“And the killer could be male,” Neil spoke up. “Just saying, we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves on this one.”

“The house was dark,” Phil said abruptly. Then he flushed, and that’s when D.D. understood what he meant. That house, the first crime scene, where she had plunged down the stairs. Phil had been one of the first detectives to find her. “When we got there,” he continued awkwardly now, “lights were out. Scene was quiet. We didn’t think anyone was there. Including you.”

He glanced at D.D. “Maybe the killer didn’t know you were there, either. He or she thought the scene was safe to revisit. Except, of course, it wasn’t.”

“I surprised the killer,” she whispered.

“Who retaliated by pushing you down the stairs,” Alex continued. “Who maybe even assumed you had plunged to your doom. Except no articles appeared in the paper about a dead detective found at the scene of a crime.”

D.D. frowned at him. “No articles appeared about an injured detective, either, right? The fact I’m incapacitated, indeed, must get well soon . . .”

They all paused, the implication sinking in.

D.D. said it first. “The killer found me. Has been watching. Only way he or she could know about my injuries.”

“No,” Alex said, voice suddenly firm.

“What do you mean—”

“It’s been six, seven weeks since your injury. Six, seven weeks where you’ve heard nothing. Till today. You tell me, what changed in the past twenty-four hours? Where have you been?”

And then she got it. “The second murder. A new crime scene—”

“Which you visited,” he goaded.

“Which I visited,” she agreed.

“The killer was there,” Phil supplied. “Still watching the scene, still checking things out. Another note for the file.” He turned to Neil. “Our guy, or gal, is a watcher. That could help us, definitely help us.”

Neil nodded, made a note. “But if the killer is a collector, why revisit the scenes? Isn’t that something normally done by sexual sadist predators to recapture the thrill of the moment?”

“It could still be a thrill crime,” D.D. said. “But it’s the harvesting that’s the thrill. The time postmortem, instead of the actual murder. But the same rules apply. The person wants to remember, recapture. That would be part of the whole value of the collection, the memories it evokes.”

Alex was staring hard at her. “You’re part of it now. The killer’s fantasy, need, compulsion. Maybe you surprised him or her the first time. And maybe the killer reacted with the impulsive decision to shove you down the stairs. But then you come back. You reappeared at the second crime scene, not even on the job, but still on the hunt. . . . That triggered something. Made it personal. You, D.D., made it personal.”