He thought for a second. The same old arguments played through his head. “I’m not even fifty.”

“I’m not saying quit working, I’m just saying change jobs. Do consulting. Become a PI. Go back to school. Teach. Whatever.” She threw up a hand. “Just something less dangerous. Okay?” Little worry lines appeared between her eyebrows. “I’d like you to see Ginny graduate from college and become the greatest nuclear physicist, or a senator, or the researcher who cures cancer.”

“Not the first female president of the United States?”

“Hopefully by then, the second or third woman who’s been elected, but, sure, Ginny could handle that in her spare time.”

He chuckled and the baby reacted, startled a bit, but didn’t wake. “Lofty aspirations, Mom.” He pressed his lips to Ginny’s head.

“Don’t be obtuse. You know what I mean. Your job is dangerous. Dear God, I almost lost you a few years back.”

“True.” Didn’t his leg still bother him, a constant reminder? He was suddenly stone-cold serious. “And I’ve nearly lost both you and Kristi.” A muscle worked in his jaw as he replayed the horror he’d felt knowing those who were dearest to him were at the mercy of monsters, psychos seeking revenge. “More than once.”

They stared at each other. Silently. Didn’t state the obvious, what they were both thinking: Bentz’s profession could potentially put their precious, innocent daughter at risk. His mouth went dry at the thought. He replayed his fears when both Olivia and Kristi had been kidnapped, each of them more than once, each of them nearly losing her life at the hands of a homicidal maniac, a killer Bentz had been chasing.

Bentz hunted the monsters.

And he attracted them.

Involuntarily his arms tightened around his daughter, and Ginny let out a soft little sigh. No, he thought as he breathed in the sweet smell of baby lotion, he could never put her at risk.

“Let Montoya handle the cases. He can partner up with . . . Lynn Zaroster or . . . or Brinkman or whoever.

In his mind’s eye Bentz thought about the younger junior detective. Zaroster was a little green, but eager and smart. Then there was Brinkman, past middle age and repellant. A decent-enough cop, Brinkman got the job done, but was a foulmouthed misogynist whose off-color jokes and offensive remarks cost him several wives and brought him few friends, rebukes from the brass, and disdain from his colleagues.

“If he ended up with Brinkman, Montoya would cut my retirement short by personally shooting me.”

“See what I mean? All this violence!”

“I was just kidding.”

“But that”—she pointed at the now-blank monitor—“that’s no joke.”

“No, it’s not,” he admitted. “But this is someone I need to put away.”

“You mean 21?”

He nodded.