Archie woke up coughing, stiff and sore in a chair in the ICU waiting room. His feet were on the coffee table next to a half-eaten burrito. He felt clammy and cold. His muscles ached. He remembered Debbie leading him in there to eat and take a nap, but he had no idea how long it had been since then. He checked his watch.

“You’ve only been asleep an hour,” he heard a voice say.

He glanced up and found Anne was sitting in the chair across from him. He didn’t know how long she’d been there.

“Henry?” he asked.

“No change,” Anne said. “I picked you up some things from the pharmacy downstairs,” she added. She lifted a white paper bag off the floor by her purse, set it on the coffee table, and started emptying it, setting each item on the table. “Cough syrup. Cherry lozenges. Decongestant. Tylenol. Vitamin C.”

“Can you write me a prescription for Vicodin?” Archie asked.

She ignored him, her lips pursed with concern. “You have a fever. Still low-grade. For now.”

“You can tell that by looking?”

“I’m a mother.”

“How did you know I’d be here?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, as if it were obvious.

Archie opened the bottle of Tylenol and washed down two pills with a swig of cough syrup.

“Nice,” Anne said.

“I have a lot of experience taking pills.”

She lifted a hand and gestured vaguely to the hospital. “How does it feel to be here?”

“In the ICU? It’s a walk down memory lane.”

“What room were you in?”

“Ask Debbie. I was unconscious for most of it. You have a profile for me?”

“I didn’t just come to bring you cough syrup.” She waved a notebook. “I have some idle thoughts and observations.”

Archie had learned a long time ago that Anne’s idle thoughts and observations were more reliable than most people’s academic dissertations.

He sat up.

She didn’t open her notebook. She didn’t have to. “The killer watches them die,” she said matter-of-factly. “Immobilized, powerless. No threat. The killer has all the power. This is a person who wants the victim to know what’s happened to them, wants them to know what he’s done. Wants them to experience death.”

“Why an octopus?” Archie asked.

“Why not?” said Anne. “It’s worked pretty well so far.”

“What kind of people keep aquariums?” Archie asked.

“You mean besides psychopaths and sushi restaurants?” Anne said. She rolled her eyes. “All sorts of people have aquariums, Archie. Many of us find them very soothing.” She raised a finger. “Saltwater aquariums, though, take a special enthusiasm. They’re high-maintenance. Keeping a cephalopod tank is a whole other level. They’ve got a life span of two, three years, if you’re lucky. You’re not going to experience a huge level of emotional attachment. They’re not dogs.”