Mahler wanted to explain it. He even had a thought of apologizing to Trish. He wanted to say he knew it was out of line for him to ask, that after fifteen years of working together, he understood the boundaries of what they did. The weight of a loss was for someone else to measure. But he also wanted to tell Trish about all the wrong things he knew, how none of them explained what happened to the girl. He didn’t know why this victim was different from the dozens of other bodies that ended up in the ME’s room, only that he needed to know one thing that wasn’t in the files. The girl was a runner, so he thought the missing thing must be time, seconds. But he didn’t explain himself, didn’t apologize, because the words were trapped in his head, past his own understanding. Instead, he looked back mutely and waited.

“Twenty seconds,” Trish said.

She started to walk away. Then she turned to face Mahler. “You know what, Eddie? Don’t come back. I mean it. I don’t want you in my lab anymore. You have any other questions, don’t come in here. Send one of your team.”

Then she said, “And one more thing, go fuck yourself.”

Later that day, in his office, Mahler had pressed the stopwatch function on his phone and watched the numbers tick off twenty seconds. He forced himself to watch to the end.

He did it again and again. The numbers slowly climbing: 13, 14, 15—What did she think in twenty seconds? Enough time for: Who’s doing this thing? Why me? I’m just a girl! Please, please stop. The seconds clicking on: 16, 17, 18—At the end: I’m alone. I’m scared.

Now, at the place on the trail where the murderer had left Susan Hart, Mahler was suddenly aware of the darkness around him. He looked at the starless sky and heard the quiet stillness of the night. The chill air blew through him. Then, as the space closed in, he thought of the answer to his own question—what the dead want, what this girl wants, is to breathe.

(ii)

(WEDNESDAY, 4:13 A.M.)

“What was that word the homeless guy said?” Coyle was typing and looking at the screen of his laptop.

Eden looked at Frames. “It sounded like ‘fi-dee-lay’ or ‘fi-dee-la.’”

Frames nodded. “He said it again in the car. I thought he was saying fiddle-de-dee or something. Guy’s a nutcase.”

“Do we know who he is?” Mahler’s voice was louder than he intended.

The others had not heard him enter. They turned to him, and he felt them taking in his change of clothes.