Streaming live from his computer was a radio program with Dr. Samantha Wheeler, who took calls from lonely hearts. Their voices were a soft drone of conversation. Dr. Sam, as she called herself, gave out psychological advice over the airwaves late at night on her show, Midnight Confessions.

Bentz was listening in.

So far it seemed as if all of tonight’s callers were legit: lonely or confused people seeking advice. It hadn’t always been so. Years ago, before she’d married Ty Wheeler, Dr. Sam had attracted the attention of a sadistic serial killer, a man who was sick enough to dress in priest’s robes, pretend to be a man of God, and then with horrifying determination went about his grisly business. She’d been his ultimate target and had barely escaped with her life.

Bentz retrieved a bottle of beer from the six-pack he’d picked up at a convenience store on his way home from work. Hesitating only slightly, he cracked the longneck open and pushed aside all thoughts of days, weeks, and years of sobriety as he twisted off the top and caught a glimpse of the other five bottles tucked inside the cardboard container at his feet.

He wasn’t tired.

“Rick?” Olivia called again, this time sounding a little more awake.

In the darkness, the only illumination in the house came from his computer screen. He stared at the frozen frame of the video link as Dr. Sam’s calm voice ran a soothing counterpoint to the image of a gray prison cell. “Be there in a sec,” he said, turning his head so that his voice would carry into the general direction of the bedroom before he took a long, calming swallow. A balm, the cold beer slid down his throat easily.

Then he turned back to the monitor and clicked on the Play arrow once more, putting the video from the prison security camera in motion for the umpteenth time. This time, maybe he’d see something important. A clue. God, he hoped so. In the days since the prison homicide, he’d been steeped in fury and disbelief. It just couldn’t be.

“You can’t force him to love you,” Dr. Sam was saying in her melodic voice. “But you can love yourself,” she advised. The same psychobabble BS she’d peddled for years.

“But he promised me,” replied the woman, a girl in her teens, Bentz guessed. “Nathan promised me we would be together forever and then . . . and then”—she sniffed loudly—“I saw a picture of him with Rachel. I mean, it was all over Instagram and everyone texted me and were, like, dude, what’s going on with Nathan?”

“I know, but you can’t control Nathan,” Dr. Sam advised. “You can only control yourself.”