She stepped into her room and instantly sat on the edge of the bed. Given the nature of the case, she hadnt even brought her bag in. She doubted shed be here long. She just needed a quick nap and then shed head back to the precinct. She took out her phone and called Branson, anxious to already end the call so she could lie back and doze.

This is Branson, he answered.

Its Agent Gift. Listen, weve checked into a hotel. Weve got to get at least some semblance of rest. But if anything breaks in the next few hours, please give me a call.

Oh, absolutely. I do have one thing for you. Its not a break per se, because I know youd suspected it all along, but we just got the results back. The blood from the side of the High Bridge is from Dustin Adams. Were still waiting on the finalized coroners report but the initial findings are leaning heavily towards Adams dying from impact.

Thanks, Branson. Keep me posted.

She ended the call and kicked her shoes off. She lay back right away, smelling the too-sterile bleach scent of the hotel sheets. Still, sleep came quickly. It was deep and brief, not even broken by the odd dream she had.

In it, Alex Lynch was sitting across from her in an interrogation room. He said nothing to her, but was slapping his right hand over a stack of papers on the table. When she looked down to the table, she saw the papers were medical recordsher medical records. And each time Alex slapped them, another few pages were added. He began slapping them so hard that his hands started to bleed and his fingers began to tear away from his hand.

She heard this noise in her head when she came awake just thirty-five minutes later. She wasnt quite sure what woke her up; maybe the noise of breaking fingers from her dream, or the distant revving of a motorcycle engine nearby. She closed her eyes to go back to sleep. But her startled mind had already started to reach back out to the facts of the case. And as much as she hated it, she thought of Alex Lynch, too.

She thought of why shed gone to him in the first placewanting to try to understand the mindset of a maniacal killer. She wondered if there might be some merit to that here, on this case. Maybe rather than trying to find out the similarities that linked the victims, she needed to try to understand what sort of man would prey on suicidal people. What sort of sick individual would be able to do that four nights in a row? Rachel was no psychiatrist, but she had a good idea that

A psychiatrist, Rachel whispered to the room. Then, sitting up and sliding to the edge of the bed, she said it again. A psychiatrist.