‘And all the other vics were in their twenties. Meaning there’s an extra victim we don’t know about yet. And it’s possible Biggs is still alive.’ Thistle sticks her hands in her pockets and whistles through her teeth. ‘Lucky we didn’t tell the family, huh?’

This doesn’t make sense. I know it’s Biggs’s hand, because I cut it off his wrist. Unless the body in my freezer isn’t Biggs. But, if not, who the hell is it?

I can’t tell Thistle or Norman any of that. Instead I ask, ‘Why would the perp put Biggs’s wedding ring on some other victim’s finger?’

‘I don’t know. Some kind of fucked-up ritual?’

‘Any chance you made a mistake?’

Norman doesn’t look offended. ‘No.’

‘What about the flap of skin from Gomez’s house? Does that match anything?’

‘Impossible to tell. The skin had been treated with a preserving agent I haven’t yet identified. This prevented it from drying out or becoming brittle, but also wiped out any potential touch DNA.’

‘So it could have been removed quite a long time before it was delivered to Gomez.’

‘No more than a few weeks, I’d say. You can’t preserve skin forever, no matter what you use.’

‘What about the samples from Biggs’s apartment?’ I say. ‘Hair and whatnot.’

‘Those took a while to gather,’ Norman says, ‘and I’m still waiting on the lab report. I don’t know what they do or don’t match.’

‘What are you thinking, Blake?’ Thistle asks.

I’m thinking the body in my freezer sure looked like Biggs’s picture. ‘Maybe the hand came from Biggs’s brother, or his cousin.’

‘But it would have shared some DNA with Hope then, wouldn’t it?’ Thistle says.

‘That’s right,’ Norman confirms. ‘The hand was unrelated to her, except that they shared a common ancestor 200,000 years ago, like we all do.’

In that case, I can only see one other possibility.

‘We need to talk to Gabriela,’ I say.

•

As we drive through the early morning, I catch a glimpse of my face in the side mirror. I’m not a virgin anymore. I don’t look any different, but something has changed beneath the surface.

When I turned thirty, nothing marked the occasion. I told no one, and since I had neither friends nor family, no one asked. Alone in my house, I lit three candles, stuck them in some guy’s severed arm, and watched them burn. Thinking about how I was undoubtedly an adult now. Responsible for my own terrible choices.

This feels like that. I’ve become a man in yet another measurable way. But the change is bigger. Thistle just showed me that it might be possible for me to have a relationship. Maybe we already have one. But I need to become the guy she deserves.