Gil gave me a long, calculating look. “I’m impressed with the level of self-awareness I’m seeing from you, Shana,” he said. “But are you? Obsessed?”

I turned my head toward the window. Across the street, a man exited his car and turned on his heel to look straight at me. It’s not him, I chanted in my head as he crossed the street while holding my gaze, but I didn’t look away until he disappeared into the restaurant next door. “I’d like to see him caught,” I told Gil. “He’s a violent, dangerous criminal. But it’s not like I’m hunting him.”

That released some of the tautness from my counselor’s face. Good, I thought, but good wasn’t what I felt. I hadn’t lied to Tim or Gil, but I hadn’t been wholly truthful, either.

“So,” he said. “Thursday’s the day.”

Less than a week to go. “Yup. I’ll be there.”

Gil expressed his satisfaction with my progress once more before clearing our empty mugs. Outside, after we parted ways, I sank my hands into my pockets and pretended to search for my keys while the rain soaked my back. Again I scanned the street for signs that something was off. Short of sniffing the air for pheromones and tuning into the low-frequency vibrations traded between predator and prey, I was doing everything I could to identify threats. When I was satisfied that I was safe, I let my thoughts drift to Tim. He knew me better than I’d realized. But he didn’t know everything.

It was me who tipped off the Watertown Daily Times about our appointment at headquarters. The story of Jasper Sinclair and his family was all over the news, and Jared Cunningham was hungry for new developments. A meeting with my supervisor was the perfect way to generate public exposure that would be hard to miss. Tell your photographer to be stealthy, I had said, knowing Tim would be by my side. Make sure you get a clear shot of me, and use my full name. I’d made it easy for the reporter to write a big feature for the paper, and slap my face above the fold.

No, boys, I thought as I walked to my car. I’m not hunting Bram.

Bram is hunting me.

FIVE

It’s got a great view. See?”

The property manager leaned past me toward the window, and when she flipped her braid—gray and thin as a rat’s tail—over her shoulder, it whacked me in the face. I forced myself to breathe through my mouth. The stench of stale cigarettes on the woman’s clothes was unrelenting. “Chaumont Bay?” I said. “I don’t see it.”

She laughed, her voice like wet gravel. “You won’t get a water view for what you’re paying. But there are trees—and two churches, just a stone’s throw from here. Location is everything, they say.”

My gaze traveled over the living room. The vintage doorknobs were covered in layers of chipping paint, and there were so many stains on the wall-to-wall carpeting it looked like leopard print. Damn, I thought. It wasn’t the woman who smelled, but the apartment itself.