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  He hands me the bottle. I take delicious, greedy sips. I wipe away my bangs, stuck to my sweaty forehead, and breathe out. “Thank you.”

  “You can’t do this to yourself,” he says. “I know how much your work means to you, but if you don’t take care of yourself, you won’t be any good at it.”

  “I know, but—”

  “There’s no but, Em. What are you going to say? That you’re so close now? That you have to stop him before he kills again?”

  That, actually, is exactly what I was going to say. This man knows me.

  “You have to go back to therapy,” he says. “And take the medicine she prescribed.”

  “The meds make me drowsy. The therapist hasn’t helped.”

  “You have to find a tiny bit of room in your life for yourself. That’s all I’m saying. I’m not going to lecture you. I know…I know you don’t want to hear it.” He breathes out, the exasperated sigh of someone who knows he’s repeating himself, who knows that his words will go unheeded.

  I put out my hand, and he takes it, closes his other hand over it.

  “The best thing you can do for yourself,” I tell him, “is turn and run as far away from me as possible.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He chuckles.

  He does know it, of course. I’m poison for him. I can’t give him what he wants. I can give him nothing but heartache. And yet here he is again—here for me. Here when I need him. Actually…

  I look at him. “Why are you here?”

  “I knew you’d be up. I just got done with work and drove over. I called, but you didn’t answer. Your lights were on, so I called again. You didn’t answer again.”

  “Ah. So you used your key.”

  “Yeah. I knocked on your door, though. I was a good boy. I know the boundaries. I know I can’t just waltz in anymore.”

  I watch him, see the pain in his expression, but I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. I know what I’d like to say—You can still waltz in. Anytime. But the best thing I can do for Harrison Bookman is not let him know how much he means to me, how much I want to wrap my arms around his waist and feel his breath on my neck and hold him so close that our hearts beat together. The greatest gift I can give him is to let him go.

  “So tell me about your case,” he says, changing the subject. I tell him. I tell him everything about Darwin—the serial murders around the country, the bombing in Chicago, the wheelchair. As reluctant as I was to share it with Elizabeth Ashland, it’s the opposite with Books; it comes gushing out in vivid color.

  “A wheelchair,” he says, pursing his lips. “The perfect cover. He’d be immediately discounted as a suspect because of that disability. Drink more water.”

  I finish the bottle. I’m feeling better, much better, and not because of the water.

  “You’re not safe,” Books says. “He’s hacked your computers.”

  “My computers at home,” I say. “I’m not using them for any meaningful research anymore. I don’t want to stop using them altogether in case that makes him suspicious, but anything of any value, I’m doing on the office computer now.”

  “But you did type in that message about him killing the homeless man in Chicago. You knew he’d read it. You were letting him know that you’re onto him.”

  “So he’d stop. Or at least suspend operations. I wanted to scare him before he blew up something else.”

  “I’m sure it worked, Em. But what’s a scared killer going to do? He’s going to go after the one person who figured him out.”

  I start to protest, but Books raises a hand.

  “You know it and I know it. You’ve made yourself a target.” He shakes his head. “I’m staying here with you until it’s over. Or you come to my house.”

  “Books, that’s not a good—”

  “It’s not about that,” he says. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “I slide that couch against the door every night, as I’m sure you noticed,” I say.

  “Fine, then I’ll sleep against the door.” Before I can respond, he says, “I’ll park my car outside your building and stay in it all night, every night, if you say no. Would you rather have me sitting in a car or sleeping on your couch? Because those are your only two choices.”

  I drop my head into my hands. I’m tired—exhausted, actually, utterly depleted. It’s nearly two a.m., and my team and I agreed to meet early in the morning back at work. I can’t deny the relief I’d feel having Books here with me.

  I look at him. He has that no-give expression, his eyebrows up, mouth tight. I couldn’t win this argument even if I wanted to.

  “You never told me why you came over,” I say. “What kept you working until midnight?”

  He seems satisfied that he’s getting his way. He relaxes, then gives me a wry smile that I haven’t seen since he left the Bureau and opened up the bookstore.

  “I was following Elizabeth Ashland,” he says.

  79

  “SERIOUSLY?” I ask. “You think Elizabeth Ashland’s working with Citizen David?”

  He keeps that agent’s noncommittal expression, but his smirk gives him away. “For about a year, Elizabeth hasn’t taken a single dollar out of an ATM or even directly from her bank. That’s hard to do. Even in today’s world.”

  “Maybe she’s just one of those people who likes the convenience of credit and debit cards.”

  “But she isn’t one of those people. She hasn’t used a credit or debit card to pay for clothes or shoes or groceries or dry-cleaning or—I don’t know, take your pick. Taxis, makeup, shampoo, perfume, nail polish.”

  “She has great clothes.”

  “Right, I know. She hasn’t bought anything like that with a credit or debit card for nearly a year. Her mortgage is on autopay. So is her car. Her insurance. Her cellular carrier. And her club membership. Those I can track by looking at her accounts. Otherwise,” he says with a shrug, “you’d think Elizabeth Ashland never bought so much as a frozen pizza or a tube of toothpaste, much less designer clothes and shoes.”

  “You think someone’s giving her money.”

  “I know someone’s giving her money.”

  “You think it’s Citizen David.”

  “Here, let me show you something.” He reaches down to the gym bag at his feet and takes out his camera, a fancy job with a zoom lens and plenty of bells and whistles. He pulls up previous photos and clicks through them. “See that?”

  I move in, getting too close to him for comfort, having to stop myself from putting my head against his shoulder as I’ve done thousands of times. Feeling the heat radiate off him. Feeling drawn to him like a magnet.

  The photo he’s showing me is a close-up of a cell phone and a manicured, polished fingernail that belongs to Elizabeth Ashland.

  “That’s a burner phone,” says Books. “It’s a prepaid job. She didn’t buy it with a credit or debit card. It’s not her personal cell phone, and it’s not a Bureau phone. It’s her third phone, Emmy. And it’s untraceable.”

  I think it over. “Shaindy Eckstein’s communicating with her source through a burner phone. But lots of people use them nowadays, not just drug dealers and mobsters.”

  “That’s true. People who want to experiment with a service plan before committing to one. Or people who want to rein in their teenagers’ phone usage. Sure. But not single people with money who already have their own personal cell phones. Why does Elizabeth Ashland need a second personal phone?”

  “And why pick a cheap, untraceable one?” I add.

  “Exactly.”

  Wow.

  “I followed Elizabeth tonight to the Payton Club,” he says.

  “That club over on Third Street Northwest? Fancy,” I say. “Exclusive.”

  “You can’t even get through the door of that place unless you’re a member or a member’s guest. She’s been a member for about a year. You know who else belongs?”

  I shrug.

  “A certain reporter for the Washington Pos
t.”

  “Shaindy Eckstein belongs to that club too?”

  Books smiles the smile of someone who loves working on the puzzle—and loves even more when he fits in a big piece. “Can you think of a better place for them to meet than a private club?”

  “She contacts Shaindy with a burner phone,” I say. “And if necessary, she meets her in person at the Payton Club.”

  “Right. I’ve been there as a guest. It’s a big place. They have all kinds of rooms. Or, who knows, maybe she drops a handwritten note in Shaindy’s locker in the women’s locker room,” he says. “So Shaindy wouldn’t even have to be there at the same time as Elizabeth. They’d never be seen together. It would be so easy.”

  It would. He’s right. I see the animation in his eyes, the thrill of a breakthrough.

  “How does David get the money to her?” I ask. “Not through wire transfers.”

  “No, no, of course not. She’s a financial-crimes whiz. She knows that would be easy to trace. No, my guess is he paid her in cash up front. Or he’s meeting with her and handing her cash.”

  I put my hand on my forehead. “Elizabeth Ashland,” I mumble. “And I just told her everything.”

  Books looks at me. “You told her all about Darwin?”

  “Yep.”

  “You told her you suspect him, not Citizen David, in the Chicago bombing?”

  “I sure did.”

  Books falls back against the cushion. “Then she needs to get word to David that he’s in the clear. We’ll be reading about it soon in the Washington Post.”

  80

  AN HOUR and a half, a precious ninety minutes, is all the sleep I get before my phone blares out the sound of harp strings. I leave behind the whispers of a dream, not about serial killers or fires or tragedy, but about a strong, gentle, decent, handsome man who always seems to find me, who always makes things right, who makes my heart pound like a drum, who makes me melt when he touches me.

  When I crawl out of bed and walk down the hallway, I find him still sleeping, curled up on the couch in his polo shirt and khakis, lightly snoring, oblivious to the stripes of sunlight peeping through the blinds. I feel everything else drain away. I want nothing more than to curl up with him, to give myself to him and let everything else go…

  I could. I could walk away from all of this and be with him.

  So what are you waiting for?

  But I know the answer. I’m waiting until I catch Darwin. And there’ll be another one after him.

  Later, dressed and showered, I crouch down next to Books, still in peaceful slumber. “Hey, sleepyhead,” I whisper. His eyes pop open, then he blinks himself awake and sits up, moaning. “I made coffee,” I tell him.

  “Morning.” He rubs his eyes. He didn’t get much more sleep than I did, plus he was sleeping on the couch.

  I search my refrigerator and freezer. Frozen veggies and some hummus, eggs that should probably be thrown out. “I know I have bread and peanut butter,” I say.

  “Hey.”

  I turn to him. He’s holding up his phone, his reading glasses perched on his nose.

  “The Washington Post,” he says. “Shaindy Eckstein has the headline. ‘Citizen David Not a Suspect in Chicago Bombing.’” He looks at me over his glasses. “That didn’t take long.”

  “Does it give up Darwin?” I ask, rushing over to him. “Please tell me—”

  “No, doesn’t look like it,” he says, scrolling through the article. “‘Sources close to the investigation say that the bombing was the work of a copycat.’ The rest is just filler from old stories about the bombing.”

  “Okay. Nothing about a wheelchair or—”

  “Nothing like that at all. Here.”

  I sit down next to him and read Shaindy Eckstein’s article. He’s right. The only news is that Citizen David has been ruled out as a suspect.

  “Our Elizabeth works fast,” says Books. “It must have happened last night, when I followed her.”

  “But we don’t know that,” I say. “She briefed the entire task force about Darwin yesterday. It could have been any of them.”

  “Of course she briefed the entire task force,” he says. “She made sure everyone within the Bureau knew first, then she leaked. So the suspicion wouldn’t automatically fall on her. So someone like you or I would say, ‘It could have been any of them.’”

  He’s right. Books is in command here, back in his old role as the straitlaced guy who wouldn’t dream of breaking the law himself but who, when on the job, resides comfortably inside the minds of the criminals he chases.

  He’ll have his hands full trying to catch Elizabeth, though. Proving she’s the leak. She’s no dummy either. But I have someone different to catch. “I have to go,” I say.

  He turns to me, only inches away, and loses his smirk. A moment passes in which I’m certain his face inches ever closer to mine…and mine to his…

  “So, anyway.” I clap my hands on my knees and rise from the couch.

  “Yeah, right,” he says, like he’s agreeing with the decision I just made, or at least resigned to it.

  When I reach the door, he says, “I’ll be back tonight. Let me know when you’re getting home from work. I’ll be here. Don’t thank me.”

  Which is what I was about to do. He gets inside my head just like he gets in the heads of those criminals.

  “If you find him today,” he says, “let me know. I’m going to be there when we catch him.”

  “You’re a bookseller,” I remind him, “on a special, deputized assignment to identify a leak in the Bureau.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “You’re not my protector, Books,” I say, though I can hardly say it with a straight face, given that he’s playing precisely that role at the moment.

  “You need someone you can trust,” he says. “And it’s not Elizabeth Ashland.”

  81

  BOOKS MAKES it back to his town house, the feeling of emptiness already blossoming, but it’s tempered by the knowledge that he’ll see Emmy again tonight. He’s staying with her temporarily for all the right reasons—she truly is at risk, both at home from Darwin and at work from a diabolical superior—even if plenty of wrong reasons have slipped in there too.

  He sends text messages to the two people who worked part-time at his bookstore until recently, when things started getting so tight that he couldn’t afford to pay for additional help. It’s still too early to call, so the text messages will suffice. Something came up, wondering if you can cover the store the next few days, he cuts and pastes into his texts. For good measure, he also reaches out to the woman who sold him the store a few years ago. She still lives in Virginia in the summer and stops in occasionally, and she’s offered to lend a hand.

  Petty could help too—he’s probably the best salesman Books has ever had in the store—but he doesn’t yet trust the homeless man with the cash register, with the money. And he has no way of reaching him.

  He showers and towels off, and he’s formulating his plan for the day when his cell phone buzzes. He’s hoping it’s one of the people he texted offering to cover him for the rest of the week at the store. But it’s not.

  “Did you see it?” Elizabeth Ashland says to him when he answers. Good morning to you too, Elizabeth.

  “I saw it.”

  “The FBI no longer suspects Citizen David in the Chicago bombing. What the fuck?”

  The cussing seems out of character for Elizabeth. Is she really pissed off, or is she overcompensating?

  “I was just beginning to like her.”

  “Who?”

  “Emmy,” she snaps. “Your girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. Whatever.”

  Whatever is probably the best description. “I’m on it,” he says.

  “Are you? Director Moriarty says this is in your hands. You’re still up for this, Books? You’re not getting cold feet about nailing your ex?”

  “I’m on it,” he says, and that’s all he’ll say.

  “I’ll
stay close to her. We’re working on an angle for the Chicago bombing right now that might be promising. I’ll keep an eye on her and see if there’s anything to report.”

  Books sees his opening. “Elizabeth,” he says, “let me in on that angle. Let me in on the Chicago bombing.”

  “Now, why would I do something like that?”

  “You want me close to Emmy, right? The best way to do that is track her at work. That’s where she is all the time anyway.”

  “You’re assigned to the leak investigation.”

  “That’s what I’ll be doing.”

  “It won’t seem a tad suspicious to Emmy if all of a sudden her ex-fiancé shows up to work on her case?”

  “I’ll say the director brought me in. That he wanted a fresh look from an ex-agent he trusts.”

  A pause while she lets that thought marinate. “Well, the director does seem to have a soft spot for you,” she concedes, though her tone implies she doesn’t understand why.

  “You want me to find the leaker,” he says, “let me in on Chicago.”

  More dead air, then a suspicious hum from her end of the line. “What happened to your bookstore? I thought you had a day job.”

  “Don’t worry about the bookstore.”

  Finally, an exasperated sigh. “Bookman, you’re not working both sides of this, are you? You’re not here to protect Emmy, you know. You’re here to catch the leaker.”

  “I know my role,” he says. “If Emmy is the leaker, I’m going to put the handcuffs on her myself, remember?”

  “If you’re screwing around on this,” she says, “I’ll put the handcuffs on you. Understand? Director’s favorite or not, I’ll lock you up.”

  Books feels a smile on his face. Her threats aside, he got what he wanted. He’s in.

  “We understand each other,” he says.

  82

  I MAKE it to the office by 6:15 a.m. Pully, looking worse than he did last night, walks in at the same time. Rabbit has beaten us there. She doesn’t look any better than Pully.

  “What happened to you?” she asks me.