He was trying to sound normal. But even as he smiled casually and led the way out to the kitchen table, the question of what to say about the latest murder or about the GPS trackers began to fill his mind. Did he really have a right to keep all that to himself? And why was he doing it?

Doubts about his own motivations had always been the principal termites undermining whatever peace of mind he was temporarily able to achieve. He tried to force his attention back to the mundane details of breakfast. “How about starting with some orange juice?”

Apart from a few isolated comments, breakfast was a quiet affair, almost awkwardly so. As soon as they’d finished eating, Kim, in her transparent eagerness to occupy herself with something, insisted on clearing the table and washing the dishes. Kyle absorbed himself in checking his text messages, appearing to go through all of them at least twice.

In the silence, Gurney’s mind went back to the crucial question of how to play his wild card. He had only one chance to get it right. He had an almost physical sense of time running out.

He envisioned an endgame in which he would finally confront the Good Shepherd. An endgame in which the puzzle pieces would snap together. An endgame that would prove that his contrary view was the product of a sound mind and not the fantasy of a damaged cop whose best days were behind him.

He didn’t have time to question the rationality of this goal—or the likelihood of his success. All he could do now was focus on how to bring about the confrontation. And where.

Deciding where would be easy.

How would be the challenge.

When the phone rang, it brought him back to the present, sitting at the table, which was now in the full light of the morning sun. He was surprised to see that while he’d been lost in his thoughts, Kim and Kyle had retreated to the armchairs at the far end of the room and that Kyle had started a small fire in the woodstove.

He went to the den to take the call.

“Good morning, Connie.”

“David?” She sounded surprised to have reached him.

“I’m here.”

“In the eye of the storm?”

“Feels that way.”

“I bet it does.” Her voice was edgy and energetic. Connie always sounded as though she were on uppers. “Which way is the wind blowing at the moment?”

“Sorry?”

“Is my daughter hanging in or heading for the exit?”

“She tells me she’s determined to drop the project.”

“Because of the intensity?”

“Intensity?”

“The ice-pick murders, rebirth of the Shepherd, panic in the streets. That’s what’s scaring her off?”

“The people who were murdered were people she cared about.”

“Journalism isn’t for the faint of heart. Never was, never will be.”