She reached out with one hand, turned the doorknob, and stepped into the room that had been refurbished many years before—back when her father and uncle were just little boys.

It was fairly dark, as the window shades were down.

She flicked on the light switch. The room was illuminated in a moody glow.

Rachel gasped and dropped the bedding on the floor.

And began to sob.

A distressed Austin Grant was in the back of the taxi thinking of calling the detective back when he received a text from him.

Grant clicked it open and found Frankel had sent him a picture he hadn’t looked at in least a week. Not since they’d found it in a stolen car in Far Rockaway.

It was the newspaper photo of Grant that had been crossed out over and over with a black marker.

Grant was still staring at it when his cell phone rang again.

“You got what I sent?” asked Frankel the moment that Grant answered.

“I did. But I’m not exactly sure what you wanted me to see.”

“It’s the markings, Austin. When you first look at the photo, it seems like a crazy person just went nuts and scribbled all over it in anger.”

“I hate to say it, but I think you just described my brother.”

“But these aren’t just scribbles. They’re X s.”

X s.

Like the Roman numeral for ten, Grant suddenly realized.

“And if you take the time to count them,” continued Frankel. “You’ll see there are ten of them. The big one on top—and nine more underneath.”

Grant took a closer look and quickly counted. Frankel was absolutely right.

“You’re his next victim, Austin. It’s been about you all along.”

Grant thought of the Tenth Commandment and said it out loud.

“‘Thou shalt not covet any thing that is thy neighbor’s.’ How am I guilty of that?” asked Grant.

“I guess we’ll have to ask him when we get there,” said Frankel.

The attic was filled with pictures of her mother.

Dozens of them. At every age from the time Allison was a teenager until the year that she passed away.

The garret could have been a shrine.

Rachel walked further into the room, unable to speak, wiping her eyes.

She noticed something glistening on the night table beside the bed.

It was a piece of glass that looked achingly familiar.

Rachel crossed over and picked it up. It felt like she would pass out right then and there.

It was the head to a glass unicorn. The one she’d made for her mother when she was in the fifth form.

The same unicorn that had been smashed in the Maida Vale living room a couple of years ago.

“She was supposed to be mine.”