and vulnerable at the same time? I sipped my drink, unable to recall what I’d started to say—what was it again?

Nick continued. “Look, all I ask is that you review the profile Beverly’s created. She’s very insightful; I think you’ll be impressed. And her thoughts might stimulate yours. Just see what it brings to mind.”

I nodded. My lips had begun to ache, an effect of the cocktail. It was stronger than I’d expected. I shouldn’t be drinking while working, even unofficially. I bit on them to stop the throbbing.

“Are you nervous?”

“No. Why?”

“You’re biting your lip.”

“So?”

“So, it’s normal to be nervous. Getting involved in something like this can be tough. Even scary.”

I looked up. Was I ‘getting involved’? Had he intended a double meaning? Or was he still testing my reactions? Or was I drinking too much? “I’m not nervous. Actually, I can’t wait to read the profile.”

His half smile appeared again.

“So, when can you talk to Beverly?” He watched me, waiting for my response.

Talk to Beverly? “I didn’t realize I had to—”

“Well, it would be best if she went over it with you personally. Filled you in. And you should dialogue. You’re colleagues, after all.”

Beverly Gardener was hardly a colleague. She was a phenomenon. A presence, a supposed genius endowed with perfect legs and startling green eyes. “Any time. First thing Monday morning?”

And with that, we were done with business. Not even past cocktails, and done. I searched for casual conversation unrelated to the missing women, but the cocktail was having an effect. My mind drifted, distracted by Stiles’s shoulders, his thick neck. I began comparing his Adam’s apple to the cherry in my drink, which was magically full again. I frowned, searching for a topic.

“Well,” I began. Good start. Keep going. “How do you like living in Philadel—” “You look upset.” “I do?”

“What’s on your mind?”

His bare chest, to be honest. Stop it, I scolded myself. There’s more at stake here than your starving libido. I thought of Tamara and felt ashamed of myself. “What’s on anyone’s mind, these days? The nannies. Everyone’s upset.”

He uncrossed his legs and straightened his back. “Of course.”

“One of the missing girls,” I went on. “I know her.”

He sighed. “A disappearance can be tougher to deal with than a death.”

I pictured Tamara’s shining eyes, recalled her musical laughter. I took another sip, felt the liquor slide, sear my throat.

“But—damn, there’s no easy way to say this. Zoe, you need to be prepared for the worst, here. Chances are slim to nothing that your missing friend—or any of those women—is still alive.”

Tamara’s eyes lost their shine; her laughter choked to a stop. I felt the stab of my teeth jabbing my lip.

Stiles leaned forward, his voice almost a whisper. “If it’s any consolation, I think we’ll solve this one. Soon.”

“Why do you say that?”

His eyes darkened. “Because he wants us to solve it.” He took a drink. “Sonofabitch might not know it, but he wants us to.” “He wants to be caught?”

“I think so. At least, part of him does. He’s getting bolder. More brazen. Leaving evidence. Daring us to find him.” He paused. “Do you think that finger was left on your walk by accident?”

“What?” I gripped my glass, needing something to hold on to. What was he saying? That the finger had been dropped in front of my house on purpose? “You mean it wasn’t?”

“Let me ask you.” He leaned forward so his face was close, his voice low. “You’re a therapist. You know Freud’s theory that there is no such thing as an accident.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Okay. Let’s back up. The abductions began several weeks ago. Since then, they’ve occurred more frequently, in increasingly open and more public settings. And the kidnapper’s leaving evidence now, whereas he didn’t at first. Consciously? Maybe, maybe not. At some level, he may be sabotaging himself because he wants to stop but can’t. Or he might just be carried away by his sense of invincibility. Either way, he’s accelerating, losing control. Getting sloppy. Making mistakes.”

“But to make more mistakes, won’t he have to take more women?”

Half his mouth twisted fleetingly. “He’ll definitely try. We’ve got a serial killer here, and as you know, those guys are pretty consistent.”

As I knew? What did I know? I’d taken a college course years ago on criminal psychology and read the textbook chapter about serials, but mostly what I knew about serial killers I’d learned from television. Detective shows. I knew, for example, that serial killers followed patterns in their