She left without waiting for a reply, and as Bishop returned to his desk and sat down, he muttered, “Goddammit.”

“She’s right,” Miranda said. “At least about being the one who has to go.”

“Yeah. I know.”

We can’t protect her.

No. But if this is what I think it is… she’ll need help.

“Then,” Miranda said calmly, “we’ll make sure she has help. Whether she likes it or not.”

Thursday, June 12, 2:00 PM

“Chief, are you saying we don’t have a serial killer?” Alan Moore, reporter for the Hastings Chronicle, had plenty of practice in making his voice carry without shouting, and his question cut through the noise in the crowded room, silencing everyone else. More than thirty pairs of expectant eyes fixed on Rafe.

Who could cheerfully have strangled his boyhood chum. With no particular inflection in his voice, Rafe answered simply, “We don’t know what we have as yet, except for three murdered women. Which is why I’m asking you ladies and gentlemen of the press not to add unnecessarily to the natural anxiety of our citizens.”

“In this situation, don’t you think they should be anxious?” Alan glanced around to make certain all attention was on him, then added, “Hey, I’m blond, and even I’m nervous. If I were a twenty-something blond woman, I’d be totally freaked out.”

“If you were a twenty-something blond woman we’d all be freaked out,” Rafe said dryly. He waited for the laughter to subside, fully aware of the fact that it was as much nervous as amused. He was good at taking the pulse of his town, but it didn’t take any particular skill to feel the tension in this room. In the town.

Everybody was scared.

“Look,” he said, “I know very well that the women here in Hastings are worried-whether they’re blond, brunette, redhead, or any shade in between-and I don’t blame them a bit. I know the men in their lives are worried. But I also know that uncontrolled speculation in the newspaper and on the radio and other media will only feed the panic.”