But Pollen doesn’t give McGowan the okay. Rather, she insists McGowan stay the course, to think inside the box, to stay vigilant and not be seduced by colorful loose ends. Pollen even goes so far as to give examples of past cases that should’ve been simple to solve, had law enforcement looked under their own noses.

Look under your nose, Pollen says. Not into the consciousness of a city.

After McGowan hangs up, this phrase sticks with her. Between the excitable inarticulation with which Chuck Larson mumbled his story and the obvious relief (and fear) on Janice Taylor’s face when she handed over the file box, it does feel something like Samhattan is one communal consciousness, and the story of Daphne…

Suppressed.

Despite not receiving approval, McGowan leans forward on the couch, removes her phone from her pocket, scrolls to the death-scene photos of Tammy Jones, sets the phone on the table, picks up a pencil, and writes on an envelope for a credit card she’s apparently qualified for:

What is a copycat killer if not a fan?

Look for fans.

Find a fan of Daphne’s.

Outside in the street, in their squad car, the cops look at their phones. They’ve been out there all day, and, now, all night. Kit wishes they made her feel safer, but in both unbelievable cases, the killer left no trace of forced entry or any evidence of any kind.

It feels like, if she blinks, she could get killed.

And she can’t stop thinking about Daphne.

Is Daphne going to kill me?

Nighttime makes thoughts like these inescapable.

She sits at the head of her bed, her back to the postered wall. Large, glossy pictures of WNBA stars frame her. There’s Sue Bird making a sweet pass. Diana Taurasi in her orange Phoenix Mercury jersey. Lisa Leslie, dunking for L.A. These women feel most protective of all. Kit wishes Elena Delle Donne and Brittney Griner were standing watch in the driveway instead.

These thoughts of basketball, coupled with those of Daphne, have Kit imagining the seven-foot woman in the post under the basket, wearing all denim. Kit has the ball and she’s afraid to throw it down to her, fearing the woman will catch it, swing her elbows, show Kit her face.

“Stop it,” Kit tells herself.

But there’s no stopping it now.

She’s heard of fear fatigue but has never really lived it. It’s exhausting, worrying like this. It plays tricks on the mind. Makes you angry for being scared. Then angry for being angry.

She opens her computer and googles Daphne Samhattan Michigan Obituary.

Because if she can’t stop herself from thinking about her, she may as well study.

Yet no results show. Unrelated Samhattan facts. Obituaries, yes, but nothing about Daphne. One Daphne does pop up: a Daphne Foster, who resided at 977 Muriel Way. She was eighty when she passed. And judging by the one photo, she was closer to five feet than seven.