Knauss took his leave with a silent nod while Teresa continued to examine the wall of the house. It was bleeding. Crimson tracks ran down the plaster all the way to the snow, like tears. The marks were frozen now, but it was clear that the creature had been killed not long before it had been hooked to the shutters.

Teresa could feel Marini’s silent presence behind her.

“They’re everywhere,” she remarked.

The wall was covered in dozens of handprints belonging to the person who had committed this act.

“What do they make you think of?”

He seemed hesitant.

“Come on, Inspector. Out with it.”

“Cave paintings,” he finally said, and it was obvious from how tightly his lips were pressed together that he was embarrassed.

Teresa nodded.

“Exactly.”

She’d thought the same thing, remembering an image she’d seen somewhere—a TV documentary, perhaps?—of caves full of the same kind of pattern. More than ten thousand years of human history, and as many thousands of kilometers, separated that image from the scene before her, yet there was an impalpable connection between the two that Teresa could scarcely bring herself to admit. For a moment, it had looked to her like a ritualistic expression, the work of a childlike personality wanting to leave its mark on the world, and be initiated into adulthood.

But there was nothing childish in the hand that had left those primitive marks. She brought her own hand to hover over one of them, taking care not to touch it: the print was significantly larger than her hand, the palm wide and the fingers robust. Teresa felt a shiver course through her. It had almost felt like brushing against the maker of those signs.

“There are plenty of footprints, too. They come from the woods,” said Marini, breaking the spell.

Their eyes followed the tidy line of footprints. Teresa pictured a lone figure crossing the snowy lawn at night, eyes fixed on the house, and holding a little carcass in his hand.

Why?

“There’s only one set of footprints, and they end at the window,” she noted.

She watched the expression on Marini’s face change into one of horror and determination. He looked at the Kravina home.

“He’s still here,” he said, reaching for the gun sheathed inside his coat.

“Calm down, Inspector. Look closer,” Teresa commanded, leaning toward the ground. “Some of the footprints are much deeper than others. He must have retraced his steps.”

She straightened up.

“That’s clever. I expect these footprints will also come to a stop somewhere inside the woods.”

Marini seemed overwhelmed by all the detail. Teresa could sympathize.

“You can’t figure him out, can you?” she asked. “Well, neither can I.”

“Are you sure it’s Valent’s killer who put on this show? Surely any sadist could have done it.”