The chess game came about gradually. They played a few times those first few months, then it became a challenge that Grant actually looked forward to. During their matches, Grant would often discuss his cases with Everett. His brother was a good listener and usually offered a fresh analytical view. Sometimes, it was just enough for Grant to lay out the entire matter—hearing it leave his lips often helped him locate the missing piece to the puzzle he’d been trying to unravel.

But not this time.

“This ‘Counter’ . . .” began Everett.

“An awful moniker, you must admit.” A colleague of Grant’s had come up with the not-so-clever-label and it had unfortunately stuck.

“Well, I’m sure he, or she, though I doubt it’s a woman, would probably like the idea they’ve been given a nickname.”

“What makes you say that?” Grant asked.

“Why mark his victims unless he’s boasting? I’d wager he’s frustrated that you haven’t been giving him his fair share of press. If it should leak to the press, I wouldn’t be shocked if it was your killer who sprung it.”

A frustrated Grant rested his finger atop his black bishop. “Wonderful. If that happened, I’d need to claim the source as ‘Anonymous’ because the killer isn’t going to identify himself—and I’d be back at square one.”

“Which would be what?” prodded Everett.

“Damned if I know!” cried Grant. He moved the bishop diagonally three spots and plopped it down on a black square.

His brother gave him a disapproving look and moved a rook sideways. “Afraid that’s checkmate, dear Austin.”

Grant didn’t see it at first. Then he realized his fatal mistake was four moves down the line. He rose to his feet and started pacing in Everett’s library, where they had set up the board beside a dwindling fire.

“I can’t concentrate on anything.”

“So try and narrow it down,” suggested Everett. “What does your gut say?”

“My gut says this can’t be random.”

“And why not?”

Grant stopped midstride. “Because the killer went to the unnecessary trouble of selecting these particular victims.”

“You’re saying he chose them for a specific reason.”

“But why? Why a professor who bores people with tales of mythic beings no one cares about, a sculptor who makes strange idols, or a washed-up musician in a band more interested in taking the Lord’s name in vain than making something that passes for music? It’s beyond me.”

Everett suddenly stood up as well. “Say that again.”

“It’s all beyond me.”

Grant’s brother shook his head. “No. No. The Lord’s name part.”

“Taking it in vain? That part?”

“Yes. Why do you say that?”

“Because Street’s band is called the Blasphemers.”

Everett made a beeline for his bookshelves.

“What are you doing?” Grant asked, intrigued.