Rachel couldn’t be certain, but she thought his eyes were misting over.

“But this means a lot; thank you very much,” Grant said softly. “And who knows, maybe I’ll get over there sooner than later.”

“I’m headed there next week. Now that Rachel’s back for a bit, it would be lovely to see in the new year together and celebrate your newfound freedom.”

“Maybe it’s something we can talk about,” said Rachel. She turned to her father, who seemed to be lost in thought.

He paused before answering. “I think we’ll have to wait and see.”

The night went eerily silent.

And Rachel realized that all of them were wondering the same thing.

Was there an eighth victim already out there waiting for them in London somewhere? And for that matter—might there soon be a ninth or tenth?

Chapter 26

26

It was Christmas morning.

If someone had told John Frankel a week ago that he would be spending the holiday in a posh London hotel tracking down a serial killer while falling head over heels in love, he would have arrested that person for public intoxication.

But as he wiped the sleep from his eyes and saw Rachel sitting on a plush sofa gazing out the window, he realized it was a cursed but blessed truth.

He thought about the previous night.

Dinner at Everett’s had been joyous and festive, but the evening had taken a somber turn when talk turned to Grant’s upcoming retirement. Suddenly the pall of the investigation hung over them and Frankel could feel it when he accompanied the Grants to midnight mass at Saint John-at-Hampstead, Everett’s local parish.

Frankel spent more time casting sidelong glances at Rachel than listening to the sermon given by an elderly pastor who looked like he had been interred in the nave decades ago. Frankel could see Rachel was having a difficult time.

He knew this homecoming had been bittersweet for Rachel and her father, and that their relationship had been practically nonexistent since the death of her mother. Sitting in Saint John’s on this holy night without Allison must have been so painful, and all Frankel could to do was occasionally take her hand. The tightening of her grip each time pulled at his heartstrings.

That night, upon returning to Covent Garden, the sex had been passionate but also filled with a desperation on Rachel’s part that made Frankel only want to protect her even further from the harsh reality they were in.

Now, Frankel quietly climbed out of bed and threw on a robe. He crossed to the window and Rachel shifted slightly, clearly aware of his presence.

“Merry Christmas,” he said softly.

Rachel turned. “Merry Christmas,” she replied in an even softer voice.

He could tell that she had been crying. “Hey. You all right?”

Frankel wanted to kick himself. Of course she isn’t all right. Some detective.