Ruby had nothing to prove to Gabe. She had earned her position in the FBI by being a damn good agent. There was a reason she was on this case.

“Like it or not, he’s the best lead we have right now,” Ruby said.

The muscles in Gabe’s jaw flexed as he considered that.

“It’s a terrible idea, but do whatever you want. Clearly, I can’t stop you,” he said, “but while you’re out driving to a maximum security prison, I’ll be here looking for a killer who hasn’t already been put away.”

“Maybe you’d understand if you met him,” Ruby replied, but even she wasn’t fully convinced of that. In the back of her mind, there was a niggling doubt that Vallejo would only purposefully undermine her and work his manipulative charisma on Gabe, too.

“No, no. I’m sure you’re the one he would want to see anyway,” Gabe said. “What would I mean to him? I’m just another guy with a badge.”

Gabe was wrong there. He was her partner, and that alone could be enough to spark Vallejo’s interest, but in all the wrong ways.

Ruby watched as he packed a pile of folders into his bag and slung it over one shoulder. She turned back to the white board, studying the faces of their two victims. It was her job to limit the number of women added to that wall.

“Goodnight, Hunter,” Gabe said, lingering a moment in the doorway. “Get some sleep.”

Her stubbornness wavered a moment, steeled to isolate herself from him. She couldn’t do this case alone, but after, he’d leave like all the others had.

“Goodnight,” she said, turning, but he was already gone.

In the quiet left in his absence, Ruby unpacked the file she had carried with her through the entire day. She carefully taped up Allison Schwartz’s photo next to Vanessa and Alannah. Three women all stabbed thirteen times.

If she couldn’t get along with her own partner, she could at least entertain a killer. It was time to see what Vallejo knew.

CHAPTER SEVEN

She was perfect.

John raised his camera, the long lens protruding in front of him. Through the view finder, nothing else existed around her, the pretty waitress freely offering her smile to diners. John was but an artist, committing a slice of ordinary life to film, seeing something pure from across the street on a different patio.

Film was the only respectable way to capture her vitality. There was an intimacy to the process, a connection forged through the careful framing, to development, to soaking photopaper in the dark. John would have it no other way.