The man who answered the door, however, was indeed Emerson. His glasses were a bit thicker and sat lower on his nose, his shoulders seemed a little more bent forward, and he was wearing a cotton t-shirt and a pair of jeans held up by red suspenders, but otherwise he was the agent she remembered.

Harley Cole, he murmured, clucking his tongue as he marveled at her. What brings you all the way out here?

Is seeing an old friend not a good enough reason? she answered with a good-natured smile.

Emerson chuckledit was a sound Harley hadnt heard in a while, and it warmed her to hear it now. Well, he said, if youre going to insist on wasting your time with me, you might as well come inside.

Harley followed him into the kitchen, where Emerson filled a kettle and set it on the stove. The kitchen was rustic in a charming way. A checkered cloth covered the table, and knick-knacks made of fired clay some of them rudimentary depictions of bison, wolves, and a few legendary creatures lined a shelf that ran high along the walls. The decorations, particularly the abstract illustrations hanging between the windows, revealed a part of Emerson that Harley had never seen before.

These are striking, she said, not sure what to make of the bold swirl of colors in the paintings. She had never spent much time studying art, and she did not know what to look for.

Emerson joined her, hands in the loose pockets of his jeans. Theyre something, arent they?

Whered you get them?

Emerson jabbed a thumb toward the adjoining room. That was when Harley noticed the paint beneath his fingernails.

It was her turn to be surprised. I didnt know you had it in youthis creative streak, I mean.

He shrugged modestly. Neither did I, not until I tapped into it. He studied the painting for a moment, his eyes glazed in thought.

Then he cleared his throat and looked back at her. But something tells me you didnt come here to admire my art.

Harley smiled. You know me too well.

Another shrug. I pay attention. Its a case, isnt it? Then, before Harley could answer, he gestured for her to sit down. They sat beside one another at the table, chairs turned toward each other as Harley told Emerson about the killings. The details felt familiar to her now, like a bedtime story repeated every nightwhich was not far off the mark, because the case always filled Harleys mind the second she crawled into bed and closed her eyes.

We have three homicides, she said, all young women found in mine shafts: wrists and ankles bound, blindfolds over their faces. Evidence of recent sexual activity.

Consensual? Emerson said.

Unclear. We traced all three to someone by the name of Candy Whitmore. She disappeared, but information we found on her phone led us to a villa way out in the sticks.

She paused, gathering her thoughts.