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He laid the page onto her desk and stepped aside so that she and Noah could read it. The page number said five but the chapter heading said one. Noah read the first line out loud. “Welcome to your pursuit. If you’re reading this, that means you’re ready to perfect your quest for love. We’re happy to guide you, whether you’re single and looking for a partner or you’ve been married for years and are searching to reignite the spark in your relationship.”
“Stop,” Josie groaned.
“I’m just getting to the good part,” Noah complained. “What if we need to reignite the spark in our relationship?”
She rolled her eyes. “I know you’re not implying that our spark is gone. Besides, I’m not interested in anything this book says unless it helps us solve Claudia Collins’s murder.”
Hummel said, “I got three prints from this page but again, no hits in AFIS.”
“How many of these books do you think are in print?” Josie asked.
“I checked,” said Hummel. “Over two million copies.”
Noah said, “Let’s focus on what the killer is trying to tell us with this.”
“Not us,” said Josie. “Beau Collins. This is directed at him. I’m sure of it.”
Noah leaned in closer to the page. “These are the rules for your ‘pursuit.’ Communicate clearly and openly. Be honest. Be respectful. Trust your partner. Be supportive. Prioritize your partner.”
Hummel said, “Doesn’t sound like the killer is playing by those rules.”
“He’s not,” Josie agreed. “Why would he leave this page? Is he trying to set guidelines of some kind? For what?”
“It’s a game to him,” Noah said. “Or some sort of pursuit. Just like you told Beau Collins.”
Josie said, “Right, and if that’s the case, he’s not finished.”
“Exactly,” Noah said. “Using things from the book, the show? He’s clearly taunting Beau Collins. If this box contains the ‘rules’ then that implies there will be more contact.”
“More murders,” Josie corrected, the unease she’d been feeling since walking into the Collinses’ home overwhelming now. “Let’s put a unit on Beau Collins. This killer is just getting started.”
FOURTEEN
Josie woke at seven the next morning to find her bed empty. Both Noah and their Boston terrier, Trout, were gone. There was only one reason Trout would leave both Josie and blankets. Sure enough, as she made her way to the bathroom, the smell of maple sausage wafted upstairs. At the top of the steps, she called down, “Don’t give him any table food!”
Noah called back, “I’m not.”
But Josie knew at least one morsel, maybe two, would “accidentally” fall onto the floor near Noah’s seat.
Twenty minutes later, she was showered, dressed, and in the kitchen, watching Trout ignore her to sniff and lick every square inch of tile floor around Noah’s chair. Noah was too engrossed watching something on his phone to notice. With a sigh, Josie walked to the counter, poured herself a cup of coffee, and took in the full extent of the damage. Three pans had been deposited into the sink. Two of their handles poked upright, crossing in the shape of an X, warning her not to get any closer. On the stove was another pan, its surface an abstract painting made with pancake batter. A pile of failed flapjacks sat on a paper plate on the countertop, leaning like a tower about to topple. Remnants of powder, broken eggshells, milk, and some sort of greasy substance covered nearly every inch of both stove and countertop.
She hated herself for it, but her thoughts went directly to Luke. She never thought of him anymore but yesterday, he’d been thrust back into her life. Looking at the disaster on her countertop and stove, she remembered what an excellent cook he was and how he could make a meal out of nothing and anything. How he’d made her breakfast in bed countless times. Plus, he had always been the neatest and most orderly person she’d ever met.
Noah broke through her thoughts. “I’ll clean it up.”
Pushing memories of her ex-fiancé out of her mind, Josie poked the stack of pancakes. They were cold and gooey. “What’s the score this time?”
He sighed. “Pancakes, thirteen. Noah, nil.” He pointed to a plate across from him piled high with scrambled eggs and two pieces of sausage. “You’re having eggs.”
She left the mess and sat at the table. “My high score is also zero, so we’re still even.”
In a culinary sense, they were a match made in hell. Josie could not cook at all, and Noah was only passable. Harris had stayed over a few weeks earlier. In the morning, he’d asked for pancakes. Josie had wanted to go to the Pancake Palace. Noah thought they could make pancakes at home from a box.
He was wrong.
After burning seven pancakes and setting off the smoke alarm, they had, in fact, eaten at the Pancake Palace, but Harris would not let them live down the pancake debacle. Since that day, they’d both tried perfecting the simple art of making a pancake. So far, they were failing miserably.
Josie sat down in front of the meal Noah had prepared for her and checked her phone before digging in. The only news was the results of Dr. Feist’s autopsy, which confirmed what they had already surmised: Claudia Collins had died from a blow to the head. Dr. Feist was not able to determine what might have caused it. There were no signs of sexual assault. Manner of death was homicide. Dr. Feist had found DNA on her clothes which she’d swabbed and sent to the state police lab for analysis and comparison against all profiles in CODIS, the Combined DNA Index System. CODIS was a searchable database maintained by the FBI which collected DNA profiles from convicted criminals, people who had been arrested, and missing persons. The only issue was that the analysis itself could take weeks or months. It didn’t help them now and it might not help them even when the results came in—unless it matched an existing profile. Josie doubted that would happen. They had already had no luck with AFIS. Their only hope once the results came in then would be matching them to a suspect, which they did not have. Yet.
