“Both kids. Gone.” One minute they’d been parents, happy and secure in life, the next they were totally bereft. Hayes had tried and failed to erase the vision of Cathy Springer’s face, the denial in her blue eyes giving way to horror, her knees buckling as she collapsed into her husband’s shaking arms.

“Nooooo!” Cathy had wailed over and over again, her grief-stricken cries echoing down the long corridor. Her fists had curled, pounded frantically against her husband’s chest as he’d tried to calm her.

And the father. Greg’s demeanor had been riddled with defeat and pain, his gaze accusing as he’d stared at the detective. Hayes had known what he was thinking. Why my girls? Why mine? Why not yours? Or anyone else’s? Why my sweet innocent babies?

It was exactly what Hayes would have thought if anything ever happened to his Maren.

“You’ll catch the bastard who did this,” Corrine reassured him.

“I hope so.”

“Have faith, if not in divine intervention, then in the skill of the department. Forensics and technology are a whole new ball game. Twelve years ago we didn’t have half the forensic tests that we have now. The perp is toast. And if he turns out to be the Twenty-one killer, then it’s a two-for-one. Cause for celebration.”

He wanted to believe it.

Corrine was massaging his shoulders, trying to ease out the knots of tension in his muscles. “How about a drink?” she suggested. “I’ve got pasta, those bowties—”

“Farfalle.”

“Yeah, I guess. With pesto and an Italian sausage or two.”

“This from the Irish girl?”

She laughed. “And I’m fresh out of corned beef and cabbage.” Her fingers were strong and comforting, but his head was on the case. Why had the killer struck now? Why the Springer twins? Who the hell was he? Would he kill again soon or wait another twelve years?

“Talk to me,” she said, still massaging him. It was a ritual they practiced when a particularly tough case was getting to either one of them. “You really believe the murders are connected.”

“Have to be.”

“Noooo. Don’t close your mind.”

“How would a copycat know the details of a twelve-year-old cold case that weren’t released to the press?”

“Cops talk.”

Hayes looked up at her. “To killers?”

“Unwittingly. Or maybe whoever was talking had one too many beers and was overheard.”

“Long shot.”

“Okay then, maybe conversation in prison. The Twenty-one is locked up for another crime but shoots his mouth off. Now his cellmate is on parole and thinking he’ll take up where the Twenty-one left off.”

“No.”