Would she be able to forgive these people? To move past it? He wasn’t good at letting go of grudges, but Darby was a better person than he was.

He handed out his business card to each student. He needed to talk to the pastor before the guy disappeared on him again. “Head straight down to the precinct now. Tell whoever is on the desk that SSA Winters asked you to come in and make a statement and then be vigilant.” Who knew where this killer might strike next? He hadn’t even seen the victim profiles yet. Had no idea if the UNSUB had a specific type or not. “Watch each other’s backs until this is all over and don’t go anywhere alone.”

Their features turned even more somber. Eban left before they could ask more questions—scientists liked asking questions, he’d discovered. These four weren’t high on his suspect list as they’d all been at the Geophysical Institute for over a year and had known Darby prior to her abduction. They weren’t in the clear though. No one was. Except him, and Darby.

He searched for the pastor but couldn’t see him. Dammit. He needed to get back to Darby, but he wanted to talk to the pastor while he had the opportunity.

He spotted a small group hurrying around the side of the church. The pastor and someone carrying the easel and another person clutching Adele’s photograph like they wished it was the real thing.

Eban nodded to Allan Robertson and jogged after the small group.

He caught up with them at the door to the annex. “Pastor Regis, can I have a word, please? FBI Supervisory Special Agent Winters. I’ve left several messages for you today.”

The man met his gaze and then opened the door and stepped inside. Eban followed, relieved to get out of the brutal cold. The relief was short-lived.

The two women gasped at the sight of all the blood. The pastor’s cheeks turned gray. “I was told by the police that the scene had been cleaned.”

The one woman clutching the portrait walked to the corner of the room and stood with her head down, sobbing.

“I suspect they said ‘cleared.’ Police officers do not clean crime scenes.” Eban glanced toward the grief-stricken woman.

The other woman had gone over to comfort her and was whispering in her ear.

Eban stared at the bloodstains on the floor, noticed the various tread patterns all mixed up. He pursed his lips. He needed to look at the evidence and see if these boots matched those from the forest outside Martin Carstairs’s house. He resisted taking a photograph. Barely.

The women shuffled back toward them, one carrying the portrait.

“I’m taking Carman back to Adele’s place.”

“But I need your help here,” the pastor protested.

The young woman who was probably around twenty glared at the man and Eban was pretty sure, judging from their interaction, that this was the pastor’s daughter.

She let the other woman continue to the door as she leaned in to whisper to her father. “You can’t expect Carman to clean up her own mother’s blood.”