Well, if the group is now closed and the killer maybe kept a list, theyd still have the names. I think its a safe bet one of those two women is next. And being that Claire Allen isnt home…

We need to hurry, Jack finished for her, already reaching for his phone as he and Rachel ran back to the car.

***

Shed almost screwed up.

She got to the house a little early. Shed thought the husband would be gone by the time she parked across the street, but he was still there. She had been fairly certain the husband left for his night shift at six in the afternoon…but it was apparently six-thirty. She was usually very good with details like that. She figured it was the presence of the police that was affecting hernot only her ability to retain facts she had drilled into her head about her victims, but also her nerves. This made no real sense, though; ever since shed heard the news that some poor doctor had been arrested in regards to the murders, shed felt more relaxed and at ease. They had someone else in custody, so she was in the clear. Apparently, theyd never even been close to finding her.

That meant there was no rush. She could wait. She had to get this one exactly right because it looked like this would be the last victim. Until she figured out where to easily find more victims, this woman would be the last. She looked out to the houseto the McNeil residence. It was a lovely two-story home, right in the middle of a well-to-do (though not wealthy) suburb. The grass had been mowed recently, probably the first time of the season, as summer had not truly settled in just yet. An attached garage sat on the left, with a rectangular slab of concrete leading out onto the street.

She sat patiently in her car, slightly slouched but not enough to look suspicious. Hell, it was getting dark out now, so maybe it would work in her favor that shed gotten the time wrong. She could wait…though her nerves made her wonder if this was really the case.

She eased up a bit at 6:23, when the garage door opened up. She could just barely hear it through her window, a slight mechanical whir as the door was rolled up. She watched as the husbands Ford F150 rolled back out onto the street. She knew it would turn right and head out to the exit of the little subdivision. From there, it would take the seventeen-mile drive to Wagner Textiles, where the husband worked as a floor manager. She knew this because, like all of the other victims, she had done her research.