However, when she opened the first box of items from Miranda’s dorm, she found copies of all six of his novels that had been released prior to her disappearance. All hardback. All first editions.

She paged through them.

Dog-eared pages, underlining. Highlighting. This girl was really into his writing.

And all six books were signed but, interestingly enough, not with the same pen. Timothy had personalized them and written different inscriptions. So, it certainly looked like she’d run into him numerous times rather than bringing all of her books to that one final signing.

Interesting.

Julianne made a note to look at Timothy’s website to see where else he’d lectured or held book signings over the last eighteen months.

It would probably have been asking too much to find a day planner or diary, and Julianne found neither. If Miranda had kept them, they would have been collected by the police and put into evidence, which, despite her NYPD contact, she did not have access to.

The final boxes contained an assortment of clothes and books but nothing of note.

Julianne carried the edition of Cold Clay, the volume that Timothy had been signing on the night Miranda disappeared, with her downstairs.

“Do you mind if I hold on to this?” she asked Mrs. Walsh. “I’d like to look into a few things. I can get it back to you later if you’d like.”

“No, no. Please. Feel free to keep it if it’ll help you in any way.”

“It might.” Julianne pointed to the two ceramic angels that Mrs. Walsh had on an end table near the sofa. “Don’t give up hope, Mrs. Walsh. Don’t ever give up hope. If you’re a religious person, keep praying. You never know what’ll turn up, and at the station, we can use all the help we can get.”

“I believe in angels, Detective. And I don’t believe my Miranda is one of them yet.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, neither do I.”

The woman began to tear up, and Julianne took her in her arms to comfort her. “It’ll be alright, ma’am. You just need to have faith that things will work out the way they’re supposed to.”

25

“Why do serial killers always listen to classical music?” Tessa asked as we were finishing our lunch. “I mean, the slimeball ones don’t—it’s grunge or something. But the ones who’re supposed to really creep us out are always into Mozart, and they sort of stand there entranced with their eyes closed, directing the music with their finger.”

“I think that’s just in the movies.”

“So, what do serial killers in real life listen to?”

“It varies.” I left our bill along with some cash and a tip on the table, and we rose to leave. “Just like with everyone, I suppose. It’s really hard to make generalizations about serial killers.”