Heather shifted in her seat, blinking rapidly. They were on the sofa, having dragged the coffee table over to put the dishes on, and it was very tempting to slip into the doziness summoned by a stomach full of noodles, but Parker was mildly drunk and suddenly talkative.

“Was she … the same as Elizabeth Bunyon? And Fiona Graham?”

For a long moment Parker didn’t say anything, and she felt a pang of sympathy at the expression of sorrow that passed over his face. Eventually he nodded. “Their hearts missing. Mouths filled with flowers. Graham was found by a dog walker out before sun up. When we got there, the grass was still frosty, and it was like … like she was made of ice. Her blood all crisp on the grass.” He shook himself. “The new girl was a junkie called Abi. That’s terrible isn’t it, reducing her to that? But that’s what happens. Victims become a line of summary while we trip over ourselves trying to figure out who he is. Abi was cut here,” he slid his hand across his stomach, “severing her in half. And there was a hole in her chest, soil inside it, things buried. The photos are something else.”

Heather shivered, thinking of the terracotta pot on her mother’s doorstep. She wanted to ask if they had found anything heart-shaped near the body, but that would be coming too close to revealing her own thoughts.

“Christ. I’m sorry, Ben. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have to see that stuff, and just carry on with work. Did you find anything on Fiona yet? I mean, forensics stuff?”

She expected him to shut down at this; to realize that he was sharing too much. But instead he shrugged and sipped at his wine.

“Nothing useful yet. Whoever this bastard is, he’s careful not to leave anything of himself behind. But the other stuff—the flowers, the insects … Back when the original killings were happening forensic entomology wasn’t such a big deal. I’m hopeful something will come out of that, some clue as to where he’s based perhaps …” He trailed off, then said, blankly, “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

“Hey, better than keeping it all bottled up.” Heather leaned forward and began stacking the empty plastic dishes, and together they carried them into the kitchen and began dumping them in the bin.

“Even so,” he leaned with his back against the counter. He’d taken off his blazer and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, which had revealed a thin white scar on his forearm. “It’s the last thing you need.”

Heather shrugged. She was wondering what Ben would think if he knew why she had lost her job in the first place—or that she used to be a journalist. Her stomach turned over slowly—he wouldn’t be here, getting cozy with her on the sofa, that was for certain.

“What’s your gut feeling?” she said suddenly. “You’ve studied serial killers, you’ve spoken to Michael Reave before. You’ve had access to everything, all the files and photos. If you had to guess now, what would you tell me?”