She hoisted herself out of the pool, showered quickly, toweled off, and slipped into street clothes. Her muscles, which had been tight for two days, were more relaxed and the exercise had exhilarated her a bit, lifting her spirits, focusing her on what she needed to do to find out the truth about the four missing girls and the damned severed arm. It didn’t hurt that Jay would be back tonight.

She’d actually missed him.

Who would have ever thought?

With minimal makeup, her hair twisted into a damp knot on her head, and the vial she’d sworn to Jay she wouldn’t touch dangling from the chain surrounding her neck, she left the locker room and stepped into the night. In the time she’d worked out, the darkness that had been threatening had fallen and fallen hard. No stars were visible above the street lamps, and the wind, which had been quiet all day, was now blowing with force, rushing through the trees, chasing a few dry leaves across the campus lawns, and biting at her nape.

Shivering, she walked briskly through the alley near Greek Row, crossed one of the busier streets near the campus, and pushed her way through the glass doors of the Watering Hole. She spied Trudie, Grace, and Marnie, the blonde she’d followed through Wagner House, seated at a tall café-style table in one corner of a darkened room. All three girls were huddled over stemmed glasses filled with a brilliant red concoction.

Kristi headed in their direction, forced a smile she didn’t feel, wending her way through the tables.

Ready or not, it was showtime.

Ariel O’Toole’s apartment didn’t look like anyone had been inside in days. Dishes were piled in the sink, the bed unmade, a bag of chips tucked into the bedclothes, the cheese dip in a container by the bed old and crusted over.

“Something’s not right,” Portia said as she, the uniformed officer, the apartment manager, and Del Vernon moved slowly through the studio with its wall of decorative bricks and a curtain separating the bedroom area from the living room. “Look at this place.”

“No sign of a struggle,” Del remarked.

That much was true.

“So she’s a slob,” Del said. “Hasn’t cleaned up in a few days.”

Portia opened the single closet. Everything was neatly organized, her clothes arranged by color, her shoes polished and kept in tidy pairs. Her drawers, too, were meticulous, books in the shelves straight and alphabetized. “Don’t think so. This girl is a neat-freak who just hadn’t cleaned up from a late-night snack.” She opened the door of a small refrigerator, saw the contents were arranged carefully. She stepped aside so Del could see.

“Not a slob,” he agreed.

Portia turned to the door where the apartment manager had slowly edged. “When’s the last time you saw her?” Portia asked him.