Henry knew it was hysteria. Gretchen didn’t have a victim profile. She’d claimed to have killed two hundred people. They’d convicted her of killing twenty-six, adding another twenty to the list once she was in jail. Men, women, black, white, it didn’t matter. Gretchen was an equal-opportunity serial killer. But she was also a megalomaniac, and she always left a signature.

Claire wandered away. Henry was already thinking about getting home. Co-ed Confidential was on Cinemax at eleven and Claire had said she’d watch it with him. He cleared his throat. “Some kids probably bought an organ at a butcher shop,” he said. “Thought they’d scare the crap out of someone.”

“Maybe,” the ME said. “Can’t tell until I get it back to the lab. But the size looks right to be human.”

The state cop gripped his hat a little tighter. “We figured we should call you guys,” he said.

Gretchen had removed some of her victims’ spleens. Both pre-and postmortem. But she left bodies in her wake, not organs. “It’s not Gretchen Lowell,” Henry said. It wasn’t right. No body. No signature. “It’s not her style.”

“Henry,” Claire said. “Look at this.”

Henry turned toward Claire. She was facing the opposite wall, past the stalls. There was seepage where the toilet had flooded onto the concrete floor and Henry had to navigate around it, his attention shifting between his new black cowboy boots and the reflection of his large frame in the puddle. When he got to Claire, he looked up.

The graffiti was recent. Other penciled and scratched musings had been marked over by the thick, neat red lines. The same shape, rendered over and over again. The hairs on the back of Henry’s neck stood up, his shoulders tightened. “Fuck,” he said.

“We need to tell Archie,” Claire said softly.

“Archie Sheridan?” the state cop asked. He stepped forward, his black boots slapping through the puddle.

Archie had run the task force that had hunted Gretchen. It had made him the most famous cop in the state. For better or worse.

“I heard he was getting inpatient treatment,” the ME said from the sink.

Inpatient treatment, Henry thought. That was a nice euphemism for it. “Officially he’s a citizen until he gets his psych clearance,” Henry said.

“You have to call him,” Claire said again.

Henry looked back up at the wall. Hundreds of tiny hearts, executed perfectly with what looked to be a red Sharpie. They covered everything, obliterated everything. The heart was Gretchen’s signature. She carved it on all of her victims. She’d carved it on Archie.

And now she was back.

C H A P T E R 3