Angus launched himself into motion, grabbing his phone and dialing quickly.

“Tate Bianchi,” Tate answered.

“It’s Angus. I’m sending you an email I just received with a picture of a new victim. She’s the woman who hit me in the head trying to save the guy who shot my lawyer. The shovel is right next to her.” He leaned over and typed quickly, forwarding the email. “I know this looks bad for me, but you have to find her. She’s in the forest somewhere. Also, there’s a letter from Lassiter—it’s coming with the picture, and there’s no quotation at the end. I don’t know what that means.”

Tate’s voice became muffled, no doubt because his phone was resting on his neck. “Just a second.” He waited and then swore. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know. Get it to a tech or a lab or something and find her.” Angus next forwarded the email to Brigid, asking her to try to trace the IP address. “This is the first time Lassiter has reached out via email, so we might be able to trace him. He’s off his game and he’s getting desperate. This might be a chance, Tate. Don’t screw it up.”

Typing came over the line. “I’ve sent it on. For now, you know I have to bring you in. This looks bad, but my gut is on your side. Come in and talk to me about this.”

Angus swallowed. “Find me and I’ll come in.” He clicked off and then destroyed the burner phone. If he was in interrogation all day, he wouldn’t be ready to go the second Brigid traced the IP address.

His email dinged again.

Dearest Angus,

I hit Send too quickly. Doesn’t that happen to everybody? Anyway, I wanted to say how much I’ve enjoyed being back in your life again. I have no doubt you’ve missed me as much as I you. For now, I’m going to leave you another present. In a time of life and of love, only maternal energy prolongs the journey.

Yours,
Henry

“Jethro?” Angus bellowed. “Get out here.”

Jethro loped out, freshly showered and dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt with his backpack over one arm. “What are you yelling about?”

Angus rattled off the last line. “Do you recognize it?”

Jethro paused and reached for a bottle of water to put in his pack. “Yes. It’s a phrase from a short story written by Frederick Litmuslion about fifty years ago. He lost his mother at a young age and it affected the rest of his life, to the point that he murdered four women who were nothing but kind to him.”

Angus stilled. “What do you mean?”

Jethro shrugged. “They were motherly figures, powerful women who were in charge, and he slaughtered them mercilessly. Why?”