order. Because she took parts of their father’s love and attention that were rightfully his.

And still, she’d protected him, hadn’t she?

Covered for him when he snuck out at night. Washed blood out of his clothes before anyone else could see. Distracted her mother—oh, so easy to do—whenever she started to rage at him.

He’d killed their mother.

Had she known that? No, no, she didn’t think she’d known. Maybe suspected. A little. But she hadn’t known.

She’d sent him money when he needed it. Never asked questions.

Didn’t want to know the answers. Relieved that he mostly stayed away. She had her own life, didn’t she? Didn’t she? Didn’t she?

She huddled, weeping, laughing, aching, throbbing, hearing the gibbering of her own voice as she talked to no one.

She feared she’d lose her mind for wanting to have a life.

She hadn’t known about the poems. She hadn’t known about the killings—the women he’d killed.

But she’d known it for the truth when that detective had come. She’d known, and she’d covered for her brother.

Her father had told her, again and again and again, that was her job. She just wanted to do her job.

She didn’t want to die for doing her job.

Detective Morestead read Rachael’s files while his partner drove. Morestead, a spit-and-polish sort, had his tie carefully knotted, his shoes perfectly shined. He’d been on the job for twenty-two years, and attached to Major Crimes for nearly a decade. He kept his hair trimmed, his square-jawed face closely shaved.

He had been, always would be, a detail man.

In Rachael’s report he found a lot of details.

His partner—five years and counting—Lola Deeks, had a more casual appearance. She kept her hair in a close-cut cap, but he knew—as she’d told him—that was to give her more time for important things.

Like sleep.

She wore suit jackets or blazers, but went for flashy colors. Generally she had a T-shirt under them rather than a button-down. She always, except dead of winter with snow, wore sneakers.

By his guess she owned at least a dozen at any given time.