Rachael quirked up an eyebrow, nodded. “Yes. Always the same kind of ink—inexpensive ballpoint pen ink. I believe he uses the same brand of pen. He’s a creature of habit. This time, he broke the habit.”

“You were able to trace the card?”

“I was. So will the FBI agent assigned to your case, when she’s able to get to it. Right now, you’re my only client—your mother made that requirement clear.”

“She has that way.”

“She does. What I’m saying is I could pursue this new communication right away. And exploit his mistake. He could have chosen a widely distributed card published by a large publisher. Instead, he went cheap and narrow.”

“Narrow?”

“Cat Club Cards. That’s a one-woman operation in Silver Spring, Maryland, and one that only started publishing and marketing the cards February eighteenth of this year. It’s a shoestring operation, Ms. Rizzo.”

“Adrian.”

“Adrian. She works out of her home, taking photographs of her cats—she has six. Her husband helps now and then, she tells me.”

“She sold him the card?”

“No. She doesn’t sell out of her home—or didn’t until she got a website up, started selling online. But she only got that going last week. Her sister manages a card and stationery store in Georgetown, and stocked a supply of the cards. On February eighteenth. And Mrs. Linney—the cat card lady—talked her cards into three other venues over the next two weeks. One in downtown Silver Spring, a place she regularly shops, shelved the cards on the twenty-third. And two pop-up shops—one in Bethesda, Maryland, one in Northwest DC—shelved them on March second.”

“So the card he sent me had to be from one of those shops.”

“Yes. And that narrows the area. The cards were sold individually or in a boxed set of eight—variety pack. Her sister took six variety packs and twenty-four individuals, including the one you received. She sold two packs, and ten individuals—including the Having a Bad Day card—up to the time yours was postmarked. Among all the other venues, we have sales of eight packs and six of the version in question.”

“He lives in that area.”

“Or was traveling through. None of these venues have security feeds that go back as far as we need. Some of the transactions were by credit card, some were cash. In the interviews with managers, sales-clerks, no one can recall anyone who struck them as off, who was memorable.”

Rachael set aside her coffee, put on a pair of red cheaters to consult her notes. “The time line. The last poem sent the habitual way had a postmark dated February tenth, from Topeka, Kansas. You state you picked up the mail from your PO Box on February thirteenth, saw the envelope, but didn’t, at that time, open it.”

She looked up then, with more sympathy. “This was the same day your grandfather died.”

“Yes.”

“His obit, and an article on him, his wife, your family, ran in area papers on February seventeenth, and was linked on the Traveler’s Creek web page on that date.”

“Yes.” Adrian sat back. “And the next day the card went on sale in Georgetown. A few days later in Silver Spring, and a few days later in the pop-ups.”

“Correct. The card was postmarked March sixteenth, ten days before the memorial, which was mentioned in the papers, on the town’s website. This card, rather than being mailed to your PO Box, was mailed to your restaurant, and you opened it the day after the memorial.”

When Adrian rose, Sadie lifted her head, watching to see if she was needed. She kept watching as Adrian paced. “They ran the story in the paper in Kitty Hawk, too. My great-grandparents opened a Rizzo’s there when they moved—that was before I was born. My grandparents sold it when my grandfather’s parents died. They couldn’t run both. He could have read about my grandfather’s death in a lot of places.”

“He could have, yes. My thought is he scans your local papers, checks for any mention of you or your family. He can, essentially, watch you from a distance. He can access your blog, stream your workouts, buy your DVDs. He’ll have them all, Adrian. He’ll watch often.”

She had to fight off a shudder. “The law enforcement consensus is it’s not a sexual obsession.”

“I’d agree. He may be asexual. He may, actually, be a straight woman, but there’s never any hint of sexual obsession in the poems. He wields power and control over you in a different way. The consistency and brevity of the poems, the threat to cause you harm. He enjoys disrupting your life too much to end it.”

“So far?”

Rachael just spread her hands. “The escalation’s not a good sign. And while he’s never acted on any of these oblique threats—may never act on them—you could consider personal security. I could make some recommendations.”

“I have Sadie, and a security system. I’ve been taking online courses. Self-defense, martial arts. I can’t think about bodyguards. For how long? This could easily go on another ten or twelve years. That’s part of the torture, isn’t it? Not knowing if it’ll ever stop. And, God, wondering what to do when and if it does. What that would mean.”

She sat again. “I want to thank you for the work you did. It’s the most real detail I’ve gotten since this started.”

“Oh, I’m not done. I have a few lines to tug on yet. Your mother wants thorough, Adrian. I’m very good at thorough.”

Rachael took a large manila envelope out of her briefcase. “A copy of my written report. I’ve sent one to your mother. If you have any questions, if there’s another poem, please contact me.”

“I will. Could I ask why you left the police department?”

“After two kids, my husband and I talked about it. It’s a dangerous job. Investigating’s not like what you see on TV or in the movies. It’s research, legwork, reports. And,” she said as she rose, “I wanted my own. I wanted to call my own shots.”

“I get that.”

Rachael held out her hand. “Be sensible. Stay safe. I’ll be in touch.”

Adrian took the cup and saucer into the kitchen, washed them out. She had work she could do—there was always some work she could do.

But if she stayed in the house, she’d read the report, go over everything she’d already been told. Worry it like a bad tooth.

“The sun’s shining for a change, Sadie. How about I change, and we go out for a little run?”

Sadie knew “out”; she knew “run,” and hurried to the mudroom, where her leash hung. Gave a single, affirmative bark.

“Give me five to get into running clothes, and we’re in business.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When she visited the job site the following week, she marveled at the walls—now drywalled, mudded, sanded.

She turned to Kayla, home on spring break.

“Wow, right?”

“It’s so tight. This place.” In her distressed jeans and college hoodie, Kayla turned in a circle. “We used to say it was haunted.”

“Might’ve been. But if there were any ghosts, I’d say they’re happier now. And I want to say how much I appreciate you spending your spring break in a construction zone.”