But how could she move past the fear?

She stood in her old, lonely lake house, with no one for company except for her memories, and a mocking postcard.

Was she overreacting? Was she being paranoid now?

She thought of Samantha. For a moment, she felt a flicker of sympathy. That poor girl. Was this what she’d been feeling too?

It was almost like fate had aligned, allowing her a slow introduction into glimpsing her past once more, through the eyes of a client. But that slow introduction was speeding up. Someone was nearby. Someone had sent her this postcard. Someone who knew her name.

Knew her past.

Was she overreacting?

Ilse felt a chill at the thought. She gritted her teeth against the memories like flickering shadows on a cavern wall. Someone from her past had found her.

Her frown deepened and her hand bunched into a fist. One way or another, she’d get to the bottom of this. Strangely, part of her felt a slow draw to her client. She needed to help Samantha. Her client was being hunted too. Dr. Mitchell often said the lives of his clients mirrored his own. Now, in Ilse’s case, perhaps to a spooky degree.

Or, perhaps, fate had come calling.

She needed to help Samantha remember her kidnapper. In a roundabout way, Ilse felt certain this would unlock her own past. Unlock the source of the postcard. She nodded adamantly, swallowing once. With her help, Samantha would remember her kidnapper. They were going to find this serial killer. Not in some evidence lab, or at a crime scene. No, they were going to find a killer in nothing other than Samantha’s own memories.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sawyer glanced around the local precinct. Dingy, dark, a couple of sputtering bulbs over by the interrogation rooms. He felt a hand nudge at his wrist, and glanced down to see Sergeant Faber pushing a small, prepackaged sandwich against his fingers.

“Come on, Tom,” she said. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

Sawyer nodded his thanks and took the sandwich, though he had no intention of eating the thing. Not now, not yet. Not while he was still focused.

“Can I get those files printed?” he asked, glancing back.

Detective Lopez, who was standing within earshot, snorted. “Do it your own damn self, Agent.”

Sergeant Faber, though, just nodded and moved quickly off toward her desk. Sawyer didn’t acknowledge the sneered comment by the block-chinned detective. His mind was already flitting from one crime scene to the next. The same tire treads. Same execution style.

Both of them victims of opportunity, but premeditated crimes.

He settled slowly at the empty desk the locals had provided for him, and, checking the coast was clear and Faber was still by the printer, he tossed the plastic-encased ham and cheese and wet lettuce into the trash can.

He thought better while hungry anyway.

Faber returned a moment later, placing the two printed files in front of him. “Need anything else?” she asked, her pixie-cut hair outlined against the sputtering bulbs over the hall behind her.