It was not the way Susan had imagined her first story for the Times going, but the national editor wanted it up on the Web site ASAP, and this, apparently, was the fastest way to do it. She hoped they didn’t list the byline names alphabetically. She was always getting screwed by that.

The expanded story—the one that would run in tomorrow’s print edition—that was all Susan’s. And she had the rest of the day to get it in.

She hit send, and waited for the editor to e-mail her back.

Susan, then, found herself with a moment of idle time alone in Archie Sheridan’s office. She did not decide to snoop. It just happened. She looked down and she’d opened Archie’s desk drawer. She was that kind of person. The kind of person you didn’t want house-sitting.

There, inside the desk drawer, along with all the paper clips and pens and notes on official-looking stationery, under a flash drive, was a photograph of Gretchen Lowell. It was not such a strange thing, for a detective who’d spent most of his career hunting a killer, to have an image of that killer in his office. It was a famous case. A lot of detectives probably had a photo of Gretchen Lowell in their offices—hung on the wall, with darts sticking out of it. But Susan also knew that part of Archie’s recovery process was that he was supposed to move on. It’s not like anyone could totally avoid Gretchen’s image. But he didn’t have to see her every time he needed a paper clip.

Susan heard a voice from the doorway say, “Find anything interesting?”

She shut the drawer, nearly snapping off her fingertip in the process. “Ouch,” she said.

Anne Boyd had arrived from Washington, D.C., and now stood in the doorway to Archie’s office. Susan gave Anne a sheepish smile, embarrassed to be caught snooping by anyone, but especially a criminal psychologist.

Anne was the only black female profiler in the FBI and, as she had once told Susan, she was also “the most stylish.” She cinched the belt of her patent leather trench coat the color of grape jelly and grinned. “He still keep a pictures of her in there?” she asked.

Anne had worked on the Beauty Killer case. She knew what it had done to Archie. Perhaps better than most. But Susan still sidestepped the question. “I was just looking for a pen,” she said.

Anne looked at her for a second, and then smiled. “Good answer,” she said finally. Her attention was drawn down the hall. “Here comes our fearless leader now.”

Susan pulled her hand down from her mouth just as Archie appeared next to Anne.

“You’re late,” Archie said. There was no pleasure in his expression. No hey-how’s-it-going-welcome-back.

Susan knew that face.