Page 30 of Her Last Vow

Novak's expression shifted slightly. "You don’t think Sloan might be behind it somehow, do you?"

"He's not on the original list, no. But he built the algorithm, and he’s got access that predates all of them." Rachel felt the shape of an idea forming, still loose, still unproven. "We just never looked at him that way because it seemed backwards. Why would the man whose company is bleeding from this be the one doing it?"

"Unless it's not bleeding," Novak said slowly. “Unless he’s a man who firmly believes that all press is good press.”

They didn't say much else about it as they packed up and finally started back toward the hotel—not that there would be any time to get any sleep. But Rachel pulled out her iPad once they were in the car, running Sloan's name through the Bureau's internal database while Novak drove. Nothing came back. No arrests, no complaints, no red flags of any kind.

She switched to a general online search instead, scrolling through what came up. She instantly found a profile from a medical journal a decade back, praising his early work on cardiac biomarkers. There was also a university press release about a research grant that had funded three years of his lab's work before he left academia entirely. She came across a short clip from a startup conference where he'd talked about founding Apogee after leaving traditional research behind, something about wanting to put predictive medicine directly into people's hands instead of locking it inside academic journals nobody outside the field would ever read. It had been heralded as inspirational and something of a breakthrough. There was a profile piece from a business magazine calling him one of the decade's most promising founders in health tech, a list of numerous awards, and a keynote address at a longevity conference two years ago. There was absolutely nothing that hinted at anything darker than an ambitious man who'd built something people paid for.

It was 6:05 when they pulled into the hotel parking lot. The sky had just started to lighten at the edges. Rachel turned toward Novak, ready to lay out what she'd found during her search, when her phone rang again.

Corbin's name filled the screen. Shit, she thought.

She answered on the second ring. "Please tell me this is good news. I think you owe me some by this point."

"It's not," Corbin said. "We've got a fourth."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Myers Park was already busy with the comings and goings of police by the time Rachel and Novak pulled into the lot along the western rim. But it wasn’t just the police presence that had the park busy. The scene had grown past what the local uniforms could contain before word got out. The morning was still cool, the sun low enough that it hadn't burned off the haze sitting over the grass, and the air carried the smell of cut lawn and someone's coffee from a nearby cart. It had apparently decided it was okay to open for business despite everything happening thirty yards away. Two patrol cars sat nose-to-tail across the entrance to the main trailhead, blue lights spinning without sirens. A stretch of yellow tape ran from a bike rack to a light pole to keep the gravel loop clear.

Beyond the tape, a growing cluster of joggers stood in place, some with earbuds still in, and their phones already out. A woman with a golden retriever on a leash kept craning her neck to see past an officer's shoulder while the dog strained at the end of the leash toward whatever was pulling everyone's attention. A man in cycling gear had one foot still clipped into his pedal, like he hadn't decided yet whether this was worth stopping for. Farther down, two women in matching workout gear stood with their phones raised, filming instead of watching, narrating something to whoever might be on the other end.

"Move it back, folks, come on," one of the uniforms was saying, arms spread wide like he was herding cattle instead of people. He wasn’t even trying to conceal the anger in his voice. "You’re all actively interfering with an active crime scene!”

But nobody moved it back. If anything, the crowd along the tape line had thickened since Rachel had gotten out of the car. Their phones were angled toward the tree line where a cluster of paramedics and officers stood over something on the grass just off the paved path. A second officer had abandoned the crowd altogether and was crouched by the bike rack, trying to keep a man with a stroller from walking his usual loop straight through the middle of the scene.

"Word travels fast," Novak said, nodding toward a woman in running shorts, holding her phone up at an angle clearly meant to catch something past the tape.

"It's a public park at seven in the morning," Rachel said. "It really can’t be helped."

They ducked under the tape and found Corbin near the tree line. His face had a tightness to it that hadn't been there at Diaz's garage. Rachel wondered if he was starting to feel the pressure of the case now that the public was getting an up-close seat.

"Rough morning," Rachel said.

"And getting rougher." Corbin gestured toward the grass. "Female jogger found off the main loop about forty minutes ago by another runner. Holly Greer. Paramedics worked her for a few minutes, but she was already gone by the time they got here."

Rachel followed him toward the body, the grass wet enough with dew that it darkened the toes of her shoes. Holly Greer lay on her side just off the paved trail, one leg still bent at the knee like she'd gone down mid-stride. Her running shoes were bright white against the green. She wore leggings and a fitted tank, an Apogee watch strapped to her left wrist.

Rachel crouched, careful not to disturb anything, and studied the readout on the watch. The face of the watch was white, not gold—not the triumphant lettering she'd seen twice now, burned into her memory from Pike's garage and Diaz's. What she did see, though, were small white numbers ticking against a soft blue background. Two days, eleven hours.

"She wasn't there yet," Rachel said.

"Come again?" Novak said.

"Her peak. She was close, but she hadn't hit it." Rachel looked up at Novak, who'd crouched beside her. "Every other victim died on the exact day of their peak—in the case of Pike and Diaz, within minutes. But this one's still got two days on the clock."

Novak made a hmmm sound as he studied the watch face himself. "That doesn't fit."

"No," Rachel agreed. "It doesn't. I think it even gives us a whole different approach.”

“Maybe the killer knows we’re getting close and doesn’t see the point in wasting time.”

“Maybe,” Rachel agreed.

She leaned in closer to the body, looking for what she already suspected she wouldn't find. Every other victim had carried a single clean puncture at the base of the skull or along the neck, precise and small. She checked Greer's neck first, the pale skin along her hairline, the collar of her tank top. She used her flashlight to look closer but found nothing.

It was Novak who found it, crouched at Greer's other side. "Rachel."