‘If it’s Luxford, he already knows.’

‘Luxford knew one of the victims and fled from the police, but that doesn’t mean he’s the killer.’

‘Even if he’s not,’ Thistle points out, ‘the cat is out of the bag. We’ve been asking around about Biggs and Ruthven.’

I stare at the screen as the elevator clanks and whirs. ‘Not the other disappearances, though. They’ve only been investigated by local police.’

‘We have to take the risk,’ Thistle says. ‘Imagine you’re a tall, overweight, straight, white male in your twenties. And there’s a killer out there targeting tall, overweight, straight, white males in their twenties. Don’t you have a right to know about it?’

I can’t believe this. ‘Catching the killer is a better way of protecting those people than warning them.’

‘The public is a resource. They can help us catch him, if we tell them what to look for. Did you think of that?’

‘Great.’ I put on my best newsreader voice. ‘Welcome to Fox News. First to Houston, Texas, where an unarmed black man has been shot by a tall, overweight, straight, white male who assumed the man was a serial killer.’

‘Don’t be an asshole, Blake,’ Thistle says drily. ‘We both know that wouldn’t make the news.’

I don’t laugh. ‘What if the killer already has his next victim? He could be holding him captive, but hasn’t killed him yet. The vic would be a loose end. If the perp realises we’re closing in, he’ll kill him before he runs.’

Thistle looks at me. ‘You really think that’s a risk?’

‘It’s possible,’ I say. I can’t tell her the real reason that I don’t want this on TV. Once it goes to air, it’s only a matter of time before Warner realises I’m still working the case.

‘Well then,’ she says, ‘we’d better catch the killer fast. Because Zinnen will make a statement either way. Probably today.’

Something connects in my brain. ‘Did Biggs use the app?’ I ask. ‘He was married.’

‘You’re sweet,’ Thistle says. ‘I hate to break it to you, but some men occasionally cheat on their wives.’

The idea slips away before I can grasp it. Her voice echoes through my mind, around and around like a carousel. You’re sweet.

Focus, I tell myself.

The elevator doors open and we walk out towards the lobby.

‘Biggs doesn’t fit the rest of the profile either,’ I say. ‘He’s older, shorter, less heavy-set than the other victims.’

Thistle chews her thumbnail for a minute. ‘What are you thinking?’ she asks finally.

‘Maybe they’re not connected.’

‘Even though their phones were dumped at the same place?’

A young woman stands up and approaches us across the lobby. Biggs’s daughter, Hope.

‘Miss Biggs,’ Thistle says, surprised. ‘Are you okay?’