door, maybe there’d be some indication. We found another footprint that matches the 8.5 shoe outside in the yard. And we have another handprint on the doorframe. Don’t get excited, no fingerprints, but the handprint matches the same characteristics of the second individual.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“That’s all.”
“Keep me posted,” she said, and knowing he expected it, she added, “Fantastic work, Larsen.” Hanging up, she turned to face the feds.
Zoe had morphed. Instead of the tired, dejected person who had been there before, she was now tense and eager. “There were two men at the scene?” she asked.
“Looks like it,” O’Donnell said carefully.
“That would explain the inconsistencies.” Zoe glanced at Tatum. “If Glover paired up with someone else—”
“Someone less experienced,” Tatum said. “Maybe easily manipulated.”
“Subject to certain fantasies that Glover could accommodate,” Zoe said. “This guy probably already fantasized about Catherine. That’s why they targeted her specifically. It’s someone who knows her.”
“And he probably got her to open the door,” Tatum said.
“He acts first—they agreed about it beforehand. Maybe he didn’t even know Glover would kill her, but Glover knew.”
“Then Glover kills her. His partner in crime feels guilty about it. He covers her. Finds her necklace and puts it on her.”
“And Glover keeps his trophy.”
O’Donnell watched them, caught in their own private dynamic, and felt a spark of jealousy. She’d been there before, with her first partner. She and Jim had been paired when she’d become a homicide detective. They’d been partners for fourteen months. She hadn’t known how lucky she was. She assumed the relationship they had—this seamlessness—was something that always happened, a part of the job. But then Jim was promoted and transferred, and she was paired with Manny Shea. And what a mess that was. With Manny, she either had to become dirty or turn a blind eye. And when Manny’s shady dealings finally collapsed, she paid the price. And of course, now she had no one.
Watching Tatum and Zoe complete each other’s sentences, exchanging looks that held messages she couldn’t read, was like being a child again, seeing the other kids playing in the schoolyard while she stood alone.
“I don’t want to rain on your parade,” O’Donnell said, though she did. “But there’s no evidence your guy Glover is involved in this. And I don’t want you getting any preconceived notions about the case and messing it up.”
“You’re right,” Tatum said quickly. “But we would be glad to help.”
“I don’t need you to profile this murderer and tell me it definitely sounds like your guy,” O’Donnell said skeptically. She’d wanted their help, but their agenda was glaringly obvious.
“We can start by profiling the second one,” Zoe said. “The man who consumed the victim’s blood. He’s probably the same one who covered her.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” O’Donnell said.
Zoe caught O’Donnell’s gaze, the profiler’s eyes reminding O’Donnell of a cat’s stare just before it pounced. “We can help.”
And frankly, O’Donnell was happy for all the help she could get.
CHAPTER 7
The man in control didn’t like to sleep. Not lately, anyway, not ever since he’d stopped taking his medication.
Before that, it wasn’t even a question he could contemplate. The various pills he took would knock him out for ten, twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a day, easy. A deep sleep that felt like he was submerged in wet cement. Dreamless, as far as he was concerned. He knew everyone dreamed, but what did it matter, if he couldn’t remember it?
But now, off his medication for almost a week, he slept less and less.
He could remember his dreams now. It was like standing in a tempest of fear, anger, and lust. He’d wake up, his blankets twisted into strange shapes, sometimes crushed between his fists as if he’d throttled the bedsheet in his sleep.
When he slept, he lost control. And he knew it was the most important thing right now. Control. He’d lost control before in his life, and it had always ended terribly. Never again.
Control, he knew, wasn’t an actual thing that you had. It was more like an outfit, something you put on. A disguise for other people to see. As long as you acted as if you were in control, you were in control. They said a wolf in sheep’s clothing as if it was a bad thing. But wasn’t it what everyone wanted? For you to be one of the sheep?
He got out of bed—short naps during the day were mostly dreamless and helped him stay awake at night. He glanced at his reflection in