Erin slapped the book closed. “This isn’t the absence of a criminal mastermind! It’s the work of a man who wants admiration and a chase. Admiration because he committed five murders right under your nose. Actually, if I’m right, there have been seven victims.”

“Seven murders without anyone but you catching on?”

“I didn’t. Not until he showed me. He wants us to see what he can do when we’re not looking. Seven murders with no obvious connection. Which doesn’t matter as much because it’s seven out of twenty-six.”

“Why not tell you about all seven?”

“It’s all about the chase. He’s ready to play, and he wants to play now. So he offers me enough for a quick analysis, but I have to figure out the two others for myself.” Anticipating the next question, Erin asked it first. “Why did he pick me?”

“Got it in one.”

Erin did not stumble over her lie, though her throat threatened to close over the words. “I’m a criminal psychologist. He must know this. Moreover, I specialize in serial killers.”

“Do you think he’s one of your students?”

No, she thought. I think he’s the man I killed two years ago. “Perhaps.”

Sylvie wasn’t convinced, but before she decided, she planned to do a little private investigation of her own. “Where are you from, Dr. Abbott?”

“I teach at Burkeen University.”

“I didn’t ask where you taught. I asked where you’re from.” Sylvie dug under a pile of folders for a pen and held it poised over a page covered with scrawl. “When did you move to New Orleans? Who gave you your degree?”

“You don’t believe me.”

Sylvie pursed her lips, then said, “I think you believe it.”

“But you’re not going to help.”

“We’re tight on resources, Dr. Abbott. These are real murders, and their families deserve justice. I’m not going to go haring off on a wild-goose chase to look for a phantom serial killer.” Sylvie patted Erin’s arm sympathetically. “A madman killed your friend Maggie. It’s natural to want revenge. And in your line of work, I can understand why you’d see conspiracies in every corner.”

“I’m not some grief-stricken nut, Detective.” She shoved the album forward, angry that her hand shook slightly. From terror. If the police didn’t help her, didn’t believe her, she was on her own. Desperate now, she insisted, “Someone sent me these obituaries. Someone wrote me this note. I’m not making this up.”

In polite dismissal, Sylvie pushed back from the desk and stood. “Dr. Abbott, your own theory doesn’t work.” Opening the album, she pointed to the page labeled “C.”