“The killer… He’s likely in his fifties now,” she said, slowly. “Abusive, closed off, neurotic and narcissistic personality disorder,” she rattled off, nodding to herself. “He lives in the area, or at least the surrounding area. Drives a red truck, or did.”

The BAU agent quirked an eyebrow. “We’ll see. All right. Thanks, Doc. I’ll phone it in and see what hits. Check it out myself.”

Ilse glanced out the break room window at the dark sky of night’s crescendo. She frowned and said, “Are you heading out again?”

He was already moving toward the break room door, and waved a hand at her. “You’re free to go, Doc. I’ve got it from here. Thanks again.”

She got quickly to her feet, clearing her throat expectantly.

For a moment, she wasn’t sure he’d look back, but he seemed to pause in the door and sigh, his shoulders falling just a bit. He glanced back at her, raising an eyebrow for a question.

“I’d like to come with you,” Ilse said, crisply. She didn’t look away, didn’t blink. No weakness. Not now.

“Not possible.”

“I’d like to come with you.”

He waved it away. “Against protocol.”

“Sharing client information is also against protocol except in the rarest of occasions,” she said, quietly. “What if I remember something else? I can still help.”

He puffed a breath, staring at her. Then he turned, walking off without replying. She watched him leave, frowning. He got to the end of the hall before finally raising a hand and giving the faintest of flicks with one finger.

Ilse didn’t particularly like being gestured at like a puppy called to heel, but she was more worried about her client than her pride in that moment, and she hurried up the hall, her footsteps tapping as she pulled her arms in her sweater around her in the chill air of the precinct and followed Agent Sawyer back to the sliding glass doors which led once more out into the night.

A red truck. A man in his fifties. A serial killer who’d been operating for more than twenty years.

Time was running out. The clock was ticking.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“You sure?” Agent Sawyer murmured as Ilse watched from the back passenger seat. She stared at the side of his face, breathing softly, waiting to watch his normally expressionless face and try to pick up clues like crumbs from a table.

“All right, thanks,” Sawyer murmured. “Just the three, you’re sure?”

She heard the buzz of a voice on the other end of the phone, but then Sawyer just grunted once and hung up.

Ilse leaned in from the backseat, still watching the side of the FBI agent’s face. He’d refused to allow her in the front seat, next to him. She felt like a suspect in the back, her arms braced against the seat. But again, Ilse had swallowed her pride. Samantha needed her, and she wasn’t about to be distracted by the strange idiosyncrasies of an agent who’d never learned to play nice with others.