I darted a nervous glance over the open-air offices, my steps faltering as I didn’t find mocking, knowing faces but empty desks. No, everyone was standing outside of Glenn’s office, peering in. Loud voices were coming from inside.

“Excuse me,” I murmured, holding my bag close to myself as I pushed past the uniformed FIB officers. I halted just over the threshold, finding the room full of arguing people with weapons and handcuffs.

“Morgan.” The cop who had been eating chips grabbed my arm and pulled me farther in. “You all right now?”

I caught myself, stumbling at my abrupt entrance. “Yes,” I said hesitantly.

“Good. I called the last one for you.” Dunlop met my eyes. They were brown—and it seemed I could see right to his soul, they were so frank. “Hope you don’t mind. I was dying of curiosity.” He ran a hand across his mustache, wiping the grease from it as his gaze went to the six reports tacked over Glenn’s notes.

My gaze swept the room. Every man and woman glanced at me as the weight of my eyes fell on them, recognizing me before going back to his or her conversation. They all knew I had spewed my guts, but by their lack of comment, it seemed I had broken the ice in some twisted fashion. Perhaps falling apart proved to them that I was just as human as they were—sort of.

Glenn was sitting at his desk with his arms crossed, saying nothing as he watched the separate arguments. He gave me a wry, eyebrow-raised look. By the sound of it, most of the room wanted to arrest Trent, but a few were too cowed by his political muscle and wanted more. There was less tension in the room than I would have expected, seeing as they were all shouting at each other. Humans appeared to enjoy doing things by loud committee.

I put my purse on the floor beside the table and sat down to look at the last report. The paper had said the latest victim had been a former Olympic swimmer. He’d died in his bathtub. Drowning. He worked for a local TV station as the celebrity weatherman but had gone to school for ley line manipulation. The note stuck to it said in a stilted print that his brother didn’t know if he talked to Trent or not. I pulled the report from the board and made myself look it over, paying more attention to the conversations around me than the print.

“He’s laughing at us,” a street-hardened, swarthy woman said as she argued with a thin, nervous-looking officer. Everyone but Glenn and I were standing, and I felt like I was at the bottom of a well.

“Mr. Kalamack isn’t the witch hunter,” the man protested in a nasally voice. “He gives more to Cincinnati than Santa Claus.”

“That fits the profile,” Dunlop butted in. “You’ve seen the reports. Whoever is doing this is certifiable. Twin lives, probably a schizophrenic.”