On a lovely June evening at a well-attended fund-raiser in Potomac, Maryland, Marlene Dubowski—victim’s advocate attorney, political activist, DownEast Mall survivor—gave a short speech, raised her glass in a toast.

She sipped, mingled, sipped, schmoozed, sipped. And began gasping for breath. As she collapsed, Patricia, in the guise of a wealthy donor, dropped down beside her, quickly snipped a lock of hair. “Oh my God, call nine-one-one!”

“I’m a doctor,” someone shouted. “Let me through!”

In the confusion, Patricia slipped away.

She drove by the fine homes, sweeping driveways, to the post office she’d already earmarked. Humming to herself, she slipped the lock of hair into the bag and the bag inside the card she’d already signed, addressed, and stamped.

She’d chosen:

JUST BECAUSE

YOU’RE YOU!

After sealing the card, she slipped it into the mailbox in front of the post office.

Pleased with herself, she took the Beltway, cruised off the exit ramp to the mid-level hotel she’d prebooked, as she’d considered the crowds of vacationers.

She only needed a night, a good meal.

In her junior suite—the best she could do—she pulled off the ash-blond helmet wig, took out the blue contacts, the device that pushed her jaw out to prominence.

With a grunt, she removed the matronly designer cocktail dress and the body padding beneath. She took the lifts out of her evening shoes.

She ordered room service, took a long shower to start fading the self-tanner she’d used.

In the morning, she’d dump the car she’d rented in long-term parking at Dulles airport, rent another. A change of plates somewhere along the way, and she’d be off again.

She set the photo of Reed on the table beside her bed—she’d bought a frame for it.

“We’ve got a date, don’t we? Just because.”

*

Jacoby sat in Reed’s office, frustration in every line of her body. “We had an agent at the damn fund-raiser, and she slipped through. People panicked, crowded in, cut him off. He got a look at her, and gave chase, but … He believes she fled in a black Mercedes sedan, but he couldn’t get the plate. No plate light.”

Reaching in her bag, she took out a sketch. “Artist’s rendering.”

“She added some years, some weight, changed the jawline. And she went back to cyanide.”

“She stayed to see her target collapse, and even got down beside her for a moment when keeping back, leaving would be smarter.”

“She’s gotten more arrogant, and she didn’t know how close you were.”

“Not close enough. She’s going to send you another card.”

“I’m counting on it. Her time between kills is compressing.”

“Another sign she’s losing the control that kept her under for so long. It goes back to you, Reed, and putting a bullet in her. Initially I thought, and our analysis agreed, she might string you along. Play it out because, for her, it must be torturing you. I don’t think that now. She needs to right that wrong.”

“Agreed. If she wants to take out another on her way here, and at the rate she’s escalated, I think she will, you need to put Mi-Hi Jung and Chaz Bergman under some protection. I think Brady Foster falls in there, too. She won’t go after Essie yet. Essie’s too high up the chain. She wouldn’t go after Simone yet if I didn’t live on the island. But she won’t be able to resist a doubleheader. But…”

He rose, wandered over for a Coke, held out a second.

“Have any Diet?”

“Hold on.” He went out, through the bullpen, into the break room, took a Diet Pepsi out of the fridge.

“I owe you one,” he said to Matty, and took it to his office, closed the door.

“Thanks. ‘But’?”

“She’s escalating, and she’s devolving, but she’s still smart, she’s still cagey. We saw just that in how she played us with and after McMullen. She knows, has to know, you’re following her route, connecting dots.”

“You think she’ll veer off, take another detour.”

“If she needs another kill before me, she’d be stupid to take a direct route to Maine. She’s not stupid.”

Jacoby rose, walked to the map he’d pinned to his wall, studied the pushpins that represented Hobart’s kills since she’d started the journey.

“Any instincts on where she might detour this time?”

“I have to think about it. Would she stick to driving, book a flight? Will she stick to fame and/or fortune, or go off pattern there, too? I have to think about it.”

“So will I, and the rest of the task force. I had a man in the same room with her, and she killed her target, drove away.”

Reed picked up the sketch. “Do you see Hobart when you look at this?”

“I probably wouldn’t have, and witnesses confirmed a Southern accent—a good one. She mixed with people, Reed, made small talk, and worked up tears when she spun a story about her daughter and what she went through after a rape. She paid the five thousand to be there.”

“She lives the role while she’s in it. She’s good. Crazy good.”

“I’ve got to get back. Contact me when you get the next card.”

He had traffic issues, parking issues, beach issues, boating issues, drinking issues, even some petty theft to deal with. Every day was a holiday, and people swarmed the streets, shops, trails, beaches.

Most days he worked until after sundown, and then some. But most evenings he had Simone. If he found an hour or two of quiet and solitude, he settled into his office, studied the map, the faces, tried to put himself in Patricia’s mind-set.

He stepped out one morning—Simone tended to leave at the crack of dawn these days— and found CiCi in his yard with canvas, easel, and paints.

“Morning, Chief Delicious.”

“Morning, love of my life. You’re painting.”

“I want the morning light. I’ve been out here a couple times this week later in the day—which shows how sneaky I am—but I need this light.”

He walked around to her—the dog had already hurried over to wag and lean.

“It’s the house.” And the lupines, he noted. Those rivers of color he still marveled belonged to him.

“They’re not at peak yet. Next week they will be. But I need this light, and a good start before they peak. I like the lines of this house, always have. Somebody was smart enough to paint those porches orchid.”

“Somebody had someone with an artist’s eye tell him to.”

“You figured out painting the main doors that plum would add punch all by yourself.”

“I have my moments. And HGTV.”

“More than a few moments. The lupines, they’re a study all on their own.”

“Leon helped me out there, and with the other flower stuff. He knows his fertilizer. I had to buy a composter. He wouldn’t take no.”

CiCi studied him as he spoke. “You haven’t been getting enough sleep, my cutie. I can see it.”

“Summertime. Busy time.”

“And not just that. Why can’t they catch her?”

“She’s slippery.” He leaned in to kiss CiCi’s cheek. “But we will.” He pulled out his key ring, took off a spare.

“To the house. Help yourself—and go ahead and lock it when you leave. Keep the key. Just don’t roll a joint while you’re out here. I’m the chief of police. I have a hat.”

He clipped on Barney’s leash, walked to work, stopping at a rental along the way to wake up the tenants—college kids—and tell them to pick up the beer and wine bottles scattered every damn where. Left with a warning that a deputy would be back within the hour to fine them if it wasn’t done.

So, he thought, begins a summer day on the island.

And since he’d estimated the arrival, it didn’t surprise him when Donna brought in the third card.

“Don’t call everybody in, we’re too busy for that. Just contact them, let them know we’ve gotten a third, and this one from Potomac, Maryland.”

“That crazy woman’s ruining my damn summer.”

“Not making mine a picnic, either,” he replied as he got gloves, the penknife, and opened the card.

“Cute,” he said as he read the printed greeting.

This time she’d drawn hearts with blood dripping from them and arrows through them.

What do you think? I could try some archery. Or maybe we’ll just stick with bullets in the heart, and the head. Maybe I’ll shoot you in the balls first for shits and giggles. The fancy, bleeding-heart lawyer climbed on my brother’s dead body to get on her pedestal. I knocked her off. She didn’t know what hit her. Neither will you, asshole.

XXOO, Patricia

She even drew a very distinct middle finger after her name.

Devolving, he thought. Angrier, or less able to control that rage, so a more overt threat.

She’d need that next kill, no question about it. She’d need that rush.

But who? And where?

He looked at the map as he contacted Jacoby.

*

Simone inspected every inch of the investment casting over the wax mold. She’d done the wax chasing, using delicate tools for minute scraping, hot tools for filling in imperfections. She studied it now, and deemed it ready.