For months I’d turned this puzzle over in my head, trying to decode Bram’s purpose. His three other victims were killed quickly, within days of their abduction, while he chose to keep me alive. He let me walk free—me, a police officer trained in suspect identification. A threat.

I’d gone back to Swanton again and again hoping to spot him. He was too clever to be flushed out so easily, but my instincts told me Bram was watching. I had no idea when he’d turn up again, or where, or what he’d look like when he did, but I had every intention of putting this fugitive behind bars. I’d find a way to lock him up. My need to contain him was innate. Sure, we shared the same hometown, but there was a deeper connection, one nobody was aware of but us.

And that’s what scared me most of all.

FOUR

The morning dawned cloudy and cold. During the night the snow flurries had turned to drizzle, and the roads were black and shiny as I made the drive from Watertown back to A-Bay. With Thanksgiving approaching, a town employee was already hanging wreaths on the James Street lampposts. I considered stopping to inhale their piney scent. Swept my gaze over the street like a searchlight instead. With a flutter in my chest, I scanned every parked car and shop window. My life had become one long exercise in counter-surveillance. And that required copious amounts of coffee.

Over the three weeks I’d been seeing Gil Gasko, we’d been to every coffee shop in town. He didn’t have an office like Carson used to; based in Syracuse, Gil went where the Employee Assistance Program said he was needed, and at the moment, he was needed at the Bean-In. Seated at a table for two, he blew steam off a cup of black tea while I ordered my own brew and joined him.

“Chilly out,” Gil said. The way he eyed my insubstantial canvas jacket reminded me of Dad. Dress for the weather, darling, my father would trill, laying on his British accent extra-thick. Gil was younger than my dad by a decade, with dark hair, a wiry beard, and a pronounced widow’s peak. Beneath his fleece and jacket, his body was shaped like a battering ram, and his fingers shared multiple qualities with hot dog rolls, but his gnome-like appearance belied a sweet and soothing disposition. The man oozed serenity. I’d come to think of this as a prerequisite for the job.

This was our routine, a few minutes of small talk before tackling the ugly stuff for which he’d come. “Got any plans for Thanksgiving?” Gil asked.

The question made me realize I didn’t. Last year, I’d spent the holiday with Carson’s family in Sackets Harbor, west of Watertown. We’d only been dating two months by then, but he insisted I get to know his parents. Rather than getting to know me, they’d spent all day spewing stories about their remarkable son.