She had. But now was just not a good time. “Well, yes. Sure,” she heard herself saying as she bent down to pick up her bag again. The chipmunk, or one just like him, scampered over the rocks to the edge of her garden. “I’d be glad to have you as a client,” she said, checking her watch.

“I could come over now, to your house. That’s where you have your office, right?”

“One of them, yes. But now won’t work,” she said. “I’m already booked this afternoon.”

“But . . . well, I just need to talk to you.” His anxiety was taking over.

“How about tomorrow? I’m not near my calendar, but I think—”

“No, I, um, I’m busy. I need to see you today,” he insisted. And then, as if hearing the desperation in his voice, he added, “Sorry. I mean, if it would work for you. It’s really important.”

She managed to unlock her car with her remote. It beeped in response. “What’s going on, Milo?” She opened the car door and tossed her bags onto the passenger seat, then slid into the warm interior.

He hesitated for a beat.

She waited.

Finally, he went on in a raspy voice. “It’s about my twin.” He was nearly panting now. “There’s something you need to know about her.”

Bentz rubbed the kinks from the back of his neck and heard his stomach grumble from lack of food. Upon returning to the station, he’d checked on Samantha Wheeler and made certain she was safe. It was time to double up on surveillance of her place. If Father John was back, he would eventually go after her, and she was aware of that fact. Dr. Sam had agreed to take some time off, allowing some of her older shows that had been taped to be aired until she could set up shop remotely at a secure location. She’d already worked things out with the radio station.

One problem dealt with, if not solved. Who knew who would be Father John’s next victim, if not Samantha Wheeler? Another prostitute? It was likely, if the killer kept with his MO of years before. Today, at a press conference, the public would be informed that the serial killer was at large again. Already, the FBI was sending agents, which, this time around, Bentz welcomed. He could use the bureau’s intelligence and resources in tracking down the sick bastard he’d thought would never be a problem again.

But he’d been wrong.

Just as he feared, he’d been wrong about Donovan Caldwell, the poor son of a bitch. Jonas Hayes had sent pictures of Caldwell’s cell, complete with a dark pool of blood on the floor and bed, and the eerie crimson message written on the wall opposite his bunk: I’M INNOCENT

Was he?

And was the real 21 Killer now stalking the streets of New Orleans?