“Hey! I’m a friend to all women! Besides, I think she wanted to tell me how sweet Ashton was being, which made my bullshit meter soar into the red zone. But I let it pass. Bigger fish to fry, y’know. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Selma yet?”

“Today?” As the coffeepot filled and gurgled, Brianna glanced at the clock on the microwave. Not even eight. “Not yet. It’s still early. She e-mailed me late last night. I’ll give her a couple of hours, in case she’s sleeping.”

“Trust me, she ain’t gonna sleep. Look, I gotta run if I’m going to get to work on time. I’ll talk to ya later!” Tanisha clicked off before Brianna could say good-bye.

Bentz’s eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and, so far, no amount of coffee could shake the headache that was beginning to pound behind his eyes. He’d been at his desk in the department since seven and had been vaguely aware of the change of shift, the voices, occasional bursts of laughter and footsteps over the ever-present hum of the air conditioner that, this time of year, worked overtime.

He rubbed his jaw and noticed it wasn’t quite ten. In the three hours he’d been at work, he’d already popped four ibuprofen, a handful of Tums, and even downed a bottle of water. Breakfast had been a Snickers bar from a vending machine. He guessed he wouldn’t tell Olivia, as she was always getting on him about his eating habits, exercise, and, oh, yeah, the job. That was beginning to be a serious topic of discussion, one he couldn’t argue with her; he barely saw Baby Ginny and she was growing fast. Their baby would be one before he knew it, and the years would start flying by. He’d seen that happen with Kristi, his grown daughter, whom he’d raised, for the most part, as a single parent.

He stretched in his desk chair and stifled a yawn. Last night, he hadn’t slept much, the argument with Olivia simmering along with his worries about work. Fear that two of the worst criminals he’d ever had to chase down, Father John, the murdering wannabe priest, and 21, the psycho who killed women on their twenty-first birthdays, had bothered him. Women, he reminded himself. The 21 Killer targeted women. Not men.

Or at least so he’d thought.