Stepping into the shadowed foyer, D.D. was struck first by the smell. Which set off another bout of déjà vu. She could picture herself entering Christine Ryan’s apartment, inhaling this same pungent scent, and knowing, before ever laying eyes on the body, that this would be a bad one. Then, that first, shuddering moment when she realized she was staring down at the remains of a young woman, skin peeled in long, curling ribbons and mounded next to her body.

Alex was studying her. Not the floor, the walls or the rising staircase, all valid elements for a criminalist’s analysis. He stared at her, and that, as much as anything, forced her to pull it together.

She took a deep breath, through her mouth this time, and got her game face on.

Alex pointed to a bin next to the wall. It contained shoe booties and hairnets for all attending investigators, an extra precaution generally taken when a crime scene was deemed especially involved, or the evidence particularly vulnerable.

Different protocol from the first murder victim, then. That scene had been horrific but mostly contained to the victim’s blood-soaked mattress. This one . . .

D.D. pulled the blue booties over her low-heeled boots. The booties were large and elastic, not too hard to manage with one hand. The hair covering proved more challenging. She couldn’t figure out how to pull it into place, while simultaneously gathering up her wayward curls. Alex had to help, his fingers skimming along her hairline, corralling her blond ringlets and tucking them in. She held still, letting him work his magic, as his breath whispered across her cheek. Outside of him assisting her in the shower, it was the most they’d touched each other in weeks.

“Look,” Alex murmured, and pointed to the wall adjacent to the staircase.

She followed his finger and immediately spotted it, just above the lowest riser, a dark smudge against the lighter paint. The first smear of blood.

“And again.” He indicated a spot on the floor now, six inches from her left foot. In the dimming light, it was hard to see, but this mark was larger, more distinct.

D.D. dropped down for closer examination, while Alex snapped on his high-intensity light. He illuminated the mark, and D.D. couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped.

“Paw print.”

“Victim owned a small dog named Lily. A fluffy small dog, by the look of the stair riser.”

Upon closer inspection, D.D. saw what he meant. The bloodstain there had formed a distinct smear pattern, featuring dozens of thin red lines, such as what happened when blood-soaked hair brushed along a floor or slid down a wall.

“Straight hair, not curly,” D.D. murmured. “But yes, Lily is one fluffy dog.”

The reason behind the booties, D.D. realized now. Because the dog, however innocently, had already contaminated the scene, and the detectives couldn’t afford any more distractions.