‘Okay,’ Hannigan said, taking charge again. ‘We’ve already shared with you part of the general profile based on his age and personality traits.’

‘None of it felt very specific though,’ I said, inching forward on my seat.

‘Yes, on its own it can feel very broad. But when we line these traits up with the evidence and compare everything to our suspect pool, that’s when we can really narrow our focus. The profile is just one of our tools for determining which suspects fit the mold.’

‘Besides his age and where he lives, what can you tell me?’ I asked.

‘Something that we haven’t released to the media,’ Hannigan said, ‘is that all the young women that were found had their hands tied with a specific type of nautical knot, called a bowline knot, into a prayer position in the bins where they were discovered.’

I cringed, feeling sick. This was not a visual I wanted in my head.

‘The type of knot is one thing we are looking into. Have your grand aunt or grand uncle mentioned anything about sailing?’ Beck asked, trying to pull me back from the dark images swirling around my mind.

‘Um, no,’ I shook my head. ‘No, they’re not sailors. They haven’t mentioned any family boats or anything like that.’ After saying I hadn’t been in contact with Adam, I couldn’t admit to them that he had mentioned a boat show. It didn’t matter anyway now that he’d essentially been cleared from the investigation. A small sliver of relief flitted through me that one of the clues at least pointed away from Cris. I tried to hold onto that little bit of hope.

Hannigan made a note in his notepad. ‘The positioning of their hands is also significant,’ he said, making eye contact with me again. ‘The praying hand position could be reflective of strong religious beliefs. Have they spoken about your family’s religious background at all? Maybe they have religious art or have mentioned religion in some other way?’

Unconsciously, my hand rose to the locket hanging from my neck and I began rubbing my fingers on its tarnished surface with the engraved cross. I sat in silence for a long moment, reflecting on my time in Cris and Rosie’s home and the conversations we’d had, how we had said Grace at each meal. An image of the painting in Cris’s office slid into the forefront of my mind. The praying Virgin Mary. And then, like rapid fire, another memory of a small Virgin Mary statue resting on the mantle in the living room. I squinted, furrowing my distinctive family brows, trying to see more clearly into my mental picture. Yes, it was a Praying Mary statue that had rested there, too.

The Special Agents picked up on my long pause and leaned in toward me expectantly. ‘Do you remember something, Liz?’ Beck asked softly, treading carefully.