high chair. In the open-plan room, they could see her from her seat, still happily playing with her breakfast. Clunk. Her sippy cup tossed. A happy shout, loosely translated to: See what I did! Greg got up to retrieve it.
“He’s agreed to help us with this case,” Agent Shultz said. His voice was deep, almost gravelly.
Rain battled that scattered feeling she had too often—trying to pay attention to what was going on, one eye on Lily, one part of her brain worried about Greg, another part wrestling with the bad memories, fears, regrets, that thoughts of Hank always stirred up.
“It’s his area,” Rain said carefully. “I’m sure he’ll have a good deal of insight.”
“He’s helped us quite a bit already.”
As a journalist, Rain thought she was pretty good at reading people. She listened—to what was said, and what wasn’t. She watched bodies, posture, eyes. She caught the microexpressions, the ticks, the uncommon phrase. But Agent Brower was a tough customer—face still, gaze intense, seeing, but eyes revealing nothing. Her body was relaxed, but she moved quickly with deliberation.
“You didn’t say if you thought the two cases were connected,” pressed Rain.
“Like you say,” she said. “It seems possible.”
“Do you have any physical evidence linking the two crimes?”
A slight smile, the upturning of one corner of her mouth. “Now you sound like a journalist.”
Rain matched her smile. “I am that, I suppose. Among other things.”
“Dr. Reams says that a serial killer—not that I’m saying that’s what we have—is most often motivated by deeply personal drives. Compulsions he can’t control. This type of crime would be unprecedented.”
“A killer who hunts killers.”
She shrugged. “That sounds like a headline.”
“What are they calling him at the bureau?” When Agent Brower didn’t answer, “Come on, they always have a name.”
“I call him the Nightjar.”
Because of the mask, Rain thought. The hawk mask. A bird that eats insects. That hunts at night. Nice.
“Did you have any suspicions when Kreskey was killed?” asked Agent Shultz. “Any thoughts on who might have done it?”
“To be honest—no,” said Rain. Another lie. “I was just glad he was dead.”
“A journalist without questions, without theories. I’ve never met one.”
“Trauma.” Rain pointed to the book still in Agent Shultz’s hand. “It can get its hooks in. It takes time to find wholeness again. I was still running away from Kreskey, trying to forget him and everything about him. When he was killed, I only felt relief that I didn’t have to share the planet with him anymore. And I only recently started asking questions. About a lot of things.”
There was more truth to that than she’d intended.
Agent Brower looked chastened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be flip.”
“If I think of anything that helps,” Rain said, “or if I come across anything in my investigation, you’ll be the first person I call.”
Agent Brower held Rain’s eyes a moment, then nodded lightly. “Thank you for your time.”
Agent Shultz carefully replaced the book. Agent Brower handed her a card. And then they were gone. Rain sank into the couch as the door closed, drained, mind racing.
Greg stood holding Lily, looking out the window as the agents in their black sedan pulled away through the overcast morning.
“Are you ever going to be free of this?” he said softly, half to himself.
She looked at them, her beloveds. They were good—solid and innocent, the foundation of the life she’d built. She felt separated from them, on a raft floating out to a treacherous, stormy sea.
No, she thought. I don’t think I am.
TWENTY-ONE
He was so thin. Wolf. All bones and teeth. Starved. Beaten. Locked up in the dark. Just like Kreskey, he’d been made vicious by neglect and abuse. When I looked into his soulless gray eyes, I swear I saw it. All the layers of his pain and fear and sadness. I know you remember him. He wanted to be good, don’t you think? Deep inside, he wished he was a good dog. But he wasn’t. He was a beast.
We stood a moment, the cluttered filthy hall between us, his eyes shining in the dim. I was aware of the rise and fall of my chest, air coming in through my throat constricted with fear. Then he charged, his nails scrabbling on the hard wood.
I fought him, Lara, with every ounce of strength and will I had left in my skinny, broken little body. I punched him, bit him, screamed at him. I felt chunks of his fur come off in my hands, his teeth on my