Louisa leaned back and breathed through her nose as if she was nauseous. “Sometimes the Celts killed a victim with multiple methods to appease more than one god. They would likely have made offerings with the sacrifice. There might be symbols to indicate which gods were being targeted.”

Unable to sit still any longer, Conor got to his feet and paced. He dragged a hand through his hair. He turned to Louisa. She was too quiet, too still. Her face and body were frozen. Even her eyes looked empty. But he’d spent enough time with her now to understand that her ice-queen facade meant the opposite of her appearance. Her emotions were escalating faster than she could process.

Jackson stood. “If you think of anything else, please give us a call,” he said to Louisa.

She gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

Ianelli turned to Conor. “You’re not off the hook yet, Sullivan.”

Jackson tucked his notebook into his pocket. “By the way, the DNA report just came back positive on Riki LaSanta. The results will be made public today.”

Louisa flinched.

Conor showed the detectives out. He closed the door. Silence blanketed the air like August humidity. He returned to Louisa and knelt down in front of her.

“I won’t believe Zoe is dead.” Louisa’s bruised chin lifted. “The police don’t even have confirmation that the body is hers, and they’ve stopped searching for her.”

“They didn’t say they’d stopped looking.” Conor moved to the chair and wrapped an arm around her.

She leaned into him. “They have, because they think Zoe is dead.”

CHAPTER 22

22

Through the glass facade of the museum’s entrance, Louisa scanned the street and sidewalk. Vehicle and pedestrian traffic flowed with the usual rhythm. A taxi pulled up to the curb. A couple in cocktail attire climbed out, walked into the museum, and passed through the metal detector. Cool, damp air followed them, sweeping through the atrium lobby and ruffling the hem of the woman’s black A-line dress. On the black-and-white tiled floor, well-dressed people congregated. Conversations echoed on metal, glass, and marble. A waiter circled, extending a tray loaded with glasses of champagne to any guest with an empty hand. In small groups, patrons drifted toward the arch that led to the exhibit rooms. Everything appeared normal.

But it wasn’t.

Could Riki’s killer be part of this group mingling in the lobby right now? Holding a flute of champagne and smiling, making polite conversation about the exhibits, leaning close and gossiping about the murdered girl in hushed whispers?