At the door to their gray office, she discovers a hand-lettered sign that reads THE COOL ROOM Scotch-taped to the wood. Emma tucks her papers in her armpit and detaches the sign with the hand not holding the mugs, pushes open the door with her butt.

“Hey.” Bell is distracted as he scrawls on a notepad at the desk. “Grab a chair. I’m finishing off the McMurtry report. It’s anyone’s guess if Cooper still wants it, but I thought it couldn’t hurt.”

“I think he still wants it. Want me to read it through?”

“Yep. Check I got your info down.”

“I wrote up the Gutmunsson interview last night.” She sets her papers and the mugs on the desk, tosses the sign his way. “Did you see this on the door?”

“Thanks.” He takes a mug, examines the writing on the sign as he slurps. “Huh. FBI pranking, I guess. We’re supposed to be researching cold cases, get it?”

“Wow. They really dug deep for that one.”

“And y’know. We’re teenagers, so…”

“So that makes us cool? Are we cool, Bell?”

“Last time I checked, no. But that could change any minute.” Bell, amused.

“Jesus.” She hesitates. “You want to read through my report?”

“Not really.” He tosses the sign into a nearby wastebasket.

“You must be sick of talking about Gutmunsson.”

“It’s fine. It’s like hitting yourself in the head with a hammer over and over. After a while you don’t feel it.”

Emma bites her lip. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He puts his coffee down and stands. “I mean, really, don’t worry about it. I’ve got the Pennsylvania file. Cooper dropped off a copy a half hour ago.”

Emma feels a thrum inside, as if someone has plucked her heart chord. “You’ve got it? Have you looked at it yet?”

“Nope. I waited for you.”

Bell collects a nondescript drab-green folder, the hanging type used in filing cabinets, returns to the desk with it. Emma has already dragged her chair around to sit beside him.

Before she opens the file, she pauses. “We should take notes. Wait, what do we already know from Cooper?”

Bell pulls his notepad closer, detaches the pages with the McMurtry report, and sets them aside. He clicks his pen. “Three garbage dump sites, four murders—Crozet, Luray, Carlisle. All victims were inverted and exsanguinated. No sexual assault.”

Bell probably got the cop lingo from his dad. Emma tries to keep up. “Ligature marks, no fingerprints. Teenage victims. Increasing number of victims. One event a month, for the last three months.” An awareness has been hovering in the recesses of her mind; now it takes on a solid shape. “It’s a new month—already June.”

“There’s still time.” Bell meets her eyes. “There’s still time to catch him.”

The file sits there like a malignancy. Emma opens it. She’s steeled herself for the crime scene photos but they hurt all the same, like a deep, damaging blow to the kidneys. A display of dead teenagers: She’s been in scenes like these.