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All eyes were on her as she crossed the room and entered his office.

“Shut the door,” he ordered.

She did. He didn’t offer her a seat.

“I told you to go easy on Natalie Brown.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t tell her that her boyfriend is a rape suspect?”

Skye shook her head. “She drew her own conclusions. I just didn’t correct her.”

Garcia ran a hand down his face, swearing under his breath. “The governor’s office called the chief. You’re lucky you’re not being suspended. I fought to keep your badge. But you’re done with this case. I’m handing this off to Brian.”

“Lieutenant—”

“Save it. Take the rest of the week off. You need it. You show up before Saturday, and I’ll put you on desk duty myself. Understood?”

Skye swallowed the argument burning in her throat. “Yes, sir.”

She left and found Detective Brian Davis watching her from across the room, his expression grim. Fifteen years her senior, steady as they come, and one of the few people she fully trusted. That didn’t make this hurt any less. He motioned for her to meet him in the conference room. She went to her desk, grabbed the case files, and followed him into the room. She dropped the tall stack of documents on the table and shut the door harder than necessary.

Brian leaned back in his chair, his fingers playing with a sharp pencil. “Walk me through it. Why Calderon?”

Skye met his eyes. “The second victim, Christina Gage, told friends she was meeting her boyfriend when she left the club. Calderon left alone shortly after her. She never arrived at her boyfriend’s house. I ran backgrounds on all the men who left alone within an hour of the victim, based on security footage. Calderon popped. He’d been at the same conference as the first victim. No solid link between them, but it gave me the connection to interview him. He had me come to his office, and I asked routine questions. His answers were all what I expected, but his delivery . . . I don’t know, it just felt off. And his manner was odd, like he was suppressing a smile. Hiding the fact that he was gloating. He asked questions he shouldn’t have known to ask, but didn’t really give anything away.”

He tapped the paperwork. “You tried for a warrant?”

“For DNA. The first victim had a small sample under her fingernails where she scratched her attacker. She’s the only victim with any foreign DNA we were able to collect. I couldn’t get the warrant.”

“And then?”

“Leah was the fifth victim. She knew Calderon through her fiancé, who also worked at the capitol. I pushed her hard, maybe too hard. That’s when I got the first reprimand. Now she’s back home, wedding canceled, traumatized. His sixth, Gwen, tried to kill herself. And now Angela Banner is dead because I couldn’t prove what I know in my bones.”

Brian studied her. “Forensics found nothing except for that small DNA sample.”

She pulled out a thin red folder from the bottom of the stack. “This is the victim list and missing items. I’d start there. He takes trophies. A button cut from the first victim’s blouse. A gold watch from the second. Leah’s engagement ring.”

Brian reached over and covered her hand with his. “Go home. Let Mac take you somewhere loud and fun. Drink too much. Pretend this case doesn’t exist for one night.”

Skye tried to smile; Brian was only trying to help. But she couldn’t quite do it.

V.

Skye sat in her truck and fired off a quick text to her boyfriend, Mac Olson: Heading to the Goose. Meet me there when you get off work? He replied with a single thumbs-up emoji.

Skye had been intimately involved with Mac for over a year, but it still felt relatively new. Between their busy schedules—Mac worked in the Marion County Medical Examiner Office—they didn’t get much time alone. But he got her. They enjoyed what time they could carve out together. Mac was the only steady thing in her life right now.

She told herself she was going straight to her dad’s bar, the Blue Goose. Instead, she drove past the bar’s neon sign and continued to the capitol building. Ten minutes later she killed the engine outside the shadowed staff parking garage, the one with spots reserved for senior legislative aides and agency directors.

And predatory staff lawyers.

She didn’t let herself think. Not about the victims. Not about Natalie Brown’s firm belief that her boyfriend was a saint, complete with a golden halo. Not about the evidence she might have missed or missteps she’d made interviewing Calderon. She just stared at the steady pulse of traffic, the brake lights bleeding red across wet pavement, the umbrellas bobbing along the sidewalk as state and county workers began to leave buildings, flowing out of doorways like ants.

At 5:17 p.m., Trent’s dark Land Rover rolled down the ramp.

She dreamed of the vehicle in her nightmares. The small dent in the rear bumper, the shade of charcoal that reminded her of toxic exhaust, the way the tinted windows hid his features. She’d studied every frame of security footage they had accumulated, hunting for that same vehicle. If she could place his car anywhere near any of the crime scenes, she might be able to get a warrant for his DNA.