“I’m Samantha’s therapist,” Ilse said, quickly. “We were on the phone only twenty minutes ago. I called it in when it happened. Is—she’s not—is she…”

“No body,” the man said, simply.

Emotionless, straightforward, minimal words. Ilse cataloged this information as well, piecing together what little she could about this person. “Are you FBI?” she asked suddenly.

The man blinked as if in surprise. He glanced toward the police she’d been talking too as if wondering if they’d told her. He looked back at her. “BAU,” he said. “Behavioral—”

“Analysis Unit, I know,” she said quickly.

“Agent Tom Sawyer,” he said.

She blinked. “Tom Sawyer… As in?”

He sighed. “Yes. As in. Parents were readers. Look, Dr. Beck, you said you knew who did this. Well?”

She cleared her throat. “Ah, yes, well, Agent Sawyer… I….” She trailed off, running over the options in her mind. She couldn’t betray client privilege, but she’d be an imbecile not to help find Samantha. She worried at her lip, feeling her teeth hard against her mouth. She should have listened to Samantha. She’d thought at first the woman was paranoid. Thought she’d been overreacting. She’d thought, at first, this had simply been a case of repressed memories and emotions surfacing and manifesting.

But Samantha had been clear; she had said someone was following her, stalking her. The same killer who’d kidnapped her when she’d been a child. The same man who’d gotten away with it.

Ilse stared off for a moment, feeling another jagged stab of fear and pain. She should have trusted her client. They’d only had two sessions, but Ilse should have called the police. She shivered, swallowing, feeling her own emotions rising.

Had she neglected her responsibility because of her own memories surfacing? Samantha’s story had triggered Ilse’s own past. Had brought to the forefront long since discarded and buried recollections.

Ilse wished desperately she’d talked to Dr. Mitchell. To someone, a colleague, or anyone about Samantha before… before this.

She glanced past Agent Sawyer toward the trail, her eyes staring at the dirt road where the silhouettes of other police had gathered. One of the cops was bent by the side of the road, examining something.

She shivered. A phone. Blood. That’s what Sawyer had said.

“How much blood?” she said, her voice shaky.

Agent Sawyer pushed back the brim of his baseball cap, eyeing her. “Not enough to think she’s dead,” he said bluntly. “Probably struck or cut. Subdued. Killer didn’t move the other two bodies,” he added.

Ilse let out another shuddering sigh. She pictured her own boogeyman. Pictured the small house in the Black Forest, back in Germany. Winced, thinking of how horrible it would be if her father showed up all these years later. Snuck up behind her, struck her with a bottle or some branch… Dragged her off to a new lair.

Even as she thought it, she could feel her terror mounting. She could only imagine how horrified, how terrified Samantha was feeling now. Imagine how lost, in pain, desperate…