The hum of insects in the forest is a kind of tinnitus, and the air against her face reminds her of the Gutmunssons’ cool beauty, the pallor in Bell’s cheeks at Berryville, where a fourteen-year-old girl, Kimberley Berger, struggled to the last because there was nothing left but to struggle. Emma shakes out her arms and steadies her pace. The insight into that girl won’t come, and it won’t come, and the tinnitus in her ears is insects and heartbeat and breath, not screaming, and she runs harder.

When she finally runs herself out, all her clothes are sticking to her, and her legs are wobbling. Everyone else has deserted the course. The light is starting to go. She drinks her entire canteen and limps back in the gloom.

In the shower, she turns her face into the spray until she thinks of the Butcher standing under his victims with the knife, then she turns the faucet decisively off. She towels herself dry, applies Band-Aids to her blisters, pulls on cotton shorts and a tank. Lays out the victim identification photos on her comforter. Stares and stares, and scrunches up one page after another from the yellow legal pad in her lap until she realizes this is just the way the day is going, finally concedes defeat, and takes half a Valium. Tucks herself into bed, throws the covers off and pulls them back up until the drug takes hold and she sleeps, with no dreams.

At 07:40 she’s woken by a knock on the door, and she thinks it’s probably the floor supervisor checking on her, knowing her routine is to be out early. Groggy, she pulls her robe on and opens the door halfway to find Bell, in dark pants and a black T-shirt, with a bad case of bed head. His expression is very awake, though.

“Lewis, get dressed.” He grips the lintel of the door. “Looks like Simon Gutmunsson just got a letter from the Butcher.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Emma dresses quickly while Bell waits outside the door. She winces as she toes her shoes on, grabs a jacket, it’s Bell’s jacket. Grabs another one, holds them both as she scoops up the ID photos off her nightstand.

Bell, impatient, takes the jacket she proffers, looks at it, tosses it back into her room, and closes the door behind her. Moves quickly with her to the elevator. “It came with the morning mail. The guy who supervises Gutmunsson—”

“Pradeep,” Emma says, handing Bell the bundle of ID photos, tying her own jacket around her waist. “His name is Pradeep.”

“Okay, so he checks Gutmunsson’s mail. Apparently the guy receives a lot of mail.”

“He’s studying—he gets coursework sent from Georgetown University.”

“And he sometimes gets fan mail.”

“And interview requests from the media. I know.”

Bell has that lip curl, signifying disgust. They get in the elevator and Emma has a chance to tie her shoelaces.

“Anyway, Pradeep usually checks the obvious fan mail and leaves the formal correspondence, but he found a Georgetown letter that had arrived open.” Bell holds the handrail like it’s keeping him tethered. “He decided to show Dr. Scott. She thought it was weird enough to call Cooper. That was about ten minutes ago. Cooper thought the language in the first part of the letter suggested a Butcher link, so he told Scott to put the letter in a ziplock bag and asked her to give us a minute to get you to the phone. Why weren’t you up? I looked for you on the track.”