“My name is Sara.”

“Massimo.”

“I was hoping you’d come back. I’d like to make amends,” she said, and took from his hands the book he’d been leafing through. “This one’s not for you.”

“It’s not?”

“No.”

He watched her examining the shelves. She seemed to know what she was looking for, and when at last she found it, she stood on tiptoes to pick it out.

“Here,” she said, handing it over.

Massimo studied it dubiously.

“The Paths of the Mind and its Deviancies,” he read aloud. “A Manual of Psychology.”

“Someone returned it just the other day. I thought of you straight away.”

“That’s strange. I don’t see any mention of dismembered corpses or maimed victims.”

Sara glared at him, but soon a smile took over.

“To catch the killer, you have to figure out the way he thinks, right?” she asked.

“Huh. I feel like I’ve heard those words before.”

“Here’s my number, by the way.”

Massimo looked at the piece of paper she’d just given him, and his cheeks turned red. It was, he thought, rather charmingly old-fashioned.

It was in times like these that Teresa found herself wondering how she could love her job when it offered such a disturbing insight into the cruelty humans were capable of. She could not understand why people feared death and not life. Life was savage, a fratricidal battle that always left a trail of blood behind.

Abramo Viesel was battling, too, in a hospital room somewhere on that floor. Teresa had waited until a doctor had emerged and updated her on his conditions, which were critical. It was stuffy inside the waiting room. Teresa opened a window and stood there, facing the garden, looking for fresh air and silence.

“Coffee?”

She turned around. Marini was back. He hadn’t done as he’d been told; he was wearing the same clothes as when they’d parted earlier and looked just as exhausted.

“No, thanks,” she said.

“Now what do we do?”

Teresa looked out at the garden again.

“Lucia Kravina’s mother, the kid with the SUV, and now Viesel . . . I can’t figure out why he’s let three of the victims live,” she mused.

“Four.”

They turned around to find Parri in the room. The coroner nodded in greeting, touching Teresa’s arm, and peering intently into her face.

“How are you?” he asked.

Teresa smiled. She knew he wasn’t one to ask that question casually. He must already be assessing her fatigue levels.

“I hope you’re not going to ask me if I’ve eaten and slept enough in the past twenty-four hours,” she said.

Parri studied her over the frame of his glasses.

“This is consuming you,” he said gravely.