Does the name ring a bell?

And Jan thinks, in the one second before the Blazer is crushed against the wall, and her along with it:

Yeah, but we all agreed never to speak it. Without actually making a pact, silently and as a city, we all agreed never to say Daphne again.

McGowan never got the address from Chief Pollen. But these things are easy to find these days. A brief (but frenzied) search online showed her where the young man Zach Gold lives, the man Peter Lords specifically cited as being a fan of Daphne’s.

Why did Lords say his name? Is he the killer? What did McGowan see in Lords’s eyes?

It’s difficult to say, now, as she pulls to the concrete curb, Gold’s address painted on the concrete, 373, the black and white chipped, the flakes long ago swallowed by the storm drain beneath it. There were many things going on in the eyes of Peter Lords, a man crazy enough to break into a house that was under police surveillance, crazy enough to hide under the bed of a young woman whose friends are being killed, insane enough to claim front-row seats for what he believed to be a murdering ghost. But, while Lords is insane, he’s all McGowan has right now. And while she believes Pollen is already starting the paperwork to remove her badge, she’s not going to ignore the only lead she has. There’s a word for what she’s doing, where she’s gone, what she’s become. She’s heard it used in relation to herself before:

Rogue.

Carla McGowan does not have a warrant to search Zach Gold’s house. In fact, she didn’t even request one. She saw the sun come up as she drove here, believing her phone, her gun, and an address to be all she required to continue this case. Young women are being killed, nightly. McGowan needs to put a stop to this. As simple as that sounds, she won’t let herself think any bigger.

She puts the car in park and catches a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. She looks like hell. Older. Crazier. She understands that whether or not she solves this case, this will be her last in Samhattan. In fact, she may be charged for what she’s done and what she’s about to do.

She gets out of the car. The sun’s just come up and it’s hot and her head hurts like she’s hungover. Her jacket feels heavy, her boots feel heavy, even the gun in her left pocket drags down toward the street.

Rogue.

She feels it. The disconnect from the police force. A sense of living under the radar, above the law. That’s fine. Because it has to be. And don’t people like Barbara Pollen know the law is man-made? And that the police and its detective are here to protect and to serve? And if citizens are being killed, crushed…what is law if not ending this?