Pennsylvania—again and again, that word keeps returning. And again Emma’s senses ping with the feeling of wrongness, of forces moving, pulling her toward something she doesn’t fully understand.

“I actually have no idea.” Emma registers the cigarette smoke trailing up toward the rafters, the acrid smell. “My unit is only concerned with old cases at this stage.”

“At this stage, that’s an interesting way of putting it. It suggests you’d like to be more involved.”

This is not a direct question, Emma concedes. “I’d like to put the information we’re gathering to use, yes.”

“To stop more people like me, of course.” Gutmunsson grins again, ashes his cigarette, and flicks to the next page. “But, Emma, you must know something. Have they given our Pennsylvania friend a name yet? The popular press is always so entertaining with that kind of thing. The Artist, they dubbed me—they weren’t far off, actually. Do you think our new friend is an artist like me?”

“Your activities were very… different.”

“By that you mean I didn’t use my models and then throw them out with the trash.”

Models. Emma registers the word, remembers the crime scene photos she viewed last night. She recalls the sun-dappled “tea party” scene, in which wire, fishing hooks, and catgut line were creatively utilized on four victims beneath the trees. There was strong evidence that Gutmunsson went back from time to time to assess his compositions at each scene and tweak them for his own amusement.

“No,” she says, working to keep her expression neutral, “you had a little more style.”

“Style—yes, the style of the thing is important, isn’t it? But our new friend leaves the bodies in garbage dumps.”

“I didn’t know that,” Emma confesses.

“Didn’t you? Well, now you do. What does it suggest to you, Emma, that he disposes of his victims in that way?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“I’m sure you do. Think harder.”

“I suppose it suggests that he’s done with them? That they’ve served his purpose and now they’re worthless.”

Gutmunsson holds his cigarette up and considers the burning tip. “What worth did they have to him before, then?”

“The experience of killing them might be the primary—”

“Wrong,” Gutmunsson pronounces with relish. “Consider it from our friend’s perspective. He saw something in them that suited him. That called to him, if you like. You spoke about his purpose and how it might be served—try again in that direction.”

“His purpose is… He sees something in them that he recognizes or wants. He takes them, prepares them, and kills them, which gives him that something, whatever it is—”

“Unpack that a little for me. He prepares them—how does he prepare them?”

“I don’t know.” Emma spreads her hands. “Honestly, I don’t know. I told you, I haven’t been allowed to examine any details of—”

“Active cases, yes, right. Well. That’s a bit tedious, isn’t it? The FBI has brought you all the way from Podunk, Ohio, and they haven’t even given you anything useful to do. What’s the point?”