“I noticed you mentioned that you’re searching for the escapees,” she said. “What about Xander Thurman?”

“What about him?”

“Well, he’s a serial killer too. He tried to kill me and two LAPD officers and he’s on the loose. How many people do you have looking for him?”

Corcoran looked at her as if he was surprised that he even needed to make his next comment.

“Based on your description of his injuries, we view him as a less immediate threat. And your status in WITSEC makes us less concerned about him generally. Besides, right now our priority is on the multiple escapees from a criminal psychiatric facility, not on a man no one even knows is out there.”

“You mean your search is being media and politics driven,” Jessie noted pointedly.

“That is one, not inaccurate, way to characterize it.”

Jessie appreciated his honesty. And for someone in his position, she couldn’t really argue that it was an unreasonable use of resources. She decided to let it go for now.

“Any potential leads?” Jessie asked doubtfully.

“We believe our best efforts center around Mr. Cortez. The thinking is that he would have made plans for after the escape. We’re checking his bank records, credit card purchases, and phone GPS data in the weeks prior to the breakout. So far, we haven’t found anything as helpful as plane tickets.”

“You won’t,” Jessie muttered.

“Why do you say that?”

“Cortez will stick close to Crutchfield. And I guarantee you—Bolton Crutchfield isn’t going anywhere.”

“How can you be so sure?” Corcoran demanded.

“Because he’s not done with me yet.”

*

That night Jessie couldn’t sleep. After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, she got out of bed and headed to the kitchen to refill her empty water glass.

As she walked down the carpeted hallway from the bedroom she immediately sensed something was wrong. The marshal usually stationed in a chair where the hallway met the living room was nowhere to be found. Jessie considered returning to her room to get a gun before remembering that she didn’t actually have one. The Marshals Service had “secured” it until further notice.

Instead she pressed her back against the wall of the hallway, ignoring her quickly beating heart as she tiptoed toward the empty chair. As she got closer, with the aid of the moonlight streaming in through the windows, she saw a dark, damp stain on the cream-colored carpeting. The wide range of the spray suggested it wasn’t accidentally dropped wine. She also noticed a consistent trail of it extending out of sight.

Jessie poked her head around the corner to see the marshal lying on his back against the far wall, where he’d apparently been dragged. His throat was slit all the way across. Next to him on the ground was his service weapon.

Jessie felt a surge of anxiety-laden adrenaline, which made her fingers tingle. Reminding herself to stay focused, she knelt down and surveyed the room as she waited for her body to settle down. It took less time than she expected.