I See You (Criminal Profiler #2)(25)

He spent the next hour and a half reading through the detectives’ notes. At the time of Marsha’s disappearance, the detectives had exhausted every lead and tip that had come into the station, but in the end came up with nothing.

Vaughan juxtaposed the image of the blackened skull in the trunk and the smiling face of Marsha Prince. Only a monster would do this to a young, vibrant girl who had been Vaughan’s son’s age when she’d died.

When Nate had been a little boy, he had wanted assurance that monsters were not real. Before Vaughan could confirm they were, his ex-wife had been quick to tell the boy that they were only in storybooks. But Nate had been savvy enough to know even then that she had lied. When Vaughan had been tucking Nate into bed that night, the boy had asked his father about the monsters.

Vaughan could not lie and had simply said, “I got your six, pal.”

“I got yours, too, Dad.”

A knock on Vaughan’s door brought his attention to the present. Detective Cassidy Hughes stood in the doorway. He had worked with Hughes for a year now, and the two got on well. Short with a sinewy frame, Hughes had curly hair and always dressed in well-fitting clothes. Today it was snug jeans, a silk blouse, and heeled boots.

“Stop whatever you’re doing,” she said.

He cleared his throat and shut the dead girl’s file. “What’s up?”

“A real shit storm of biblical proportion.”



Zoe stood in her kitchen, drinking coffee and staring at the still-packed boxes she had moved to her townhome six weeks ago.

Technically, she had the day off. Ramsey had told her to kick back for a few days after what had been an endless stream of weeks filled with different cities, police departments, and killers.

Try as she might, she had not been able to sleep more than a couple of hours, so she had risen and made coffee. As she sipped, she cared less about the flavor and more about the punch of caffeine to chase away the fatigue. She really did not want to unpack boxes today any more than she had during the other countless opportunities. Even an armchair psychologist would call this procrastination classic avoidance. She had legally claimed the property and sold a perfectly good condo, but for some reason she could not settle into living here.

She crossed the stone floor to the table nestled in the nook of a bay window and thumbed through the stack of mail. A glance out the wavy glass windowpanes, original to the 1801 house, showed a vivid blue sky. Bright sunshine shone down on Prince Street’s cobblestone road sloping toward the Potomac River less than a block away. She climbed the narrow staircase to her room, thinking she would slide back into bed and catch up on reading.

The stairs creaked and the banister wobbled a little as she climbed the stairs past the dozens of black-and-white photos featuring Uncle Jimmy in all the incarnations he had enjoyed during his eighty-two years.

Vaughan had hit the nail on the head when he had questioned why she was keeping this place. As tempting as it had been to sell, as it was worth millions even in its dilapidated state, giving it up felt disloyal to Uncle Jimmy and Jeff. Uncle Jimmy, who had raised Jeff, was her last tangible connection to him. However, the true cost of repairing and maintaining this home was beyond her means. So here she was, able neither to sell nor to keep. She was caught in no-man’s-land.

The digital clock on the antique nightstand and her phone charger looked out of place next to the four-poster Queen Anne bed that dominated what had been a guest room.

The last time she had slept in this room had been the night Jeff had died. She had been unable to go home to the apartment they had shared, and Jimmy had been the only refuge that had felt remotely comforting. The old man had welcomed her in with open arms.

Before she had left for her last trip to Nashville, her single act of making this house her own had been to change the sheets on the guest bed, which, to her great relief, were seductively comfortable.

Hanging above the bed was one of the best forgeries she had ever seen of Monet’s Impression, Sunrise. If Uncle Jimmy had known anything, it was how to paint the best fakes. Over the last few years, Zoe had often had dinner with Jimmy, and over a bottle of Chateaux Margaux, he had shared the tips of master forgers like himself. Jimmy had given her the skills to become the agent she was.

Her phone rang, and she fished it out of the back pocket of her jeans. Caller ID displayed Jerrod Ramsey. Her boss had a reputation for not sleeping, which she had been warned was a hazard of the job.

Zoe took another sip of coffee that had cooled. “Agent Ramsey, how did you know I was awake? It’s my day off.”

He chuckled as if she had made a joke. “You met with Vaughan yesterday?”

“I did.” He never called for idle chatter. “Do I still have the next four days off?”

“Technically, you do. And technically, I’ve had five vacations in the last four years, but I’ve worked through every one of them.”

She pressed the mug to her temple, grateful her plans to unpack today were officially shot. “What do you need?”

“Hadley Foster.”

Her interest perked. “I met her yesterday. I went with Vaughan to make the death notice.”

“She’s missing, along with her daughter. The father is in surgery right now. He told the responding officer that he was stabbed by an unknown intruder.”

There should have been a universal law forbidding evil on such beautiful days, she thought. “I can be at the residence in a half hour.”