Alex headed straight for the staircase, but D.D. stopped him. She wanted another minute to get her bearings, form an initial impression of this house and the woman who’d lived here.

A modest foyer, she noted now, with a floral cushion–topped bench surrounded above and below with a clutter of shoes. She saw boots, clogs and several pairs of heels. Practical shoes, in neutral tones of brown and black with modest heels. All women’s, size eight.

From the foyer, the space opened up to a small sitting room, with a slightly threadbare, overstuffed sage green sofa and matching ottoman. A fleecy throw blanket was piled on one corner of the love seat, while a dog blanket covered the ottoman. Piles of clothes decorated what was probably the extra chair—the to-be-folded pile?—while the sofa faced a medium-size flat-screen TV.

From the family room, D.D. passed into a vintage-1970s kitchen, complete with aging gold linoleum and an ancient olive-green oven. In contrast to the well-used sitting room and foyer, this space was nearly sterile. One Keurig coffeemaker, one tiny microwave on the counter. A single plate, fork, knife and glass in the sink. Definitely the kind of kitchen used by people partial to takeout. D.D. knew because before she’d married Alex, her kitchen had appeared almost exactly like this.

She and Alex returned to the foyer. “I’m going to guess nurse,” she mused out loud. “Makes a decent living, enough to purchase the condo, but not enough to update the cabinets or splurge on Pottery Barn. Spends most of her job on her feet, hence the sensible shoes. Single, or just beginning a relationship. But if so, they go to his place, as this is her domain and she’s not ready to share it yet.”

Alex arched a brow. “Close. Regina Barnes. Forty-two years old, recently divorced occupational therapist who worked at a nearby senior-care facility. Don’t know about any new boyfriends, but no witnesses and no sign of forced entry.”

“Maybe she met someone recently. Or an online relationship. She let him in.”

Alex didn’t say anything. The tech geeks would mine the victim’s computer and other devices for records of online activities. Alex’s domain was the bloody paw prints and the intermittent pattern of smears leading up the stairs.

“No sign of forced entry at Christine Ryan’s house,” D.D. considered. “And her friends swore they would’ve known if there was a new guy, virtual or otherwise. Neighbors hear anything?”

“No.”

She reached over, knocked on the internal wall experimentally. Generally speaking, town houses in this kind of neighborhood weren’t known for their solid soundproofing. A life-or-death struggle, screaming, shouldn’t have gone completely unnoticed.

“Neighborhood cameras, home security system?”

“Nada.”

“Time of death?”

“Between midnight and two.”

“Maybe he ambushes his victims while they’re asleep. That’s why there’s no sign of a struggle.”